THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LOS ANGELES IN MEMORY OF PAUL TURNER, U.S.M.C.R. KILLED IN ACTION, SAIPAN JUNE, 1944 ERTr 'THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE" AND 'LEVEN MORE POEMS NEGHBORLY POEMS BY THE SAME AUTHOR NEGHBORLY POEMS, INCLUDING "THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE.' SKETCHES IN PROSE, INCLUDING THE Boss GIRL. AFTERWHILES: DIALECT AND OTHER POETRY. PIPES O'PAN: FIVE SKETCHES AND FIFTY POEMS. RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD: DIALECT AND OTHER VEKSES. THE FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT: A FANTASTIC DRAMA IN VERSE. AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE: A FLAT QUARTO ILLUSTRATED IN COLORS. PUBLISHED BY THE BOWEN-MERRILL CO., INDIANAPOLIS. IN ENGLAND- OLD-FASHIONED ROSES: POEMS, DIALECT AND VARIOUS. PUBLISHED BY LONGMANS, GREEN & CO., LONDON. " When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore.' "THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE" AND 'LEVEN MORE POEMS NEGHBORLY POEMS ON FRIENDSHIP GRIEF AND FARM-LIFE BY BENJ. F. JOHNSON, OF BOONE [JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY.] 1891 THE BOWEN-MERRILL CO INDIANAPOLIS, IND DEDICATION TO THE EVER-FAITHFUL, WHOLE-SOULED, HONEST-HEARTED HOOSIER FRIENDS, IN COUNTRY AND IN TOWN, THIS LITTLE BOOK IS GRATEFULLY AND LOVINGLY INSCRIBED. Copyrighted 1883 by J. W. Riley. Copyrighted 1891 by J. W. Riley. PS PREFACE AND SUB-PREFACE. As FAR back into boyhood as the writer's memory may intelligently go, the "country poet" is most pleasantly recalled. He was, and is, as common as the "country fiddler," and as full of good old- fashioned music. Not a master of melody, indeed, but a poet, certainly "Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies." And it is simply the purpose of this series of dia lectic studies to reflect the real worth of this homely child of nature, and to echo faithfully, if possible, the faltering music of his song. In adding to this series, as the writer has, for many years, been urged to do, and answering as steadfast a demand of Benj. F. Johnson's first and oldest friends, it has been decided that this further work of his be introduced to the reader of the volume as was the old man's first work to the reader of the newspaper of nearly ten years ago. Directly, then, referring to the Indianapolis 691975 PREFACE. Daily Journal under whose management the writer had for some time been employed, from issue of date June 17, 1882, under editorial caption of "A Boone County Pastoral," this article is herewith quoted : Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone county, who considers the Journal a "very valubul" newspaper, writes to inclose us an original poem, desiring that we kindly accept it for publica tion, as "many neghbors and friends is astin' him to have the same struck off." Mr. Johnson thoughtfully informs us that he is "no edjucat- ed man," but that he has, "from childhood up tel old enugh to vote, allus wrote more er less poetry, as many of an albun in the neghborhood can testify." Again, he says that he writes "from the hart out;" and there is a touch of genuine pathos in the frank avowal, "Thare is times when I write the tears rolls down my cheeks." In all sincerity, Mr. Johnson, we are glad to publish the poem you send, and just as you have written it. That is its greatest charm. Its very defects compose its excellence. You need no better education than the one from which emanates "The Old Swimmin'-Hole." It is real poetry, and all the more tender and lovable for the unquestionable evidence it bears of having been written "from the hart out." The only thing we find to but hold ! Let us first lay the poem before the reader: Here followed the poem, "The Old Swimmin'- Hole," entire the editorial comment ending as follows : The only thing now, Mr. Johnson as we were about to PREFACE. vii observe the only thing we find to criticise, at all relative to the poem, is your closing statement to the effect that "It was wrote to go to the tune of 'The Captin with his Whiskers!' " You should not have told us that, O Rare Ben. Johnson ! A week later, in the Journal of date June 24th, followed this additional mention of "Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone:" It is a pleasure for us to note that the publication of the poem of "The Old Swimmin'-Hole," to which the Journal, with just pride, referred last week, has proved almost as great a pleasure to its author as to the hosts of delighted readers who have written in its praise, or called to personally indonse our high opinion of its poetic value. We have just received a letter from Mr. Johnson, the author, inclosing us another lyrical performance, which in many features even surpasses the originality and spirit of the former effort. Certainly the least that can be said of it is that it stands a thorough proof of our first assertion, that the author, though by no means a man of learning and profound literary attainments, is none the less a true poet and an artist. The letter, accompanying this later amaranth of blooming wildwood verse, we publish in its entirety, assured that Mr. Johnson's many admirers will be charmed, as we have been, at the delicious glimpse he gives us of his in spiration, modes of study, home-life and surroundings. "To the Editer of the Indanoplus Jurnal: "Respected Sir The paper is here, markm' the old swim- min'-hole, my poetry which you seem to like so well. I joy to see it in print, and I thank you, hart and voice, for speak- in' of its merrits in the way in which you do. I am glad you thought it was real poetry, as you said in your artikle. But I make bold to ast you what was your idy in sayin' I had PREFACE. orient of told you it went to the tune I spoke of in my last. I felt highly flatered tel I got that fur. Was it because you don't know the tune refered to in the letter ? Er wasent some words spelt right er not ? Still ef you hadent of said somepin aginst it Ide of thought you was makin' fun. As I said before 1 well know my own unedjucation, but I don't think that is any reason the feelin's of the soul is stunted in theyr growth however. 