Produced by Al Haines

GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

INDIANAPOLIS

THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY

PUBLISHERS

COPYRIGHT 1893

BY JAMES W. RILEY

TO MY SISTERS

ELVA AND MARY

CONTENTS.

PROEM

  Artemus of Michigan, The
  As My Uncle Used to Say
  At Utter Loaf
  August
  Autumn

  Bedouin
  Being His Mother
  Blind
  Blossoms on the Trees, The
  By Any Other Name
  By Her White Bed

  Chant of the Cross-Bearing Child, The
  Country Pathway, A
  Cup of Tea, A
  Curse of the Wandering Foot, The
  Cyclone, The

  Dan Paine
  Dawn, Noon and Dewfall
  Discouraging Model, A
  Ditty of No Tone, A
  Don Piatt of Mac-o-chee
  Dot Leedle Boy
  Dream of Autumn, A

  Elizabeth
  Envoy

  Farmer Whipple—Bachelor
  Full Harvest, A

  Glimpse of Pan, A
  Go, Winter

  Her Beautiful Eyes
  Hereafter, The
  His Mother's Way
  His Vigil
  Home at Night
  Home-Going, The
  Hoodoo, The
  Hoosier Folk-Child, The
  How John Quit the Farm

  Iron Horse, The
  Iry and Billy and Jo

  Jack the Giant-Killer
  Jap Miller
  John Alden and Percilly
  John Brown
  John McKeen
  Judith
  June at Woodruff
  Just to Be Good

  Last Night—And This
  Let Us Forget
  Little Fat Doctor, The
  Longfellow
  Lounger, A

  Monument for the Soldiers, A
  Mr. What's-His-Name
  My Friend

  Nessmuk
  North and South

  Old Retired Sea Captain, The
  Old Winters on the Farm
  Old Year and the New, The
  On the Banks o' Deer Crick
  Out of Nazareth

  Passing of A Heart, The
  Plaint Human, The

  Quarrel, The
  Quiet Lodger, The

  Reach Your Hand to Me
  Right Here at Home
  Rival, The
  Rivals, The; or the Showman's Ruse
  Robert Burns Wilson
  Rose, The

  September Dark
  Shoemaker, The
  Singer, The
  Sister Jones's Confession
  Sleep
  Some Scattering Remarks of Bub's
  Song of Long Ago, A
  Southern Singer, A
  Suspense

  Thanksgiving
  Their Sweet Sorrow
  Them Flowers
  To an Importunate Ghost
  To Hear Her Sing
  Tom Van Arden
  To the Serenader
  Tugg Martin
  Twins, The

  Wandering Jew, The
  Watches of the Night, The
  Water Color, A
  We to Sigh Instead of Sing
  What Chris'mas Fetched the Wigginses
  When Age Comes On
  Where-Away
  While the Musician Played
  Wife-Blesséd, The
  Wraith of Summertime, A

GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS

GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS

  Ho! green fields and running brooks!
  Knotted strings and fishing-hooks
  Of the truant, stealing down
  Weedy backways of the town.

  Where the sunshine overlooks,
  By green fields and running brooks,
  All intruding guests of chance
  With a golden tolerance,

  Cooing doves, or pensive pair
  Of picnickers, straying there—
  By green fields and running brooks,
  Sylvan shades and mossy nooks!

  And—O Dreamer of the Days,
  Murmurer of roundelays
  All unsung of words or books,
  Sing green fields and running brooks!

A COUNTRY PATHWAY.

  I come upon it suddenly, alone—
    A little pathway winding in the weeds
  That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own,
    I wander as it leads.

  Full wistfully along the slender way,
    Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine,
  I take the path that leads me as it may—
    Its every choice is mine.

  A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail,
    Is startled by my step as on I fare—
  A garter-snake across the dusty trail
    Glances and—is not there.

  Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos
    And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies,
  Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose
    When autumn winds arise.

  The trail dips—dwindles—broadens then, and lifts
    Itself astride a cross-road dubiously,
  And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts
    Still onward, beckoning me.

  And though it needs must lure me mile on mile
    Out of the public highway, still I go,
  My thoughts, far in advance in Indian-file,
    Allure me even so.

  Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went
    At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars,
  And was not found again, though Heaven lent
    His mother ail the stars

  With which to seek him through that awful night.
    O years of nights as vain!—Stars never rise
  But well might miss their glitter in the light
    Of tears in mother-eyes!

  So—on, with quickened breaths, I follow still—
    My avant-courier must be obeyed!
  Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will,
    Invites me to invade

  A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide
    Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile,
  And stumbles down again, the other side,
    To gambol there awhile

  In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead
    I see it running, while the clover-stalks
  Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said—
    "You dog our country-walks

  And mutilate us with your walking-stick!—
    We will not suffer tamely what you do
  And warn you at your peril,—for we'll sic
    Our bumble-bees on you!"

  But I smile back, in airy nonchalance,—
    The more determined on my wayward quest,
  As some bright memory a moment dawns
    A morning in my breast—

  Sending a thrill that hurries me along
    In faulty similes of childish skips,
  Enthused with lithe contortions of a song
    Performing on my lips.

  In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth—
    Erratic wanderings through dead'ning-lands,
  Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth,
    Put berries in my hands:

  Or, the path climbs a boulder—wades a slough—
    Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags,
  Goes gaily dancing o'er a deep bayou
    On old tree-trunks and snags:

  Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool
    Upon a bridge the stream itself has made,
  With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool
    That its foundation laid.

  I pause a moment here to bend and muse,
    With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where
  A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise,
    Or wildly oars the air,

  As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook—
    The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed—
  Swings pivoting about, with wary look
    Of low and cunning greed.

  Till, filled with other thought, I turn again
    To where the pathway enters in a realm
  Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign
    Of towering oak and elm.

  A puritanic quiet here reviles
    The almost whispered warble from the hedge,
  And takes a locust's rasping voice and files
    The silence to an edge.

  In such a solitude my somber way
    Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom
  Of his own shadows—till the perfect day
    Bursts into sudden bloom,

  And crowns a long, declining stretch of space,
    Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled,
  And where the valley's dint in Nature's face
    Dimples a smiling world.

