UC-NI 27 fl?3 P S 3500 B3 T6 1915 MAIN THE TOWN >HERE I WAS BORN GIFT J L^ 7 A-L-t^^C^. ^^ eX-Li 301 THE TOWN WHERE I WAS BORN STORIES of OLD WICKFORD By W. C. B. TOLD IN RHYME By S. M. B. ILLUSTRATED BY HELEN MASON GROSE PASADENA . CALIFORNIA 1915 fef/ f\ N ! Contents Preface . 11 The Town Where I Was Born 13 J^ A- I A i Hen n Me 14 Joy Ridin in the Hearse 18 The Lonesome Man 19 Thanksgiving 21 In the Woodshed 25 Gettin Religion... 27 A Sufficient Reason 28 Theft of a Church 29 Jest Like Ma 30 Plenty to Do 32 Hannah 35 Joe Perkinses Lad 38 Parson Jim s Dilemma 39 When the Jail Burned Down 41 The Village Fool 42 Sandy versus Summer 44 The Village Liar... 46 The Hearth Motto 51 The Whistlin Poet 53 Chums Yet 56 Memorial Day . 58 List of Illustrations Frontispiece In the Woodshed 24 "A Lonely House Stands Keeping Its Memories of Vanished Days" 34 "In the Dusk of Summer Evenings We Sat on the Latticed Porch".... 50 Preface As when a school boy turns his pockets out Finding new pleasure in forgotten things A copper penny to make bright, Tops, marbles, fish hooks, bits of strings, So, fumbling in the corners of my mind Old memories like re-discovered treasure Full of Life s trivial happenings Awake to bring forth pain and pleasure. The Town Where I Was Born Its just a quiet little town The town where I was born, With great elms shading the long streets And grimy wharves where fishing fleets Go forth at break of dawn. And simple folk dwell in the town The town where I was born, Sea-faring men with faces brown Whistling as they go up and down Make music in the morn. And in and out around the town This town where I was born, The bay slips up through reedy creeks Where many a tired wild fowl seeks Rest from its flight forlorn. Up on the hill in this old town The town where I was born, The Cademy is standing still, And on its fence the whippoorwill Still chants his note of scorn. Oh, happy days in the old town The town where I was born, Then every neighbor was a friend, My heart will cherish to the end These leaves from memory torn. Thirteen Hen n Me Onct on a time long while ago When I wuz jest a kid, I gotter skeer and say, you know, I hollered some I did. Hen Gardner n me wuz settin round Old Uncle Asa s store, A listening to the tales they told Them old sea cap ns four. Cap n Jim n Cap n Ben An Cap n Hardy too Wuz sorter clustered roun the fire Talkin to Cap n Blue. We kinder hoped ef we fussed round Old Uncle Asa d say "Here boys, jest take these pepmint sticks An then git out the way." So sure enuf when it got dark He looked at us an said "Come boys you d better git along, Time youngsters wuz in bed." Hen Gardner he piped up an said Please gimme a stick o candy, An Billy here thinks one of them Jawbreakers d come in handy." Well Uncle Asa laughed an lit The one old whale oil lamp, It shone right on a puddle when We stepped out in the damp. N Hen says "Aw, don t let s go home, Fourteen Let s hide behind the boxes," So we crept in at the back door Ez sly ez little foxes. The folks wuz talkin about ha nts An how they wuz deceiving But Uncle Asa said fer him Why seein wuz believin . N Cap n Hardy lowed ez how He d seen a ship load of em, With inky blackness all around An fiery skies above em. He said ez you could almost hear The men an women screamin, Cos pirates hed the ship, an all The decks with blood wuz streamin. Twus over in Long Island Sound This dretful sight he seen, An all the neighbors far and near Called it the "Palatine." Well, Hen n me begun to feel Not quite up to the mark, We d liked to skin out but wuz skeered To go home in the dark. So there we set, an Cap n Jim Said that wuz jest a pleasure Beside the story HE could tell Of huntin fer Kidd s treasure. He said ez how one stormy night Blind Jerry Wells an he Went over to Plum Island beach To dig for gold monee. For everybody knew twas there, Fifteen An how old Cap n Kfdd Had cut three Injuns head right off An laid em on the lid Of the strong box that held the gold, And if you made a sound, Them Injuns would rise up an run To seize what you had found. So he n Jerry dug away N pretty soon they struck it, They started in to lift the box But jest before they tuck it Blind Jerry swore because in haste He hit his knee an stumbled, The very instant that he spoke The chest to dust bed crumbled. An Cap n Jim he saw the ghosts Of those three Injun