'Juge not less ye be juged,' says The Good Book, and so say I, ef I thought you was makin' fun of the lines that I wrote and which you done me the onner to have printed off in sich fine style that I have read it over and over again in the paper you sent, and I would like to have about three more ef you can spare the same and state by mail what they will come at. All nature was in tune day before yisterday when your paper come to hand. It had ben a-raining hard fer some days, but that morning opened up as clear as a whissel. No clouds was in the sky, and the air was bammy with the warm sunshine and the wet smell of the earth and the locus blossoms and the flowrs and pennyroil and boneset. I got up, the first one about the place, and went forth to the plesant fields. I fed the stock with lavish hand and wortered them in merry glee, they was no bird in all the land no happier than me. I have jest wrote a verse of poetry in this letter; see ef you can find it. I also send you a whole poem which was wrote off the very day your paper come. I started it in the morning I have so feebly tride to pictur to you and wound her up by suppertime, besides doin' a fare day's work around the place. Ef you print this one I think you will like it better than the other. This aint a sad poem like the other was, but you will find it full of careful thought. I pride myself on that. I also send you 30 cents in stamps fer you to take your pay out of fer the other papers I said, and also fer three more with PREFA CE. this in it ef you have it printed and oblige. Ef you don't print this poem, keep the stamps and send me three more papers with the other one in makin' the sum totul of six (6) papers altogether in full. Ever your true friend, BENJ. F. JOHNSON. "N. B. The tune of this one is The Bold Privateer." Here followed the poem, " Thoughts Fer The Discuraged Farmer;" and here, too, fittingly ends any comment but that which would appear trivial and gratuitous. Simply, in briefest conclusion, the hale, sound, artless, lovable character of Benj. F. Johnson remains, in the writer's mind, as from the first, far less a fiction than a living, breathing, vigorous reality. So strong, indeed, has his personality been made mani fest, that many times, in visionary argument with the sturdy old myth over certain changes from the original forms of his productions, he has so incon tinently beaten down all suggestions as to a less incongruous association of thoughts and words, to gether with protests against his many violations of poetic method, harmony and grace, that nothing was left the writer but to submit to what has always seemed and in truth still seems a superior wisdom of dictation. J. W. R. Indianapolis, July i8qr. CONTENTS PROEM THE DELIGHTS OF OUR CHILDHOOD is SOON PAST AWAY THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE i THOUGHTS PER THE DISCURAGED FARMER .... 3 A SUMMER'S DAY 5 A HYMB OF FAITH 8 WORTER-MELON TIME 10 MY PHILOSOFY 13 WHEN THE FROST is ON THE PUNKIN 16 ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT . . . 18 THE MULBERRY TREE 20 To MY OLD NEGHBOR, WILLIAM LEACHMAN .... 22 MY FIDDLE 26 THE CLOVER 28 Us FARMERS IN THE COUNTRY, AS THE SEASONS GO AND COME . 31 ERASMUS WILSON , . . . 33 MY RUTHERS 38 To A DEAD BABE 40 A OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG 41 "COON-DOG WESS" 44 PERFESSER JOHN CLARK RIDPATH 50 A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS 53 "MvLO JONES'S WIFE" 55 ON A SPLENDUD MATCH 58 OLD JOHN CLEVENGER ON BUCKEYES 59 THE Hoss 64 EZRA HOUSE 68 A PEN-PICTUR' 71 WET-WEATHER TALK -75 THOUGHTS ON A PORE JOKE 78 A MORTUL PRAYER 79 THE FIRST BLUEBIRD 81 EVAGENE BAKER 82 ON ANY ORDENARY MAN 85 TOWN AND COUNTRY 86 LINES WRIT PER ISAAC BRADWELL 88 DECORATION DAY ON THE PLACE .89 'THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE" AND 'LEVEN MORE POEMS NEGHBORLY POEMS THE DELIGHTS of our childhood is soon passed away, And our gloryus youth it departs, And yit, dead and hurried, t /ley's blossoms of May Ore theyr medder land graves in our harts. So, friends of my barefooted days on the farm, Whether truant in city er not, God prosper you same as He's prosper in" 1 me, Whilse your past haint despised er f ergot. Oh ! they's MO thitt 1 , at morn, that's as grand unto me As the glory s of Natchur so fare, With the Spring in the breeze, and the bloom in the trees, And the hum of the bees ev'rywhare ! The green in the woods, and the birds in the boughs, And the dei.v spangled over the fields ; And the bah of the sheep and the bawl of the cows And the call from the house to your meals ! Then ho ! fer your brekfast! and ho ! fer the toil That waitcth alike man and beast ! Oh! its soon with my team I'll be tiirnin' up soil, Whilse the sun shoulders up in the East Ore the tops of the ellums and beeches and oaks, To smile his godspeed on the plow, And the furry and seed, and the Man in his need, And the joy of the swet of his brow ! THE OLD SWIMMIN'- HOLE AND 'LEVEN MORE POEMS. THE OLD SWIMMIN' -HOLE. OH! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep, And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know Before we could remember anything but the eyes Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise; But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle, And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole. Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore, When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore, Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide That gazed back at me so gay and glorified, It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress My shadder smilin' up at me with such tenderness. But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole. *l I THE OLD SWIMMING-HOLE. Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways, How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane, Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole. But the lost joys is past ! Let your tears in sorrow roll Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole. Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall, And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all; And it mottled the worter with amber and gold Tel the glad lillies rocked in the ripples that rolled; And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky, Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole. Oh ! the old swimmin'-hole ! When I last saw the place, The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face; The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot. And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be But never again will theyr shade shelter me ! And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul, And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole. THOUGHTS PER DISCURAGED FARMER. 3 THOUGHTS PER THE DISCURAGED FARMER. THE summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees; And the clover in the pastur' is a big day fer the bees, And they been a-swiggin honey, above board and on the sly, Tel they stutter in theyrbuzzin' and stagger as they fly. The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wings And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings; And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz, And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is. You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a carin' how; So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing: And its when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest, She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest; And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' right, Seems to kindo-sorto sharpen up a feller's appetite! They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day, And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away, And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still; It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will. 4 THOUGHTS PER DISCURAGED FARMER. Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out, And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt; But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet, Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet ! Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and dry Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky? Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way, Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day? Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'? Does he walk, er does he run? Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they've allus done? Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er voice? Ort a mortul be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice? Then let us, one and all, be contented with our lot; The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot. Oh ! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day, And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away! Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide, Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied; Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew, And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you. A SUMMER'S DAY. A SUMMER'S DAY. THE Summer's put the idy in My head that I'm a boy again; And all around's so bright and gay I want to put my team away, And jest git out whare I can lay And soak my hide full of the day ! But work is work, and must be done Yit, as I work, I have my fun, Jest fancyin' these furries here Is childhood's paths onc't more so dear : And so I walk through medder-lands, And country lanes, and swampy trails Whare long bullrushes bresh my hands; And, tilted on the ridered rails Of deadnin' fences, "Old Bob White" Whissels his name in high delight, And whirrs away. I wunder still, Whichever way a boy's feet will Whare trees has fell, with tangled tops Whare dead leaves shakes, I stop fer breth, Heerin' the acorn as it drops H'istin' my chin up still as deth, And watchin' clos't, with upturned eyes, The tree whare Mr. Squirrel tries To hide hisse'f above the limb, But lets his own tale tell on him. A SUMMER'S DAY. I wnnder on in deeper glooms Git hungry, hearin' female cries From old farm-houses, whare perfumes Of harvest dinners seems to rise And ta'nt a feller, hart and brane, With memories he can't explain. I wunder through the underbresh, Whare pig-tracks, pintin' to'rds the crick Is picked and printed in the fresh Black bottom-lands, like wimmern pick Theyr pie-crusts with a fork, some way, When bakin' fer camp-meetin' day. I wunder on and on and on, Tel my gray hair and beard is gone, And ev'ry wrinkle on my brow Is rubbed clean out and shaddered now With curls as brown and fare and fine As tenderls of the wild grape-vine That ust to climb the highest tree To keep the ripest ones fer me. I wunder still, and here I am Wadin' the ford below the dam The worter chucklin' round my knee At hornet-welt and bramble-scratch, And me a-slippin' 'crost to see A SUMMER'S DAY. Ef Tyner's plums is ripe, and size The old man's \vortermelon-patch, With juicy mouth and drouthy eyes. Then, after sich a day of mirth And happiness as worlds is wurth So tired that heaven seems nigh about, The sweetest tiredness on earth Is to git home and flatten out So tired you can't lay flat enugh, And sort o' wish that you could spred Out like molasses on the bed, And jest drip off the aidges in The dreams that never comes again. A HYMB OF FAITH. A HYMB OF FAITH. O, THOU that doth all things devise And fashon fer the best, He'p us who sees with mortul eyes To overlook the rest. They's times, of course, we grope in doubt, And in afflictions sore; So knock the louder, Lord, without, And we'll unlock the door. Make us to feel, when times looks bad And tears in pitty melts, Thou wast the only he'p we had When they was nothin' else. Death comes alike to ev'ry man That ever was borned on earth; Then let us do the best we can To live fer all life's wurth. Ef storms and tempusts dred to see Makes black the heavens ore, They done the same in Galilee Two thousand years before. But after all, the golden sun Poured out its floods on them That watched and waited fer the One Then borned in Bethlyham. A HYMB OF FAITH. Also, the star of holy writ Made noonday of the night, Whilse other stars that looked at it Was envious with delight. The sages then in wurship bowed, From ev'ry clime so fare; O, sinner, think of that glad crowd That congergated thare! They was content to fall in ranks With One that knowed the way From good old Jurden's stormy banks Clean up to Jedgmunt