  And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled,
    I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams,
  Where, like a gem in costly setting held,
    The old log cabin gleams.

* * * * *

  O darling Pathway! lead me bravely on
    Adown your valley way, and run before
  Among the roses crowding up the lawn
    And thronging at the door,—

  And carry up the echo there that shall
    Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay
  The household out to greet the prodigal
    That wanders home to-day.

ON THE BANKS O' DEER CRICK.

  On the banks o' Deer Crick! There's the place fer me!—
  Worter slidin' past ye jes as clair as it kin be:—
  See yer shadder in it, and the shadder o' the sky,
  And the shadder o' the buzzard as he goes a-lazein' by;
  Shadder o' the pizen-vines, and shadder o' the trees—
  And I purt'-nigh said the shadder o' the sunshine and the breeze!
  Well—I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea:
  On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me!

  On the banks o' Deer Crick—mild er two from town—
  'Long up where the mill-race comes a-loafin' down,—
  Like to git up in there—'mongst the sycamores—
  And watch the worter at the dam, a-frothin' as she pours:
  Crawl out on some old log, with my hook and line,
  Where the fish is jes so thick you kin see 'em shine
  As they flicker round yer bait, coaxin' you to jerk,
  Tel yer tired ketchin' of 'em, mighty nigh, as work!

  On the banks o' Deer Crick!—Allus my delight
  Jes to be around there—take it day er night!—
  Watch the snipes and killdees foolin' half the day—
  Er these-'ere little worter-bugs skootin' ever'way!—
  Snakefeeders glancin' round, er dartin' out o' sight;
  And dew-fall, and bullfrogs, and lightnin'-bugs at night—
  Stars up through the tree-tops—er in the crick below,—
  And smell o' mussrat through the dark clean from the old b'y-o!

  Er take a tromp, some Sund'y, say, 'way up to "Johnson's Hole,"
  And find where he's had a fire, and hid his fishin' pole;
  Have yer "dog-leg," with ye and yer pipe and "cut-and-dry"—
  Pocketful o' corn-bred, and slug er two o' rye,—
  Soak yer hide in sunshine and waller in the shade—
  Like the Good Book tells us—"where there're none to make afraid!"
  Well!—I never seen the ocean ner I never seen the sea—
  On the banks o' Deer Crick's grand enough fer me!

A DITTY OF NO TONE.

Piped to the Spirit of John Keats.

I.

  Would that my lips might pour out in thy praise
    A fitting melody—an air sublime,—
  A song sun-washed and draped in dreamy haze—
    The floss and velvet of luxurious rhyme:
  A lay wrought of warm languors, and o'er-brimmed
    With balminess, and fragrance of wild flowers
      Such as the droning bee ne'er wearies of—
        Such thoughts as might be hymned
    To thee from this midsummer land of ours
      Through shower and sunshine blent for very love.

II.

  Deep silences in woody aisles wherethrough
    Cool paths go loitering, and where the trill
  Of best-remembered birds hath something new
    In cadence for the hearing—lingering still
  Through all the open day that lies beyond;
    Reaches of pasture-lands, vine-wreathen oaks,
      Majestic still in pathos of decay,—
        The road—the wayside pond
    Wherein the dragonfly an instant soaks
      His filmy wing-tips ere he flits away.

III.

  And I would pluck from out the dank, rich mould,
    Thick-shaded from the sun of noon, the long
  Lithe stalks of barley, topped with ruddy gold,
    And braid them in the meshes of my song;
  And with them I would tangle wheat and rye,
    And wisps of greenest grass the katydid
      Ere crept beneath the blades of, sulkily,
        As harvest-hands went by;
    And weave of all, as wildest fancy bid,
      A crown of mingled song and bloom for thee.

A WATER-COLOR.

  Low hidden in among the forest trees
    An artist's tilted easel, ankle-deep
  In tousled ferns and mosses, and in these
    A fluffy water-spaniel, half asleep
      Beside a sketch-book and a fallen hat—
      A little wicker flask tossed into that.

  A sense of utter carelessness and grace
    Of pure abandon in the slumb'rous scene,—
  As if the June, all hoydenish of face,
    Had romped herself to sleep there on the green,
      And brink and sagging bridge and sliding stream
      Were just romantic parcels of her dream.

THE CYCLONE.

  So lone I stood, the very trees seemed drawn
    In conference with themselves.—Intense—intense
  Seemed everything;—the summer splendor on
    The sight,—magnificence!

  A babe's life might not lighter fail and die
    Than failed the sunlight—Though the hour was noon,
  The palm of midnight might not lighter lie
    Upon the brow of June.

  With eyes upraised, I saw the underwings
    Of swallows—gone the instant afterward—
  While from the elms there came strange twitterings,
    Stilled scarce ere they were heard.

  The river seemed to shiver; and, far down
    Its darkened length, I saw the sycamores
  Lean inward closer, under the vast frown
    That weighed above the shores.

  Then was a roar, born of some awful burst!—
    And one lay, shrieking, chattering, in my path—
  Flung—he or I—out of some space accurst
    As of Jehovah's wrath:

  Nor barely had he wreaked his latest prayer,
    Ere back the noon flashed o'er the ruin done,
  And, o'er uprooted forests touseled there,
    The birds sang in the sun.

WHERE-AWAY.

  O the Lands of Where-Away!
  Tell us—tell us—where are they?
  Through the darkness and the dawn
  We have journeyed on and on—
  From the cradle to the cross—
  From possession unto loss,—
  Seeking still, from day to day,
  For the lands of Where-Away.

  When our baby-feet were first
  Planted where the daisies burst,
  And the greenest grasses grew
  In the fields we wandered through,
  On, with childish discontent,
  Ever on and on we went,
  Hoping still to pass, some day,
  O'er the verge of Where-Away.

  Roses laid their velvet lips
  On our own, with fragrant sips;
  But their kisses held us not,
  All their sweetness we forgot;—
  Though the brambles in our track
  Plucked at us to hold us back—
  "Just ahead," we used to say,
  "Lie the Lands of Where-Away."

  Children at the pasture-bars,
  Through the dusk, like glimmering stars,
  Waved their hands that we should bide
  With them over eventide:
  Down the dark their voices failed
  Falteringly, as they hailed,
  And died into yesterday—
  Night ahead and—Where-Away?