braves, Rise up n snatch their gory heads From out their sandy graves. But jest ez he got to that part Hen let out such a shriek That all hands jumped n Cap n Blue, Why he swore a blue streak. But we wuz blubbering then you bet, An Uncle Asa told us That jest to calm us down a mite He d set a spell an hold us. So when he d got us straightened out We started home agin, Hen lived right across the street, So he got safely in. An then I started down the road Ez fast ez you could fiddle, Sixteen Aunt Sukey Brown wuz comin up, I hit her in the middle, My ! how she yelled ! an ez for me I up and gave her room quick, For I wuz sure she wuz a witch A ridin on a broom-stick. An when I got to my back door, I tell you I wuz hummin ; I jest hung blubbering on the latch, But Ma she heard me comin; An so she takes me in an shuts The kitchen door behind me, An wraps her apron round me so The bogie man can t find me. An then she laughed n said I wuz A precious little silly. I kinder liked it when she called Me "blessed little Billy." Seventeen Joy Ridin in the Hearse There wuz jest one hearse in the hull town An so, lackin in competition, It grew kinder rusty an run down Till it wan t in reel good condition. In the school house shed it useter stand Lookin so big an so black an grand With its pampas plumes a-wavin , Thet most folks felt a sort of awe An all the girls would say "Oh law! No ride in thet am I cravin ." But us boys useter take it out, Plumb up to the top o the hill, An then with youngsters thin an stout The corpse s place we would fill, Then "let her go Gallighar," lickety cut; The plaguey old door it would never stay shut An the axles went a creakin , But over the bumpers we rattled an shook, An all of the neighbors would run out to look When they heard us come a shriekin . I bet ef the fellers who took their last ride In thet cart we sent a spinnin , Could hev seen us a reelin from side to side Thet they would a died a grinnin . An when we got to the foot of the hill There wuz apt to be a bit of a spill, Bruises, but nothing worse, I ve hed excitement sence in my day, But nothin to equal thet far away Joy Ridin in the Hearse! Eighteen The Lonesome Man A lonesome man once came to town (This by his own confession) He was a carpenter by trade, A preacher by profession. Such was his zeal he preached in air While sawing wood on Monday And sawed in air while preaching to Good folks in church on Sunday. At "firstly", off his necktie came, At "secondly" his collar, "Thirdly" removed his coat and vest And he began to holler. But neither work nor piety Sufficed his soul to fill, This preacher man was lonesome, So he courted with a will. Now Rhody Baker was the maid On whom his yearnings tarried, But she had vowed a solemn vow She never would get married. He hoped that he could change her mind, So sought her dwelling daily, But if she heard him at the door She d run away most gaily. Nineteen Her rocking chair still swaying showed She d left it but a minute, But he could never chance to find The chair with Rhody in it. Now between whiles this preacher man Was building him a dory, And he bethought him that it s name Might help to tell the story. So in big letters on the stern He painted "Rhody" boldly, That very day he caught the lass, But she received him coldly. And when he asked her to be his She said she really couldn t, Back to his boat he went again And named it "Rhody wouldn t." Twenty Thanksgiving When Mother pulled the table out And fetched the gilt-edged china, We children thought no royal feast Could possibly look finer. Then all the house was fragrant with The swell of turkey cooking; Aunt Betsy told us not to peek, But we kept on a looking. For oh, the pantry was a sight Most luscious to discover, With cakes and pies and tarts both ways With, and without a cover. Benny cracked nuts, and Abby rubbed Red apples till they shone, I whipped up cream so white and stiff That it could stand alone. And when at last both young and old Were gathered round the table, Each girl and boy resolved to eat As much as they were able. Then Father stood up at the head With gentle, smiling face, To ask that all the bounty spread Might have the dear Lord s grace. Twenty-one The way he said "Our Father" Made me feel when I was seven, That he meant Grand-Pa who had died And gone to live in Heaven. So near and close the presence came