Day. No matter, then, how all is mixed In our near-sighted eyes, All things is fer the best, and fixed Out straight in Paradise. Then take things as God sends 'em here, And, ef we live er die, Be more and more contenteder, Without a-astin' why. O, thou that doth all things devise And fashon fer the best, He'p us who sees with mortul eyes. To overlook the rest. WORTER-MELON TIME. WORTER-MELON TIME. OLD worter-melon time is a-comin' round again, And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me, Fer the way I hanker after worter-melons is a sin Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see. Oh! it's in the sandy soil worter-melons does the best, And its thare they'll lay and waller in the sunshine and the dew Till they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyr breast; And you bet I ain't a-findin' any fault with them; air you? They ain't no better thing in the vegetable line; And they don't need much 'tendin', as ev'ry farmer knows; And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine, I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows. It's some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red, And it's some says "The little Californy" is the best; But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head, Is the old "Edingburg Mounting-sprout," of the west. You don't want no punkins nigh your worter-melon vines 'Cause, some-way-another, they'll spile your melons, shore; I've seed 'em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines, Which may be a fact you have heered of before. WORTER-MELON TIME. n But your melons that's raised right and 'tended to with care, You can walk around amongst 'em with a parent's pride and joy, And thump 'em on the heads with as fatherly a air As ef each one of them was your little girl er boy. I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin' sound When you split one down the back and jolt the halves in two, And the friends you love the best is gethered all around And you says unto your sweethart, "Oh here's the core fer you!" And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 'em all, Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delight As one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls, And they holler fer some more, with unquenched appetite. Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see 'em eat A slice of worter-melon's like a frenchharp in theyr hands, And when they "saw" it through theyr mouth sich music can't be beat 'Cause it's music both the sperit and the stummick under stands. Oh, they's more in worter-melons than the purty-colored meat, And the overflowin' sweetness of the worter squshed be twixt WORTER-MELON TIME. The up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth, And it's the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood mixed. Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away To the summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn, And the fadin' afternoon of the long summer day, And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the night a-comin' on. And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves and trees. And the stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silver mice, And us boys in the worter-melons on our hands and knees, And the new-moon hangin' ore us like a yeller-cored slice. Oh ! it's worter-melon time is a-comin' round again, And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me, Fer the way I hanker after worter-melons is a sin Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see. MY PHILOSOFY. MY PHILOSOFY. I AINT, ner don't p'tend to be, Much posted on philosofy; But thare is times, when all alone, I work out idees of my own. And of these same thare is a few I'd like to jest refer to you Pervidin' that you don't object To listen clos't and rickollect. I allus argy that a man Who does about the best he can Is plenty good enugh to suit This lower mundane institute No matter ef his daily walk Is subject fer his neghbor's talk, And critic-minds of ev'ry whim Jest all git up and go fer him ! I knowed a feller onc't that had The yeller-janders mighty bad, And each and ev'ry friend he'd meet Would stop and give him some receet Fer cuorin' of 'em. But he'd say He kind o' thought they'd go away Without no medicin', and boast That he'd git well without one doste. 14 MY PHI LOS OF Y. He kep' a yellerin' on and they Perdictin' that he'd die some day Before he knowed it ! Tuck his bed, The feller did, and lost his head, And wundered in his mind a spell Then rallied, and, at last, got well; But ev'ry friend that said he'd die Went back on him eternally ! Its natchurl enugh, I guess, When some gits more and some gits less, Fer them-uns on the slimmest side To claim it ain't a fare divide; And I've knowed some to lay and wait, And git up soon, and set up late. To ketch some feller they could hate Fer goin' at a faster gait. The signs is bad when folks commence A findin' fault with Providence, And balkin' 'cause the earth don't shake At ev'ry prancin' step they take. No man is great tel he can see How less than little he would be Ef stripped to self, and stark and bare He hung his sign out anywhare. MY PHILOSOFY. My doctern is to lay aside Contensions, and be satisfied: Jest do your best, and praise er blame That Toilers that, counts jest the same. I've allus noticed grate success Is mixed with troubles, more er less, And its the man who does the best That gits more kicks than all the rest. 16 WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN. WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN. WHEN the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey- cock, And the clackin'of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O its then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmosfere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin' -birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock. "C 7? WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUN KIN. 17 The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries kindo' lonesome-like, but still A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in theyr stalls below the clover overhead ! O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock ! Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too; I don't know how to tell it but ef sich a thing could be As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me I'd want to 'commodate 'em all the whole-indurin' flock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock ! i8 LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT. ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT. "LITTLE HALY! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree; "Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!" moans the bee; "Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the kill-deer at twilight; And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly" all the night. The sunflowers and the hollyhawks droops over the garden fence; The old path down the gardenwalks still holds her footprints' dents; And the well-sweep's swingin' bucket seems to wait fer her to come And start it on its wortery errant down the old bee-gum. The bee-hives all is quiet, and the little Jersey steer, When any one comes nigh it, acts so lonesome like and queer; And the little Banty chickens kind o' cutters faint and low, Like the hand that now was feedin' 'em was one they didn't know. LITTLE MAHAL A ASHCRAFT. 19 They's sorrow in the wavin' leaves of all the apple-trees; And sorrow in the harvest-sheaves, and sorrow in the breeze; And sorrow in the twitter of the swallers 'round the shed; And all the song her red-bird sings is "Little Haly's dead !" The medder 'pears to miss her, and the pathway through the grass, Whare the dewdrops ust to kiss her little bare feet as she passed; And the old pin in the gate-post seems to kindo-sorto' doubt That Haly's little sunburnt hands'll ever pull it out. Did her father er her mother ever love her more'n me, Er her sisters er her brother prize her love more tendurly? I question and what answer? only tears, and tears alone, And ev'ry neghbor's eyes is full o' tear-drops as my own. "Little Haly ! Little Haly !" cheeps the robin in the tree; "Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly !" moans the bee; "Little Haly ! Little Haly !" calls the kill-deer at twilight, And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly" all the night. THE MULBERRY TREE, THE MULBERRY TREE. O, ITS many's the scenes which is dear to my mind As I think of my childhood so long left behind; The home of my birth, with its old puncheon-floor, And the bright morning-glorys that growed round the door; The warped clab-board roof whare the rain it run off Into streams of sweet dreams as I laid in the loft, Countin' all of the joys that was dearest to me, And a-thinkin' the most of the mulberry tree. And to-day as I dream, with both eyes wide-awake, I can see the old tree, and its limbs as they shake, And the long purple berries that rained on the ground Whare the pastur' was bald whare we trommpt it around. And again, peekin' up through the thick leafy shade, I can see the glad smiles of the friends when I strayed With my little bare feet from my own mother's knee To foller them off to the mulberry tree. Leanin' up in the forks, I can see the old rail, And the boy climbin' up it, claw, tooth, and toe-nail, And in fancy can hear, as he spits on his hands, The ring of his laugh and the rip of his pants. But that rail led to glory, as certin and shore As I'll never climb thare by that rout' any more What was all the green lauruls of Fame unto me, With my brows in the boughs of the mulberry tree! THE MULBERRY TREE. Then its who can fergit the old mulberry tree That he knowed in the days when his thoughts was as free As the flutterin' wings of the birds that flew out Of the tall wavin' tops as the boys come about? O, a crowd of my memories, laughin' and gay, Is a-climbin' the fence of that pastur' to-day, And a-pantin' with joy, as us boys ust to be, They go racin' acrost fer the mulberry tree. 22 WILLIAM LEACHMAN. TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN. FER forty year and better you have been a friend to me, Through days of sore afflictions and dire adversity, You allus had a kind word of counsul to impart, Which was like a healin' 'intment to the sorrow of my hart. When I hurried my first womern, William Leachman, it was you Had the only consolation that I could listen to Fer I knowed you had gone through it and had rallied from the blow, And when you said I'd do the same, I knowed you'd ort to know. But that time I'll long remember; how I wundered here and thare Through the settin'-room and kitchen, and out in the open air And the snowflakes whirlin', whirlin', and the fields a frozen glare, And the neghbors' sleds and wagons congergatin' ev'rywhare. I turned my eyes to'rds heaven, but the sun was hid away; I turned my eyes to'rds earth again, but all was cold and gray; And the clock, like ice a-crackin', clickt the icy hours in two And my eyes'd never thawed out ef it hadn't been fer you! WILLIAM LEACHMAN. 23 We set thare by the smoke-house me and you out thare alone Me a-thinkin' you a-talkin' in a soothin' undertone You a-talkin' me a-thinkin' of the summers long ago, And a-writin' "Marthy Marthy" with my finger in the snow! William Leachman, I can see you jest as plane as I could then; And your hand is on my shoulder, and you rouse me up again; And I see the tears a-drippin' from your own eyes, as you say: "Be rickonciled and bear it we but linger fer a day!" At the last Old Settlers' Meetin' we went j'intly, you and me Your hosses and my wagon, as you wanted it to be; And sence I can remember, from the time we've neghbored here, In all sich friendly actions you have double-done your sheer. It was better than the meetin', too, that g-mile talk we had Of the times when we first settled here and travel was so bad; When we had to go on hoss-back, and sometimes on "Shanks's mare," And "blaze" a road fer them behind that had to travel thare. And now we was a-trottin' 'long a level gravel pike, In a big two-hoss road-wagon, jest as easy as you like Two of us on the front seat, and our wimmern-folks behind, A-settin' in theyr Winsor cheers in perfect peace of mind! 24 WILLIAM LEACHMAN. And we pinted out old landmarks, nearly faded out of sight: Thare they ust to rob the stage-coach; thare Gash Morgan had the fight With the old stag-deer that pronged him how he battled fer his life, And lived to prove the story by the handle of his knife. Thare the first griss-mill was put up in the Settlement, and we Had tuck our grindin' to it in the Fall of Forty-three When we tuck our rifles with us, techin' elbows all the way, And a-stickin' right together ev'ry minute, night and day. Thare ust to stand the tavern that they called the "Travelers' Rest," And thare, beyent the covered bridge, "The Counterfitters' Nest" Whare they claimed the house was ha'nted that a man was murdered thare, And burried underneath the floor, er 'round the place some- whare. And the old Plank-road they laid along in Fifty-one er two You know we talked about the times when the old road was new: How "Uncle Sam" put down that road and never taxed the State Was a problum, don't you rickollect, we couldn't dimonstrate? And thare, beyent the covered bridge, " The Counterfitters' Nest." WILLIAM LEACHMAN. 