  Twining arms about us thrown—
  Warm caresses, all our own,
  Can but stay us for a spell—
  Love hath little new to tell
  To the soul in need supreme,
  Aching ever with the dream
  Of the endless bliss it may
  Find in Lands of Where-Away!

THE HOME-GOING.

  We must get home—for we have been away
  So long it seems forever and a day!
  And O so very homesick we have grown,
  The laughter of the world is like a moan
  In our tired hearing, and its songs as vain,—
  We must get home—we must get home again!

  We must get home: It hurts so, staying here,
  Where fond hearts must be wept out tear by tear,
  And where to wear wet lashes means, at best,
  When most our lack, the least our hope of rest
  When most our need of joy, the more our pain—
  We must get home—we must get home again!

  We must get home: All is so quiet there:
  The touch of loving hands on brow and hair—
  Dim rooms, wherein the sunshine is made mild—-
  The lost love of the mother and the child
  Restored in restful lullabies of rain.—
  We must get home—we must get home again!

  We must get home, where, as we nod and drowse,
  Time humors us and tiptoes through the house,
  And loves us best when sleeping baby-wise,
  With dreams—not tear-drops—brimming our clenched eyes,—
  Pure dreams that know nor taint nor earthly stain—
  We must get home—we must get home again!

  We must get home; and, unremembering there
  All gain of all ambitions otherwhere,
  Rest—from the feverish victory, and the crown
  Of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down.—
  Fame's fairest gifts we toss back with disdain—
  We must get home—we must get home again!

HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM.

  Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,
  Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time come on—
  And then, I want to say to you, we needed he'p about,
  As you'd admit, ef you'd a-seen the way the crops turned out!

  A better quarter-section, ner a richer soil warn't found
  Than this-here old-home place o' ourn fer fifty miles around!—
  The house was small—but plenty-big we found it from the day
  That John—our only livin' son—packed up and went way.

  You see, we tuck sich pride in John—his mother more 'n me—
  That's natchurul; but both of us was proud as proud could be;
  Fer the boy, from a little chap, was most oncommon bright,
  And seemed in work as well as play to take the same delight.

  He allus went a-whistlin' round the place, as glad at heart
  As robins up at five o'clock to git an airly start;
  And many a time 'fore daylight Mother's waked me up to say—
  "Jest listen, David!—listen!—Johnny's beat the birds to-day!"

  High-sperited from boyhood, with a most inquirin' turn,—
  He wanted to learn ever'thing on earth they was to learn:
  He'd ast more plaguey questions in a mortal-minute here
  Than his grandpap in Paradise could answer in a year!

  And read! w'y, his own mother learnt him how to read and spell;
  And "The Childern of the Abbey"—w'y, he knowed that book as well
  At fifteen as his parents!—and "The Pilgrim's Progress," too—
  Jest knuckled down, the shaver did, and read 'em through and through!

  At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a better chance—
  That we ort to educate him, under any circumstance;
  And John he j'ined his mother, and they ding-donged and kep' on,
  Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he was gone.

  But—I missed him—w'y of course I did!—The Fall and Winter through
  I never built the kitchen-fire, er split a stick in two,
  Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrel-pin,
  But what I thought o' John, and wished that he was home agin.

  He'd come, sometimes—on Sund'ys most—and stay the Sund'y out;
  And on Thanksgivin'-Day he 'peared to like to be about:
  But a change was workin' on him—he was stiller than before,
  And did n't joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle any more.

  And his talk was all so proper; and I noticed, with a sigh,
  He was tryin' to raise side-whiskers, and had on a striped tie,
  And a standin'-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as bone;
  And a breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat of his own.

  But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was to come home
  And he'p me through the season, I was glad to see him come;
  But my happiness, that evening, with the settin' sun went down,
  When he bragged of "a position" that was offered him in town.

  "But," says I, "you'll not accept it?" "W'y, of course
         I will," says he.—
  "This drudgin' on a farm," he says, "is not the life fer me;
  I've set my stakes up higher," he continued, light and gay,
  "And town's the place fer me, and I'm a-goin' right away!"

  And go he did!—his mother clingin' to him at the gate,
  A-pleadin' and a-cryin'; but it hadn't any weight.
  I was tranquiller, and told her 'twarn't no use to worry so,
  And onclasped her arms from round his neck round mine—and let him go!

  I felt a little bitter feelin' foolin' round about
  The aidges of my conscience; but I didn't let it out;—
  I simply retch out, trimbly-like, and tuck the boy's hand,
  And though I did n't say a word, I knowed he'd understand.

  And—well!—sence then the old home here was mighty lonesome, shore!
  With me a-workin' in the field, and Mother at the door,
  Her face ferever to'rds the town, and fadin' more and more—-
  Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin' in a store!

  The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes the boy would write
  A letter to his mother, savin' that his work was light,
  And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit—
  Though his business was confinin', he was gittin' used to it.

  And sometimes he would write and ast how I was gittin' on,
  And ef I had to pay out much fer he'p sence he was gone;
  And how the hogs was doin', and the balance of the stock,
  And talk on fer a page er two jest like he used to talk.

  And he wrote, along 'fore harvest, that he guessed he would git home,
  Fer business would, of course be dull in town.—But didn't come:—
  We got a postal later, sayin' when they had no trade
  They filled the time "invoicin' goods," and that was why he staid.

  And then he quit a-writin' altogether: Not a word—
  Exceptin' what the neighbors brung who'd been to town and heard
  What store John was clerkin' in, and went round to inquire
  If they could buy their goods there less and sell their produce higher.

  And so the Summer faded out, and Autumn wore away,
  And a keener Winter never fetched around Thanksgivin'-Day!
  The night before that day of thanks I'll never quite fergit,
  The wind a-howlin' round the house—it makes me creepy yit!

  And there set me and Mother—me a-twistin' at the prongs
  Of a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair of tongs,
  And Mother sayin', "David! David!" in a' undertone,
  As though she thought that I was thinkin' bad-words unbeknown.

  "I've dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow," Mother said,
  A-tryin' to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubborn head,—
  "And the mince-meat I'm a-mixin' is perfection mighty nigh;
  And the pound-cake is delicious-rich—" "Who'll eat 'em?" I-says-I.