Through words that he let fall "Dear Father, bless us every one, The little ones and all." How often through the years now gone, At banquets grand and fine, I ve heard those words and longed once more For days of "Auld Lang Syne." Twenty-two In the Wood Shed Ma gen ly calls me her little Billy, But tonight it s dest old Bill, An she left me here in er shed alone An told me I gotter stay still. Tain t fair! I wuz tryin to be good, An spechully perlite To all ze sewin circle folks, Wen old Miss Susan White Sez "Willy, wat you thinkin bout, Sittin so quiet there?" An everybody stopped to look At me in my small chair. An I sez orfully perlite, "I m wishin hard, Miss Sue, When I grow up zat I can have A moustache dest like you." An all ze sewin ladies laughed An shook zemselves until Ze tears rolled down into zere laps, But Ma she called me Bill, An said I d gotter have my tea Along er colored Mabel, Ze hired girl, and couldn t come To eat at ze first table. Twenty-five An zeres chicken n ham n five kinds o cake, An biscuit n chocolate n tea, An everybody s eatin now, Everybody but me. An I feel all gone in my insides, Cause I ain t et nothin since noon Cept three slices er bread n a piece er pie. I guess I shall die pretty soon. But all zose mean folks eatin zere Zat chicken wat Ma is carvin Are dest so cruel Zey don t care a bit For a poor little boy who is starvin . But when zey finds me deaded up, I kinder guess Ma will Be orful sorry she acted so An zat she called me Bill. Twenty-six Gettin Religion All the folks are gettin religion Because salvation s free; But things that I don t pay for Ain t much use to me. The other night in meetin , Follerin his natteral bent, Old Bascom shouted "Come git grace, T wont cost a single cent." An I riz up and answered, "Lord, save your stingy soul, Your kind o grace ain t fit to tech, Not with a ten foot pole. "Our Christ sweat blood," sez I, "to earn The right to say Amen, Thy will, not mine, oh Lord, be done. Grace came not easy then." "The peace o God," sez I, "don t come Through prayer and idle sittin , But doin what we think is right. What s worth havin s worth the gittin ." No! I ain t got religion, Though nearly all my days I ve done the very best I could To f oiler in His ways. Twenty-seven A Sufficient Reason Joe Perkins had more children Than any man in town, He likewise had less money And his house was tumbling down. The neighbors held some sewing bees To make his children clothing; For ragged, dirty imps they were, Objects of righteous loathing. Fourteen there were by careful count, And likely to be more; He had not chairs enough for all, So some sat on the floor. Not one of them could read or write, And work they simply wouldn t; They didn t do a thing they should, But everything they shouldn t. Old Doctor Shaw once said to Joe, "Why have so many of em?" Joe scratched his head and made reply, "B gosh, because I love em!" Twenty-eight The Theft of a Church There have been strange thefts since the world began, An apple once caused the fall of man, And all of Greece and Troy Was plunged into war because Paris stole The beautiful woman who pleased his soul And filled his life with joy. The diamond necklace of a Queen Was a robbery bold as ever was seen, But though history you search, Who ever heard of a thing so queer, Look where you will both far and near, As the theft of a country church. But it happened once in the early days, That the people who came from various ways To a church of some repute To hear Berkeley preach and McSparren pray, Soon found to their infinite dismay, Themselves in hot dispute. The withdrawing Elders, stern and strong, Decided to take the church along, No matter what others might say. So they carted it off up hill and down, Till they landed it safe in the old town, Where it stands at the present day. For all the brethren who were left Of a place for worship thus bereft, Much sympathy we feel; But we chuckle at those who took the toll, Each praying there with impenitent soul In the church he had helped to steal. Twenty-nine Jest Like Ma Ma Allen lived at the foot of the hill, She knew when a neighbor chanced to be ill And what made the babies cry; And everything she didn t know She sort of suspicioned might be so, Cause why? Cause she was lonesome and sat all day Rocking and knitting and talking away, Dressed up in her black lace