25 Ways was devius, William Leachman, that me and you has past; But as I found you true at first, I find you true at last; And, now the time's a-comin' mighty nigh our jurney's end, I want to throw wide open all my soul to you, my friend. With the stren'th of all my bein', and the heat of hart and brane, And ev'ry livin' drop of blood in artery and vane, I love you and respect you, and I venerate your name, Fer the name of William Leachman and True Manhood's jest the same ! 26 MY FIDDLE. MY FIDDLE. MY FIDDLE? Well, I kindo' keep her handy, don't you know! Though I aint so much inclined to tromp the strings and switch the bow As I was before the timber of my elbows got so dry, And my fingers was more limber-like and caperish and spry; Yit I can plonk and plunk and plink, And tune her up and play, And jest lean back and laugh and wink At ev'ry rainy day ! My playin's only middlin' tunes I picked up when a boy The kindo'-sorto' fiddlin' that the folks calls "cordaroy;" "The Old Fat Gal," and "Rye-straw," and "My Sailyor's on the Sea," Is the old cowtillions / "saw" when the ch'ice is left to me; And so I plunk and plonk and plink, And rosum-up my bow, And play the tunes that makes you think The devil's in your toe! MY FIDDLE. 27 I was allus a romancin', do-less boy, to tell the truth, A-fiddlin' and a-dancin', and a-wastin' of my youth, And a-actin' and a-cuttin'-up all sorts o' silly pranks That wasn't worth a button of anybody's thanks! But they tell me, when I ust to plink And plonk and plunk and play, My music seemed to have the kink O' drivin' cares away! That's how this here old fiddle's won my hart's indurin love ! From the strings acrost her middle, to the schreechin' keys above From her "apern," over "bridge," and to the ribbon round her throat, She's a wooin', cooin' pigeon, singin' "Love me" ev'ry note! And so I pat her neck, and plink Her strings with lovin' hands, And, list'nin' clos't, I sometimes think She kindo' understands ! 28 THE CLOVER. THE CLOVER. SOME sings of the lilly, and daisy, and rose, And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime throws In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days; But what is the lilly and all of the rest Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew? I never set eyes on a clover-field now, Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow, But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plane As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again; And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream, Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love Ere it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above. And so I love clover it seems like a part Of the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart ; And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow And thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now; And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die, To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye, And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom While my soul slips away on a breth of purfume. NEGHBORLY POEMS ON FRIENDSHIP, GRIEF AND FARM-LIFE US FARMERS in the country, as the seasons go and come, Is purty much like other folks, -we're apt to grumble some! The Spring's too backward fer us, er too forward ary one We'll jaw about it anyhow, and have our way er none ! The thaw's set in too suddent; er the frost's stayed in the soil Too long to give the wheat a chance, and crops is bound to spoil! The weather's either most too mild, er too outrageous rough, And altogether too much rain, er not half rain enugh! Now what I'd like and what you'd like is plane enugh to see: Its Jest to have old Providence drop round on you and me And ast us what our views is first, regardin' shine er rain, And post 'em when to shet her off, er let her on again ! And yit I'd ruther, after all considern other chores r got on hands, a'-tendin' both to my affairs and yours I'd rut her miss the blame I'd git, a-rulin' things up thare, And spend my extry time in praise and gratitude and prayer. ERASMUS WILSON. 33 ERASMUS WILSON. 'RAS WILSON, I respect you, 'cause You're common, like you allus was Afore you went to town and s'prised The world by gittin' "reckonized," And yit perservin, as I say, Your common hoss-sense ev'ryway ! And when that name o' yourn occurs On hand-bills, er in newspapers, Er letters writ by friends 'at ast About you, same as in the past, And neghbors and relations 'low You're out o' the tall timber now, And "gittin' thare" about as spry's The next ! as / say, when my eyes, Er ears, lights on your name, I mind The first time 'at I come to find You and my Rickollection yells, Jest jubilunt as old sleigh-bells " 'Ras Wilson! Say! Hold up! and shake A paw, fer old acquaintance sake !'' 34 ERASMUS WILSON. My Rickollection, more'n like, Haint overly too apt to strike That what's-called cultchurd public eye As wisclum of the deepest dye, And yit my Rickollection makes So blame lots fewer bad mistakes, Regardin' human-natchur' and The fellers 'at I've shook theyr hand, Than my best jedgennmfs done, the day I've met 'em 'fore I got away, 'At Well, 'Ras Wilson, let me grip Your hand in warmest pardnership ! Dad-burn ye! Like to jest haul back A' old flat-hander, jest che- whack ! And take you 'twixt the shoulders, say, Sometime you're lookin' t'other way! Er, maybe whilse you're speakin' to A whole blame Courthouse-full o' 'thu- Syastic friends, I'd like to jest Come in-like and break up the nest Afore you hatched anuther cheer, And say: " 'Ras, /can't stand hitched here All night ner wouldn't ef I could! But Little Bethel neghborhoocl, You ust to live at, 's sent some word Fer you, ef ary chance occurred ERASMUS WILSON. 