  "The cramberries is drippin-sweet," says Mother, runnin' on,
  P'tendin' not to hear me;—"and somehow I thought of John
  All the time they was a-jellin'—fer you know they allus was
  His favour—he likes 'em so!" Says I, "Well, s'pose he does?"

  "Oh, nothin' much!" says Mother, with a quiet sort o' smile—
  "This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you after while!"
  And as I turned and looked around, some one riz up and leant
  And put his arms round Mother's neck, and laughed in low content.

  "It's me," he says—"your fool-boy John, come back to shake your hand;
  Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you understand
  How dearer yit than all the world is this old home that we
  Will spend Thanksgivin' in fer life—jest Mother, you and me!"

* * * * * *

  Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,
  Except of course the extry he'p, when harvest-time comes on;
  And then, I want to say to you, we need sich he'p about,
  As you'd admit, ef you could see the way the crops turns out!

NORTH AND SOUTH.

  Of the North I wove a dream,
  All bespangled with the gleam
    Of the glancing wings of swallows
  Dipping ripples in a stream,
  That, like a tide of wine,
  Wound through lands of shade and shine
  Where purple grapes hung bursting on the vine.

  And where orchard-boughs were bent
  Till their tawny fruitage blent
    With the golden wake that marked the
  Way the happy reapers went;
  Where the dawn died into noon
  As the May-mists into June,
  And the dusk fell like a sweet face in a swoon.

  Of the South I dreamed: And there
  Came a vision clear and fair
    As the marvelous enchantments
  Of the mirage of the air;
  And I saw the bayou-trees,
  With their lavish draperies,
  Hang heavy o'er the moon-washed cypress-knees.

  Peering from lush fens of rice,
  I beheld the Negro's eyes,
    Lit with that old superstition
  Death itself can not disguise;
  And I saw the palm tree nod
  Like an oriental god,
  And the cotton froth and bubble from the pod,

  And I dreamed that North and South,
  With a sigh of dew and drouth,
    Blew each unto the other
  The salute of lip and mouth;
  And I wakened, awed and thrilled—
  Every doubting murmur stilled
  In the silence of the dream I found fulfilled.

THE IRON HORSE.

  No song is mine of Arab steed—
  My courser is of nobler blood,
  And cleaner limb and fleeter speed,
    And greater strength and hardihood
  Than ever cantered wild and free
  Across the plains of Araby.

  Go search the level desert-land
  From Sana on to Samarcand—
  Wherever Persian prince has been
  Or Dervish, Sheik or Bedouin,
  And I defy you there to point
    Me out a steed the half so fine—
  From tip of ear to pastern-joint—
    As this old iron horse of mine.

  You do not know what beauty is—
    You do not know what gentleness
    His answer is to my caress!—
  Why, look upon this gait of his,—
  A touch upon his iron rein—
    He moves with such a stately grace
  The sunlight on his burnished mane
    Is barely shaken in its place;
    And at touch he changes pace,
  And, gliding backward, stops again.

  And talk of mettle—Ah! my friend,
    Such passion smoulders in his breast
  That when awakened it will send
    A thrill of rapture wilder than
    Ere palpitated heart of man
    When flaming at its mightiest.
  And there's a fierceness in his ire—
    A maddened majesty that leaps
  Along his veins in blood of fire,
    Until the path his vision sweeps
  Spins out behind him like a thread
    Unraveled from the reel of time,
    As, wheeling on his course sublime,
  The earth revolves beneath his tread.

  Then stretch away, my gallant steed!
    Thy mission is a noble one:
    You bear the father to the son,
  And sweet relief to bitter need;
  You bear the stranger to his friends;
    You bear the pilgrim to the shrine,
  And back again the prayer he sends
    That God will prosper me and mine,—
  The star that on thy forehead gleams
  Has blossomed in our brightest dreams.
  Then speed thee on thy glorious race!
  The mother waits thy ringing pace;
  The father leans an anxious ear
  The thunder of thy hoofs to hear;
  The lover listens, far away,
  To catch thy keen exultant neigh;
  And, where thy breathings roll and rise,
  The husband strains his eager eyes,
  And laugh of wife and baby-glee
  Ring out to greet and welcome thee.
  Then stretch away! and when at last
    The master's hand shall gently check
  Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast,
    The world will pat thee on the neck.

HIS MOTHER'S WAY

  Tomps 'ud allus haf to say
    Somepin' 'bout "his mother's way."—
  He lived hard-like—never jined
  Any church of any kind.—
  "It was Mother's way," says he,
  "To be good enough fer me
  And her too,—and certinly
    Lord has heerd her pray!"
  Propped up on his dyin' bed,—
  "Shore as Heaven's overhead,
  I'm a-goin' there," he said—-
    "It was Mother's way."

JAP MILLER.

  Jap Miller down at Martinsville's the blamedest feller yit!
  When he starts in a-talkin' other folks is apt to quit!—
  'Pears like that mouth o' his'n wuz n't made fer nuthin' else
  But jes' to argify 'em down and gether in their pelts:
  He'll talk you down on tariff; er he'll talk you down on tax,
  And prove the pore man pays 'em all—and them's about the fac's!—
  Religen, law, er politics, prize-fightin', er base-ball—
  Jes' tetch Jap up a little and he'll post you 'bout 'em all.

  And the comicalist feller ever tilted back a cheer
  And tuck a chaw tobacker kind o' like he did n't keer.—
  There's where the feller's strength lays,—he's so
          common-like and plain,—
  They haint no dude about old Jap, you bet you—nary grain!
  They 'lected him to Council and it never turned his head,
  And did n't make no differunce what anybody said,—
  He didn't dress no finer, ner rag out in fancy clothes;
  But his voice in Council-meetin's is a turrer to his foes.

  He's fer the pore man ever' time! And in the last campaign
  He stumped old Morgan County, through the sunshine and the rain,
  And helt the banner up'ards from a-trailin' in the dust,
  And cut loose on monopolies and cuss'd and cuss'd and cuss'd!
  He'd tell some funny story ever' now and then, you know,
  Tel, blame it! it wuz better 'n a jack-o'-lantern show!
  And I'd go furder, yit, to-day, to hear old Jap norate
  Than any high-toned orator 'at ever stumped the State!