mitts. She had a cat, but he roamed afar, Some chickens, too and then she had Pa But Pa had fits. Of course poor Pa was quite a care, For he had his fits most anywhere, And his wits were never about him; Ma used to weep and say it was true He wore on her but what could she do Without him! And so she sat and rocked away, Talking to Pa the livelong day Of all the town affairs; How Sairy Hull s new dress was blue And Eben Proughty s Cousin Sue Hed put on airs. Thirty At last, as often happens, Ma Got worn out taking care of Pa, And so at sixty-seven, Although she never meant to flout him, She found that she could live without him In Heaven. Pa grieved so when she went away That a good neighbor came one day And brought him in a Parrot, A beautiful bird of green and red With a hooked beak and a ruffled head Of Carrot. And dear me how that bird could chatter, But talking didn t seem to matter, It sounded good to Pa; Twas just as if a friend he d found, He d smile and say "Now don t that sound Jest like Ma?" Thirty-one Plenty to Do City feller here the other day, Sailing with me across the bay. "Cap n," sez he, "it s surely prime Down here in the good old summer time, But when the wintry breezes blow Pears like it must be doocid slow. Cap n," sez he, "now tell me true, What do you do?" "Young feller," sez I, "to tell ye true, Thar s jest two things I allus do, Perhaps it mought seem rayther slow To folks as allus wants to go, But while you fellers air eatin an* drinkin , An givin an gettin , I m settin an thinkin , Waal, sometimes jest settin ." Thirty-two Jf as Hannah Grey as the mist that comes creeping In from the far distant bays, A lonely house stands, keeping Its memories of vanished days. Murmuring like an empty shell Held close to the listening ear, Its brooding walls might softly tell The secret of many a year. And the story which lingers and echoes there Is of Hannah s love and Hannah s despair. Hannah, the pride of counties three ; Hannah, the darling of her sire, No maid in all the South Countrie Rode gaily in such rich attire. When she tripped down the oaken stair In silk and lace, with jeweled fan, A rosebud glowing against her hair, She stirred the heart of many a man. And her own proud wilful heart was set On the man her father bade her forget. The lilacs yet stand whose purple bloom Bent fragrant and wet above her When she crept one night through the misty gloom To meet her Tory lover. Next morning she rode through the swinging gate, Eyeing her groom with haughty air; At a turn in the road she bade him wait Till she should return to find him there. Then alone she galloped up hill and down, To wed her lover in Boston town. Thirty-five All summer the Squire sat alone In the house now grown so strangely still, While crickets in dreary monotone Chirped "Hannah" back to the Whip-poor-will. All winter beside the great hearth fire He waited in vain for a voice at the door, His restless feet that knew no tire, Went back and forth on the creaking floor. And the north wind shaking the window pane Shrieked "Hannah, Hannah," far down the lane. The air grew soft with promise of Spring, And the lilacs shed their perfume sweet Over one who crouched, a broken thing, Ragged of dress and weary of feet. With lips a-quiver and heart aflame, Her father bent over her there, Murmuring her well beloved name, He bore her up the winding stair To the dainty room of rose and grey, Whose mullioned windows looked toward the bay. Woefully sad was the story told While she tossed and moaned with fevered brain, And her father s face grew grey and old As she called her lover again and again. With promises fair he had sailed away To his English home beyond the sea. She had waited in vain a year and a day Ere she sought again the old roof-tree. Ah, faithless lover who never came! Her s was the sorrow and your s the shame! Thirty- six Then she who had ridden forth in pride On that fair morn one year before, Came back on foot through the country side, Begging her way from door to door. Still hoping and loving with loyal trust, She cried aloud as her end drew nigh, "I know he will come, but if die I must, Under the lilacs, oh let me lie. Some day he will ride from out the mist And I shall be there to keep the tryst." Grey as the mist that comes creeping In from the far distant bays, The lonely house stands keeping Its memories of