35 To git it to ye, so ef you Kin stop, I'm wait in' fer ye to!" You're common as I said afore You're common, yit uncommon more. You allus kindo' 'pear, to me, What all mankind had ort to be Jest natehnrl, and the more hurraws You git, the less you know the cause Like as ef God Hisself stood by, Where best on earth hain't half knee-high, And seein' like, and' knowin' He 'S the Only Great Man really, You're jest content to size your hight With any feller-man's in sight. And even then they's scrubs, like me, Feels stuck-up, in your company ! Like now: I want to go with you Plum out o' town a mile er two Clean past the Fair-ground whare's some hint O' pennyrile er peppermint, And bottom-lands, and timber thick Enugh to sorto' shade the crick ! I want to see you want to set Down somers, whare the grass hain't wet, 36 ERASMUS WILSON. And kindo' breathe you, like puore air And taste o' your tobacker thare, And talk and chaw ! Talk o' the birds We've knocked with cross-bows. Afterwards Drop, mayby, into some dispute 'Bout "pomgrannies," er cal'mus-root And how they growed, and whore? on tree Er vine ? Who's best boy-memory ! And wasn't it gingsang, insted O' Cal'mus-root, growed like you said? Er how to tell a coon-track from A mussrat's ; er how milksick come Er ef ccrws brung it ? Er why now We never see no "muley"-cow Ner "frizzly"-chicken ner no "clay- Bank" mare ner nothin' thataway! And what's come o' the yeller-core Old wortermelons ? hain't no more. Tomattusus, the same all red- Uns nowadays All past joys fled Each and all jest gone k- whizz ! Like our days o' childhood is ! Dag-gone it, Ras! they hain't no friend, It 'pears-like, left to comperhend Sich things as these but you, and see How dratted sweet they air to me ! ERASMUS WILSON. 37 But you, 'at's loved 'em alias, and Kin sort 'em out and understand 'Em, same as the fine books you've read, And all fine thoughts you've writ, er said, Er worked out, through long nights o' rain, And doubts and fears, and hopes, again, As bright as morning when she broke, You know a teardrop from a joke ! And so, 'Ras Wilson, stop and shake A paw, fer old acquaintance sake ! 38 MY RUTHERS. MY RUTHERS. [Writ durin' State Fair at Indanoplis, whilse visitin' a Soninlaw then residin' thare, who has sence got back to the country whare he says a man that's raised thare ort to a-stayed in the first place.] I tell you what I'd ruther do Ef I only had my ruthers, I'd ruther work when I wanted to Than be bossed round by others; I'd ruther kindo' git the swing O' what was needed, first, I jing! Afore I rwet at anything! Ef I only had my ruthers; In fact I'd aim to be the same With all men as my brothers; And they'd all be the same with me Ef I only had my ruthers. I wouldn't likely know it all Ef I only had my ruthers; I'd know some sense, and some base-ball Some old jokes, and some others: I'd know some politics, and 'low Some tarif-speeches same as now, Then go hear Nye on "Branes and How To Detect Theyr Presence." T' others, That stayed away, I'd let 'em stay All my dissentin' brothers MY RUTHERS. 39 Could clause as shore a kill er cuore, Ef I only had my ruthers. The pore 'ud git theyr dues sometimes Ef I only had my ruthers, And be paid dollars 'stid o' dimes, Fer childern, wives and mothers: Theyr boy that slaves; theyr girl that sews- Fer others not herself, God knows! The grave's her only change of clothes! . . . Ef I only had my ruthers, They'd all have "stuff" and time enugh To answer one-another's Appealin' prayer fer "lovin' care" Ef I only had my ruthers. They'd be few folks 'ud ast fer trust, Ef I only had my ruthers, And blame few business-men to bu'st Theyrselves, er harts of others: Big Guns that come here durin' Fair- Week could put up jest anywhare, And find a full-and-plenty thare, Ef I only had my ruthers: The rich and great 'ud 'sociate With all theyr lowly brothers, Feelin' we done the honorun Ef I only had my ruthers. 40 ON A DEAD BABE. ON A DEAD BABE. FLY away ! thou heavenly one ! I do hail thee on thy flight ! Sorrow? thou hath tasted none Perfect joy is yourn by right. Fly away ! and bear our love To thy kith and kin above ! I can tetch thy finger-tips Ca'mly, and bresh back the hair From thy forr'ed with my lips, And not leave a teardrop thare. Weep fer Tomps and Ruth and me- But I cannot weep fer thee. A OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG. 41 A OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG. IT'S THE curiousest thing in creation, Whenever I hear that old song, "Do They Miss Me at Home," I'm so bothered, My life seems as short as it's long! Fer ev'rything 'pears like adzackly It 'peared in the years past and gone, When I started out sparkin' at twenty, And had my first neckercher on ! Though I'm wrinkelder, older and grayer Right now than my parents was then, You strike up that song, "Do They Miss Me," And I'm jest a youngster again! I'm a-standin' back thare in the furries A-wishin' fer evening to come, And a-whisperin' over and over Them words, "Do They Miss Me at Home?" You see, Marthy Ellen she sung it The first time I heerd it; and so, As she was my very first sweethart, It reminds me of her, don't you know; 42 A OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG. How her face ust to look, in the twilight, As I tuck her to Spellin'; and she Kep' a-hummin' that song tel I ast her, Pine-blank, ef she ever missed me \ I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it, And hear her low answerin' words; And then the glad chirp of the crickets, As clear as the twitter of birds; And the dust in the road is like velvet, And the ragweed and fennel and grass Is as sweet as the scent of the lillies Of Eden of old, as we pass. "Do They Miss Me at Home?'" Sing it lower- And softer and sweet as the breeze That powdered our path with the snowy White bloom of the old