  W'y, that-air blame Jap Miller, with his keen sircastic fun,
  Has got more friends than ary candidate 'at ever run!
  Do n't matter what his views is, when he states the same to you,
  They allus coincide with your'n, the same as two and two:
  You can't take issue with him—er, at least, they haint no sense
  In startin' in to down him, so you better not commence.—
  The best way's jes' to listen, like your humble servant does,
  And jes' concede Jap Miller is the best man ever wuz!

A SOUTHERN SINGER.

Written In Madison Caweln's "Lyrics and Idyls."

  Herein are blown from out the South
  Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth—
  As sweet in voice as, in perfume,
  The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.

  Such sumptuous languor lures the sense—
  Such luxury of indolence—
  The eyes blur as a nymph's might blur,
  With water-lilies watching her.

  You waken, thrilling at the trill
  Of some wild bird that seems to spill
  The silence full of winey drips
  Of song that Fancy sips and sips.

  Betimes, in brambled lanes wherethrough
  The chipmunk stripes himself from view,
  You pause to lop a creamy spray
  Of elder-blossoms by the way.

  Or where the morning dew is yet
  Gray on the topmost rail, you set
  A sudden palm and, vaulting, meet
  Your vaulting shadow in the wheat.

  On lordly swards, of suave incline,
  Entessellate with shade and shine,
  You shall misdoubt your lowly birth,
  Clad on as one of princely worth:

  The falcon on your wrist shall ride—
  Your milk-white Arab side by side
  With one of raven-black.—You fain
  Would kiss the hand that holds the rein.

  Nay, nay, Romancer! Poet! Seer!
  Sing us back home—from there to here;
  Grant your high grace and wit, but we
  Most honor your simplicity.—

  Herein are blown from out the South
  Songs blithe as those of Pan's pursed mouth—
  As sweet in voice as, in perfume,
  The night-breath of magnolia-bloom.

A DREAM OF AUTUMN.

  Mellow hazes, lowly trailing
  Over wood and meadow, veiling
  Somber skies, with wildfowl sailing
    Sailor-like to foreign lands;
  And the north-wind overleaping
  Summer's brink, and floodlike sweeping
  Wrecks of roses where the weeping
    Willows wring their helpless hands.

  Flared, like Titan torches flinging
    Flakes of flame and embers, springing
  From the vale the trees stand swinging
    In the moaning atmosphere;
  While in dead'ning-lands the lowing
  Of the cattle, sadder growing,
  Fills the sense to overflowing
    With the sorrow of the year.

  Sorrowfully, yet the sweeter
  Sings the brook in rippled meter
  Under boughs that lithely teeter
    Lorn birds, answering from the shores
  Through the viny, shady-shiny
  Interspaces, shot with tiny
  Flying motes that fleck the winy
    Wave-engraven sycamores.

  Fields of ragged stubble, wrangled
  With rank weeds, and shocks of tangled
  Corn, with crests like rent plumes dangled
    Over Harvest's battle-piain;
  And the sudden whir and whistle
  Of the quail that, like a missile,
  Whizzes over thorn and thistle,
    And, a missile, drops again.

  Muffled voices, hid in thickets
  Where the redbird stops to stick its
  Ruddy beak betwixt the pickets
    Of the truant's rustic trap;
  And the sound of laughter ringing
  Where, within the wild-vine swinging,
  Climb Bacchante's schoolmates, flinging
    Purple clusters in her lap.

  Rich as wine, the sunset flashes
  Round the tilted world, and dashes
  Up the sloping west and splashes
    Red foam over sky and sea—
  Till my dream of Autumn, paling
  In the splendor all-prevailing,
  Like a sallow leaf goes sailing
    Down the silence solemnly.

TOM VAN ARDEN.

  Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
    Our warm fellowship is one
  Far too old to comprehend
    Where its bond was first begun:
      Mirage-like before my gaze
      Gleams a land of other days,
      Where two truant boys, astray,
      Dream their lazy lives away.

  There's a vision, in the guise
    Of Midsummer, where the Past
  Like a weary beggar lies
    In the shadow Time has cast;
      And as blends the bloom of trees
      With the drowsy hum of bees,
      Fragrant thoughts and murmurs blend,
      Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

  Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
    All the pleasures we have known
  Thrill me now as I extend
    This old hand and grasp your own—
      Feeling, in the rude caress,
      All affection's tenderness;
      Feeling, though the touch be rough,
      Our old souls are soft enough.

  So we'll make a mellow hour:
    Fill your pipe, and taste the wine—
  Warp your face, if it be sour,
    I can spare a smile from mine;
      If it sharpen up your wit,
      Let me feel the edge of it—
      I have eager ears to lend,
      Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

  Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
    Are we "lucky dogs," indeed?
  Are we all that we pretend
    In the jolly life we lead?—
      Bachelors, we must confess,
      Boast of "single blessedness"
      To the world, but not alone—
      Man's best sorrow is his own!

  And the saddest truth is this,—
    Life to us has never proved
  What we tasted in the kiss
    Of the women we have loved:
      Vainly we congratulate
      Our escape from such a fate
      As their lying lips could send,
      Tom Van Arden, my old friend!

  Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
    Hearts, like fruit upon the stem,
  Ripen sweetest, I contend,
    As the frost falls over them:
      Your regard for me to-day
      Makes November taste of May,
      And through every vein of rhyme
      Pours the blood of summertime.

  When our souls are cramped with youth
    Happiness seems far away
  In the future, while, in truth,
    We look back on it to-day
      Through our tears, nor dare to boast,—
      "Better to have loved and lost!"
      Broken hearts are hard to mend,
      Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

  Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
    I grow prosy, and you tire;
  Fill the glasses while I bend
    To prod up the failing fire . . .
      You are restless:—I presume
      There's a dampness in the room.—
      Much of warmth our nature begs,
      With rheumatics in our legs! . . .

  Humph! the legs we used to fling
    Limber-jointed in the dance,
  When we heard the fiddle ring
    Up the curtain of Romance,
      And in crowded public halls
      Played with hearts like jugglers'-balls.—
      Feats of mountebanks, depend!—
      Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

  Tom Van Arden, my old friend,
    Pardon, then, this theme of mine:
  While the fire-light leaps to lend
    Higher color to the wine,—
      I propose a health to those
      Who have homes, and home's repose,
      Wife- and child-love without end!
      . . . Tom Van Arden, my old friend.