vanished days. And whenever the fields awaken, When lilacs bloom in the lane, By that grave so long forsaken, The story is told again. Then children and lovers whispering there, Tell of Hannah s love and Hannah s despair. Thirty-seven Joe Perkinses Lad Betcher can t guess what I got Nor who twas give it ter me. Taint any old knife nor a pup No Sirree. Yesterday noon I wuz down On the dock n Cap n Ben Came in on his sloop and when He seed me, sez he, "Ain t you Joe Perkinses lad?" An he give this ter me. He s the grandest man in town, An the best friend I ever had. It s a whole new dollar bill, An I m goin ter keep it until I git three or four, Nuff ter set up a store, An then I ll git rich An mebby, some day, Cap n Ben he ll be poor, An I ll hitch up a sleigh To drive ter his door Full o good things to eat, Lots of flour an meat, An he ll be all trimbly and old Standin there at the door in the cold, An he ll be s prised an say "Now who be you anyway?" An I ll say "I m Joe Perkinses lad An you re the best friend ever I had. 1 Thirty- eight Parson Jim s Dilemma The old church wanted a parson bad, But it seemed as if there was none to be had; For the salary certainly wasn t big, Fifty dollars a year with a cow and a pig, And a tumble down house, deny it who can, Is little enough for the average man. And yet they expected for folks are so queer, Much learning and virtue for fifty a year. So if into debt he would keep from falling, The man who was called must have other calling And so when a godly blacksmith was found Who made the old church s rafters resound As he pounded his fist on the pulpit s rim, The call and election was surely for him. There wasn t much that he couldn t do From driving a horse to mending a shoe. He could sail, he could fish, he could lay a stone wall, And he knew the whole truth about old Adam s fall. Had a beautiful manner, so soft and polite, Kind spoken to children the ladies delight. But two things came hard to good Parson Jim, They were writing a sermon and singing a hymn. At the singing he surely put up a good bluff, Kept working his mouth, and looked solemn enough To be Bispham himself or Enrico Caruso When he hoisted his chest and pompously blew so, But sermons he certainly could not write, Though he studied the Bible and worked all night; So like a wise fellow he borrowed his text, Thirty- nine His discourse as well, from one week to the next. Sometimes it was Spurgeon and sometimes twas Beecher, He read straight from every eloquent preacher, And never concealed the fact that he took His sermon from some quite neatly bound book. But one of the deacons begrudged him his glory And thought that he ought to preach extempore; Said "twant orthodox, preachin thet sort of way, Nor scriptural nuther, if he had his way, Direct inspiration wuz what he should ask for, An the minister ought to be taken to task for Readin them sermons as wasn t his own, Let Spurgeon be hanged and Beecher be blown." But Parson Jim serenely kept the tenor of his ways, Till rising once in church to lead an hour of prayer and praise, His gaze upon the deacon fell who sat there full in view, Holding the Boston Herald up and reading in his pew. The Parson coughed ahem ! and whispered "Brother Snow, Please put that worldly paper up, it is not seemly so." No answer from the Deacon came, and flustered Parson Jim Forsook the text and said ahem ! they d sing another hymn. The hymn was sung, but still old Snow Rustled his paper to and fro. The Parson, leaning from his perch, Said "Brother, please not read in church." The Deacon shouted from his pew, "Why can t I read as well as you?" Forty When the Jail Burned Down The biggest excitement ever in town Was when the old wooden jail burned down; Twas along in the fall a frosty night And there wasn t a living soul in sight, For the boys were all at a fancy ball That the Lodge was giving in Woodman s Hall. Sol Smith, the chief of the fire brigade, Was dancing there with an Indian maid. He was dressed like Old Nick with horns and a tail, And a parcel of imps like a covey of quail Was prancing and squealing around him there When the clangor of fire bells filled the air. Sol started away with the imps at his heel, Leaving right in the midst of Virginia Reel. It didn t take long to reach the jail, Seize hook and ladder and iron pail And work like the Devil he looked to be, For