locus'-trees! Let the whipperwills he'p you to sing it, And the echoes 'way over the hill, Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus Of stars, and our voices is still. But, oh ! "They's a chord in the music That's missed when her voice is away!" Though I listen from midnight tel morning, And dawn tel the dusk of the day ! A OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG. 43 And I grope through the dark, lookin' up'ards And on through the heavenly dome, With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin' The words, "Do They Miss Me at Home?" 44 "COON-DOG WESS." "COON-DOG WESS." "Coon-dog Wess" he allus went 'Mongst us here by that-air name. Moved in this-here Settlement From next county he laid claim, Lived down in the bottoms whare Ust to be some coons in thare ! In nigh Clayton's, next the crick, Mind old Billy ust to say Coons in thare was jest that thick, He'p him corn-plant any day! And, in rostneer-time, be then Aggin' him to plant again ! Well, In Spring o' '67, This-here "Coon-dog Wess" he come- Fetchin' 'long 'bout forty-'leven Ornriest-lookin' hounds, I gum! Ever mortul-man laid eyes On sence dawn o' Christian skies! "COON-DOG WESS" 45 Wife come traipsin' at the rag- Tag-and-bobtail of the crowd, Dogs and childern, with a bag Corn -meal and some side-meat, Proud And as independunt My! Yit a mild look in her eye. Well this "Coon-dog Wess" he jest Moved in that-air little pen Of a pole-shed, aidgin' west On "The Slues o' Death," called then. Otter and mink-hunters ust To camp thare 'fore game vam-moosd. Abul-bodied man, and lots Call fer choppers and fer hands To git cross-ties out. But what's Work to sich as understands Ways appinted and is hence Under special providence? "Coon-dog Wess's" holts was hounds And coon-hnntiri' '; and he knowed His own range, and stayed in bounds, And left work fer them 'at showed Talents fer it same as his Gifts regardin' coon-dogs is. 46 "COON-DOG WESS." Hounds of ev'ry mungerl breed Ever whelped on earth! Had these Yeller kind, with punkin-seed Marks above theyr eyes and fleas Both to sell and keep ! Also These -here lop-yeerd hounds, you know. Yes-and brindle hounds and long, Ga'nt hounds, with them eyes they' got So blame sorry, it seems wrong, 'Most, to kick 'em as to not! Man, though, wouldn't dast, I guess, Kick a hound fer coon-dog Wess !" 'Tended to his own affairs Stric'ly; made no brags, and yit You could see 'at them hounds' cares 'Feared like his, and he'd a-fit Fer 'em, same as wife er child ! Them facts made folks rickonciled, Sorto', fer to let him be And not pester him. And then Word begin to spread 'at he Had brung in as high as ten Coon-pelts in one night and yit Didn't 'pear to boast of it ! " COON-DOG WESS" 47 Neghborhood made some complaints 'Bout them plague-gone hounds at night Howlin' fit to wake the saints, Clean from dusk tel plum day-light ! But to "Coon-dog Wess" them-thare Howls was "music in the air!" Fetched his pelts to Gilson's Store Newt he shipped fer him, and said, Sence he'd cooned thare, he'd shipped more Than three hunderd pelts! "By Ned! Git shet of my store," Newt says, "I'd go in with 'Coon-dog Wess' !" And the feller 'peared to be Makin' best and most he could Of his rale prospairity: Bought some household things and good, Likewise, wagon-load onc't come From wharever he'd moved from. But pore feller's huntin'-days, 'Bout them times, was glidin' past! Goes out onc't one night and stays! . . .Neghbors they turned out, at last, Headed by his wife and one Half-starved hound and search begun. 48 ''COON-DOG WESS" Boys said, that blame hound, he led Searchin' party, 'bout a half Mile ahead, and bellerin', said, Worse'n ary yearlin' calf! Tel, at last, come fur-off sounds Like the howl of other hounds. And-sir, shore enugh, them signs Fetched 'em in a' hour er two Whare the pack was; and they finds "Coon-dog Wess" right thare; And you Would admitted he was right Stay in', as he had, all night ! Fmcts is, cuttin' down a tree, The blame thing had sorto' fell In a twist-like mercy me! And had ketched him. Couldn't tell, Wess said, how he'd managed yit He'd got both legs under it ! Fainted and come to, I s'pose, 'Bout a dozen times whilse they Chopped him out ! And wife she froze To him ! bresh his hair away And smile cheerful' only when He'd faint. Cry and kiss him then. "COON-DOG WESS." 49 Had his nerve ! And missed him through, Neghbors he'pped her all she'd stand. Had a loom, and she could do Carpet -weavin' railly grand! '"Sides," she ust to laugh and say, "She'd have Wess, now, night and day !" As fer /';, he'd say, says-ee, "I'm resigned to bein' lame: They was four coons up that tree, And hounds got 'em, jest the same !" 'Feared like, one er two legs less Never worried "Coon-dog Wess!" 50 PERFESSER JOHN CLARK RIDPA TH. LINES TO PERFESSER JOHN CLARK RIDPATH A. M., LL. D. T-Y-TY! [Cumposed by A Old Friend of the Fambily sence 'way back in the Forties, when they Settled nigh Fillmore, Putnuni County, this State, whare John was borned and growed up, you might say, like the wayside flower.] YOUR neghbors in the country, whare you come from, haint fergot ! We knowed you even better than your own-self, like as not. We profissied your runnin'-geers 'ud stand a soggy load And pull her, purty stiddy, up a mighty rocky road: We been a-watchin your career sence you could write your name But way you writ it first, I'll say, was jest a burnin' shame: Your"J. C."in the copybook, and "Ridpath" mercy-sakes! Quiled up and tide in dubble bows, lookt like a nest o' snakes ! But_y<7 could read it, I suppose, and kindo' gloted on A-bein' U J. C. Ridpath' 1 ' 1 when we only called you "John." But you'd work 's well as fool, and what you had to do was done: We've watched you at the woodpile not the -woodshed wasent none, PERFESSER JOHN CLARK RIDPATH. 51 And snow and sleet, and haulin', too, and lookin' after stock, And milkin', nights, and feedin' pigs, then turnin' back the clock, So's you could set up studyin' your 'Rethmatic, and fool Your Parents, whilse a-piratin' your way through winter school ! And I've heerd tell from your own folks you've set and baked your face A-readin' Plutark Slives all night by that old fi-er-place. Yit, 'bout them times, the blackboard, onc't, had on it, I