JUST TO BE GOOD.

  Just to be good—
      This is enough—enough!
  O we who find sin's billows wild and rough,
  Do we not feel how more than any gold
  Would be the blameless life we led of old
  While yet our lips knew but a mother's kiss?
      Ah! though we miss
      All else but this,
        To be good is enough!

  It is enough—
      Enough—just to be good!
  To lift our hearts where they are understood;
  To let the thirst for worldly power and place
  Go unappeased; to smile back in God's face
  With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss.
      Ah! though we miss
      All else but this,
        To be good is enough!

HOME AT NIGHT.

  When chirping crickets fainter cry,
  And pale stars blossom in the sky,
  And twilight's gloom has dimmed the bloom
  And blurred the butterfly:

  When locust-blossoms fleck the walk,
  And up the tiger-lily stalk
  The glow-worm crawls and clings and falls
  And glimmers down the garden-walls:

  When buzzing things, with double wings
  Of crisp and raspish flutterings,
  Go whizzing by so very nigh
  One thinks of fangs and stings:—

  O then, within, is stilled the din
  Of crib she rocks the baby in,
  And heart and gate and latch's weight
  Are lifted—and the lips of Kate.

THE HOOSIER FOLK-CHILD.

  The Hoosier Folk-Child—all unsung—
  Unlettered all of mind and tongue;
  Unmastered, unmolested—made
  Most wholly frank and unafraid:
  Untaught of any school—unvexed
  Of law or creed—all unperplexed—
  Unsermoned, aye, and undefiled,
  An all imperfect-perfect child—
  A type which (Heaven forgive us!) you
  And I do tardy honor to,
  And so, profane the sanctities
  Of our most sacred memories.
  Who, growing thus from boy to man,
  That dares not be American?
  Go, Pride, with prudent underbuzz—
  Go whistle! as the Folk-Child does.

  The Hoosier Folk-Child's world is not
  Much wider than the stable-lot
  Between the house and highway fence
  That bounds the home his father rents.
  His playmates mostly are the ducks
  And chickens, and the boy that "shucks
  Corn by the shock," and talks of town,
  And whether eggs are "up" or "down,"
  And prophesies in boastful tone
  Of "owning horses of his own,"
  And "being his own man," and "when
  He gets to be, what he'll do then."—
  Takes out his jack-knife dreamily
  And makes the Folk-Child two or three
  Crude corn-stalk figures,—a wee span
  Of horses and a little man.

  The Hoosier Folk-Child's eyes are wise
  And wide and round as Brownies' eyes:
  The smile they wear is ever blent
  With all-expectant wonderment,—
  On homeliest things they bend a look
  As rapt as o'er a picture-book,
  And seem to ask, whate'er befall,
  The happy reason of it all:—
  Why grass is all so glad a green,
  And leaves—and what their lispings mean;—
  Why buds grow on the boughs, and why
  They burst in blossom by and by—
  As though the orchard in the breeze
  Had shook and popped its popcorn-trees,
  To lure and whet, as well they might,
  Some seven-league giant's appetite!

  The Hoosier Folk-Child's chubby face
  Has scant refinement, caste or grace,—
  From crown to chin, and cheek to cheek,
  It bears the grimy water-streak
  Of rinsings such as some long rain
  Might drool across the window-pane
  Wherethrough he peers, with troubled frown,
  As some lorn team drives by for town.
  His brow is elfed with wispish hair,
  With tangles in it here and there,
  As though the warlocks snarled it so
  At midmirk when the moon sagged low,
  And boughs did toss and skreek and shake,
  And children moaned themselves awake,
  With fingers clutched, and starting sight
  Blind as the blackness of the night!

  The Hoosier Folk-Child!—Rich is he
  In all the wealth of poverty!
  He owns nor title nor estate,
  Nor speech but half articulate,—
  He owns nor princely robe nor crown;—
  Yet, draped in patched and faded brown,
  He owns the bird-songs of the hills—
  The laughter of the April rills;
  And his are all the diamonds set.
  In Morning's dewy coronet,—
  And his the Dusk's first minted stars
  That twinkle through the pasture-bars,
  And litter all the skies at night
  With glittering scraps of silver light;—
  The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim,
  In beaten gold, belongs to him.

JACK THE GIANT KILLER.

Bad Boy's Version.

  Tell you a story—an' it's a fac':—
  Wunst wuz a little boy, name wuz Jack,
  An' he had sword an' buckle an' strap
  Maked of gold, an' a "'visibul cap;"
  An' he killed Gi'nts 'at et whole cows—
  Th' horns an' all—an' pigs an' sows!
  But Jack, his golding sword wuz, oh!
  So awful sharp 'at he could go
  An' cut th' ole Gi'nts clean in two
  Fore 'ey knowed what he wuz goin' to do!
  An' one ole Gi'nt, he had four
  Heads, and name wuz "Bumblebore"—
  An' he wuz feered o' Jack—'cause he,
  Jack, he killed six—five—ten—three,
  An' all o' th' uther ole Gi'nts but him:
  An' thay wuz a place Jack haf to swim
  'Fore he could git t' ole "Bumblebore"—
  Nen thay was "griffuns" at the door:
  But Jack, he thist plunged in an' swum
  Clean acrost; an' when he come
  To th' uther side, he thist put on
  His "'visibul cap," an' nen, dog-gone!
  You could n't see him at all!—An' so
  He slewed the "griffuns"—boff, you know!
  Nen wuz a horn hunged over his head
  High on th' wall, an' words 'at read,—
  "Whoever kin this trumput blow
  Shall cause the Gi'nt's overth'ow!"
  An' Jack, he thist reached up an' blowed
  The stuffin' out of it! an' th'owed
  Th' castul-gates wide open, an'
  Nen tuck his gold sword in his han',
  An' thist marched in t' ole "Bumblebore,"
  An', 'fore he knowed, he put 'bout four
  Heads on him—an' chopped 'em off, too!—
  Wisht 'at I'd been Jack!—don't you?

WHILE THE MUSICIAN PLAYED.

  O it was but a dream I had
    While the musician played!—
  And here the sky, and here the glad
    Old ocean kissed the glade—
  And here the laughing ripples ran,
    And here the roses grew
  That threw a kiss to every man
    That voyaged with the crew.

  Our silken sails in lazy folds
    Drooped in the breathless breeze:
  As o'er a field of marigolds
    Our eyes swam o'er the seas;
  While here the eddies lisped and purled
    Around the island's rim,
  And up from out the underworld
    We saw the mermen swim.

  And it was dawn and middle-day
    And midnight—for the moon
  On silver rounds across the bay
    Had climbed the skies of June—
  And there the glowing, glorious king
    Of day ruled o'er his realm,
  With stars of midnight glittering
    About his diadem.

  The seagull reeled on languid wing
    In circles round the mast,
  We heard the songs the sirens sing
    As we went sailing past;
  And up and down the golden sands
    A thousand fairy throngs
  Flung at us from their flashing hands
    The echoes of their songs.

  O it was but a dream I had
    While the musician played—
  For here the sky, and here the glad
    Old ocean kissed the glade;
  And here the laughing ripples ran,
    And here the roses grew
  That threw a kiss to every man
    That voyaged with the crew.

AUGUST.

  A day of torpor in the sullen heat
    Of Summer's passion: In the sluggish stream
  The panting cattle lave their lazy feet,
    With drowsy eyes, and dream.

  Long since the winds have died, and in the sky
    There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief;
  The sun glares ever like an evil eye,
    And withers flower and leaf.

  Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote
    The thresher lies deserted, like some old
  Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat
    Upon a sea of gold.

  The yearning cry of some bewildered bird
    Above an empty nest, and truant boys
  Along the river's shady margin heard—
    A harmony of noise—

  A melody of wrangling voices blent
    With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls
  Of piping lips and trilling echoes sent
    To mimic waterfalls.

  And through the hazy veil the atmosphere
    Has draped about the gleaming face of Day,
  The sifted glances of the sun appear
    In splinterings of spray.

  The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn,
    Trails o'er the hillside, and the passer-by,
  A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on
    His journey to the sky.

  And down across the valley's drooping sweep,
    Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade,
  The forest stands in silence, drinking deep
    Its purple wine of shade.

  The gossamer floats up on phantom wing;
    The sailor-vision voyages the skies
  And carries into chaos everything
    That freights the weary eyes:

  Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat
    Increases—reaches—passes fever's height,
  And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet,
    Within the arms of Night.

TO HEAR HER SING.

  To hear her sing—to hear her sing—
  It is to hear the birds of Spring
  In dewy groves on blooming sprays
  Pour out their blithest roundelays.

  It is to hear the robin trill
  At morning, or the whip-poor-will
  At dusk, when stars are blossoming—
  To hear her sing—to hear her sing!

  To hear her sing—it is to hear
  The laugh of childhood ringing clear
  In woody path or grassy lane
  Our feet may never fare again.

  Faint, far away as Memory dwells,
  It is to hear the village bells
  At twilight, as the truant hears
  Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears.

  Such joy it is to hear her sing,
  We fall in love with everything—
  The simple things of every day
  Grow lovelier than words can say.

  The idle brooks that purl across
  The gleaming pebbles and the moss,
  We love no less than classic streams—
  The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams.

  To hear her sing—with folded eyes,
  It is, beneath Venetian skies,
  To hear the gondoliers' refrain,
  Or troubadours of sunny Spain.—

  To hear the bulbul's voice that shook
  The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh:
  What wonder we in homage bring
  Our hearts to her—to hear her sing!

BEING HIS MOTHER.

  Being his mother—when he goes away
    I would not hold him overlong, and so
    Sometimes my yielding sight of him grows O
  So quick of tears, I joy he did not stay
  To catch the faintest rumor of them! Nay,
    Leave always his eyes clear and glad, although
    Mine own, dear Lord, do fill to overflow;
  Let his remembered features, as I pray,
  Smile ever on me! Ah! what stress of love
    Thou givest me to guard with Thee thiswise:
    Its fullest speech ever to be denied
  Mine own—being his mother! All thereof
    Thou knowest only, looking from the skies
    As when not Christ alone was crucified.

JUNE AT WOODRUFF.

  Out at Woodruff Place—afar
  From the city's glare and jar,
  With the leafy trees, instead
  Of the awnings, overhead;
  With the shadows cool and sweet,
  For the fever of the street;
  With the silence, like a prayer,
  Breathing round us everywhere.

  Gracious anchorage, at last,
  From the billows of the vast
  Tide of life that comes and goes,
  Whence and where nobody knows—
  Moving, like a skeptic's thought,
  Out of nowhere into naught.
  Touch and tame us with thy grace,
  Placid calm of Woodruff Place!

  Weave a wreath of beechen leaves
  For the brow that throbs and grieves
  O'er the ledger, bloody-lined,
  'Neath the sun-struck window-blind!
  Send the breath of woodland bloom
  Through the sick man's prison room,
  Till his old farm-home shall swim
  Sweet in mind to hearten him!

  Out at Woodruff Place the Muse
  Dips her sandal in the dews,
  Sacredly as night and dawn
  Baptize lilied grove and lawn:
  Woody path, or paven way—
  She doth haunt them night and day,—
  Sun or moonlight through the trees,
  To her eyes, are melodies.

  Swinging lanterns, twinkling clear
  Through night-scenes, are songs to her—
  Tinted lilts and choiring hues,
  Blent with children's glad halloos;
  Then belated lays that fade
  Into midnight's serenade—
  Vine-like words and zithern-strings
  Twined through ali her slumberings.

  Blesséd be each hearthstone set
  Neighboring the violet!
  Blessed every rooftree prayed
  Over by the beech's shadel
  Blessed doorway, opening where
  We may look on Nature—there
  Hand to hand and face to face—
  Storied realm, or Woodruff Place.

FARMER WHIPPLE.—BACHELOR.

  It's a mystery to see me—a man o' fifty-four,
  Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more—
  A-lookin' glad and smilin'! And they's none o' you can say
  That you can guess the reason why I feel so good to-day!

  I must tell you all about it! But I'll have to deviate
  A little in beginning so's to set the matter straight
  As to how it comes to happen that I never took a wife—
  Kind o' "crawfish" from the Present to the Springtime of my life!

  I was brought up in the country: Of a family of five—
  Three brothers and a sister—I'm the only one alive,—
  Fer they all died little babies; and 'twas one o' Mother's ways,
  You know, to want a daughter; so she took a girl to raise.

  The sweetest little thing she was, with rosy cheeks, and fat—
  We was little chunks o' shavers then about as high as that!
  But someway we sort o' suited-like! and Mother she'd declare
  She never laid her eyes on a more lovin' pair

  Than we was! So we growed up side by side fer thirteen year',
  And every hour of it she growed to me more dear!—
  W'y, even Father's dyin', as he did, I do believe
  Warn't more affectin' to me than it was to see her grieve!

  I was then a lad o' twenty; and I felt a flash o' pride
  In thinkin' all depended on me now to pervide
  Fer Mother and fer Mary; and I went about the place
  With sleeves rolled up—and workin', with a mighty smilin' face.—

  Fer sompin' else was workin'! but not a word I said
  Of a certain sort o' notion that was runnin' through my head,—
  "Someday I'd mayby marry, and a brother's love was one
  Thing—a lover's was another!" was the way the notion run!

  I remember onc't in harvest, when the "cradle-in'" was done—
  When the harvest of my summers mounted up to twenty-one—
  I was ridin' home with Mary at the closin' o' the day—
  A-chawin' straws and thinkin', in a lover's lazy way!

  And Mary's cheeks was burnin' like the sunset down the lane:
  I noticed she was thinkin', too, and ast her to explain
  Well—when she turned and kissed me, with her arm around me—law!
  I'd a bigger load o' heaven than I had a load o' straw!

  I don't p'tend to learnin', but I'll tell you what's a fac',
  They's a mighty truthful sayin' somers in a almanack—
  Er somers—'bout "puore happiness"—perhaps some folks'll laugh
  At the idy—"only lastin' jest two seconds and a half."—

  But its jest as true as preachin'!—fer that was a sister's kiss,
  And a sister's lovin' confidence a-tellin' to me this:—
  "She was happy, bein' promised to the son o' farmer Brown."—
  And my feelin's struck a pardnership with sunset and went down!

  I don't know how I acted—I don't know what I said,
  Fer my heart seemed jest a-turnin' to an ice-cold lump o' lead;
  And the hosses kind o' glimmered before me in the road,
  And the lines fell from my fingers—and that was all I knowed—

  Fer—well, I don't know how long—They's a dim rememberence
  Of a sound o' snortin' bosses, and a stake-and-ridered fence
  A-whizzin' past, and wheat-sheaves a-dancin' in the air,
  And Mary screamin' "Murder!" and a-runnin' up to where

  I was layin' by the roadside, and the wagon upside down
  A-leanin' on the gate-post, with the wheels a whirlin' round!
  And I tried to raise and meet her, but I couldn't, with a vague
  Sort o' notion comin' to me that I had a broken leg.

  Well, the women nussed me through it; but many a time I'd sigh
  As I'd keep a-gittin' better instid o' goin' to die,
  And wonder what was left me worth livin' fer below,
  When the girl I loved was married to another, don't you know!

  And my thoughts was as rebellious as the folks was good and kind
  When Brown and Mary married—Railly must a-been my mind
  Was kindo' out o' kilter!—fer I hated Brown, you see,
  Worse'n pizen—and the feller whittled crutches out fer me—

  And done a thousand little ac's o' kindness and respec'—
  And me a-wishin' all the time that I could break his neck!
  My relief was like a mourner's when the funeral is done
  When they moved to Illinois in the Fall o' Forty-one.

  Then I went to work in airnest—I had nothin' much in view
  But to drownd out rickollections—and it kep' me busy, too!
  But I slowly thrived and prospered, tel Mother used to say
  She expected yit to see me a wealthy man some day.

  Then I'd think how little money was, compared to happiness—
  And who'd be left to use it when I died I couldn't guess!
  But I've still kep' speculatin' and a-gainin' year by year,
  Tel I'm payin' half the taxes in the county, mighty near!

  Well!—A year ago er better, a letter comes to hand
  Astin' how I 'd like to dicker fer some Illinois land—
  "The feller that had owned it," it went ahead to state,
  "Had jest deceased, insolvent, leavin' chance to speculate,"—

  And then it closed by sayin' that I'd "better come and see."—
  I'd never been West, anyhow—a most too wild fer me,
  I'd allus had a notion; but a lawyer here in town
  Said I'd find myself mistakend when I come to look around.

  So I bids good-bye to Mother, and I jumps aboard the train,
  A-thinkin' what I'd bring her when I come back home again—
  And ef she'd had an idy what the present was to be,
  I think it's more 'n likely she'd a-went along with me!

  Cars is awful tejus ridin', fer all they go so fast!
  But finally they called out my stopping-place at last:
  And that night, at the tavern, I dreamp' I was a train
  O' cars, and skeered at sumpin', runnin' down a country lane!

  Well, in the mornin' airly—after huntin' up the man—
  The lawyer who was wantin' to swap the piece o' land—
  We started fer the country;' and I ast the history
  Of the farm—its former owner—and so-forth, etcetery!

  And—well—it was interestin'—I su'prised him, I suppose,
  By the loud and frequent manner in which I blowed my nose!—
  But his su'prise was greater, and it made him wonder more,
  When I kissed and hugged the widder when she met us at the door!—

  It was Mary: They's a feelin' a-hidin' down in here—
  Of course I can't explain it, ner ever make it clear.—
  It was with us in that meeting I don't want you to fergit!
  And it makes me kind o' nervous when I think about it yit!

  I bought that farm, and deeded it, afore I left the town,
  With "title clear to mansions in the skies," to Mary Brown!
  And fu'thermore, I took her and the childern—fer you see,
  They'd never seed their Grandma—and I fetched 'em home with me.

  So now you've got an idy why a man o' fifty-four,
  Who's lived a cross old bachelor fer thirty year' and more,
  Is a-lookin' glad and smilin'!—And I've jest come into town
  To git a pair o' license fer to marry Mary Brown.