nobody ever was quicker than he. Now it chanced that the fire was set by a lamp Overturned in his sleep by a drunken tramp Who woke to find his cell in a blaze, And saw, to his horrified amaze, The devil himself in the midst of flame With attendant imps whom he called by name. "The Old Boy has got me," he cried with a yell, "At last I have died and gone to" well, It doesn t matter what else he said, For much that he uttered shouldn t be read. But it s worth recording that after that fright He never got drunk again at night. \ Forty-one The Village Fool When the slow Spring came down to town, Touching the grass to quicker green, When buds swelled on the Elm trees brown And Johnny Jump Ups heads were seen. Then busy house-wives flung the windows wide To thrust out Winter and let in the May, Small blame to husbands if the ebbing tide Made good excuse for ling ring on the Bay. Attic and cellar yielded up their stores Of ancient feather beds and musty tins, Carpets were lifted from the painted floors And ashes carted from the dusty bins. Then fields were ploughed, and anxious men Toiled through the day with dreary eyes That saw the clods, but knew not when They missed the glory of the skies. What though the Springtime called and Robins sang! One ear alone in all the busy town Heard the glad summons that through dim woods rang, And caught the echoes as they floated down. One only had the wisdom then To turn his back on sordid care And sing aloud through wood and glen With joy because the day was fair. Forty -two Shambling through lanes and roaming far afield, The Village Idiot went straying, He knew the healing that each herb might yield, He knew where speckled trout were playing. Secrets were his than saner folk Could never learn in any school, To him each bee and bluebird spoke, He shared their joy oh Happy Fool! Forty-three Sandy versus Summer I met up wi Summer a coming down the Pike, Sure I did, Missis, I m telling of you true; She caught me by the foot as nimble as could be, Saying, "Come along, Sandy, come and play wi me." Dearie, me ma am I never saw her like, Knew it wouldn t please you but what could I do? So I goed wi her ma am across the fields so green, Never thought of chores at home but just went along, She took me to a sparrow s nest not so far away Three speckled eggs and the bird on them all day, Bout the prettiest nest that Sandy ever seen; And that little sparrow it had a kinky song. Yes, Missis, Kinky , just like a little vine, She sort of twined it all about the nest; Guess when eggs are hatched the baby birds will sing Same little ripply notes from underneath the wing; Guess she ll like to hear em would if they were mine, Know she ll like to feel em underneath her breast. Then Sandy followed Summer way across the lot, Down through the orchard and over a stone wall, Came to where a brook was twistin in and out, Had a fish-line wi me and caught a mess o trout, Here they be, missis, everyone I got, Fry em wi bacon, they won t taste bad at all. Forty- four Brook, it kept a talkin and a coaxin Sandy, Never could say "no" when brooks begin to talk, When it gurgles so and sputters over stones Seems just like the water had real friendly tones. So I went in wadin , cause it seemed so handy, Lots o sun to dry my feet and make em white as chalk. Brook and I went roamin on down to a big pool, Pussy Willows growin all around the edge, Found some Blue Flag missis knew you liked to chew it, Found some Boneset too, ma am thought you d like to brew it. Sandy knows a thing or two if he is a fool, Picked some tansy, too, a-growin on the ledge. "Tansy won t feed horses, or Boneset milk the cow?" Ha-ha, Missis, Sandy knows that, too. "Doesn t I feel just a good bit ashamed?" Why, Missis, it s summer as ought to be blamed, I tried to say "No," but I couldn t somehow, She coaxed me so, ma am, what else could I do? Forty-five The Village Liar Poor Annanias! he hed to die For jest one ornery little lie Thet any damn fool could a told, There ain t a land-agent livin today Thet wouldn t a beaten him far an away On every passel he sold. Takes magination an jedgment to make a good liar, An neither he nor his wife Sapphira Seem to hev hed the gift; Ef they could a hung around the door Of Uncle Asa s corner store Twould a given em quite a lift. It certainly did beat all consarn To hear old Eben Proughty yarn Twas a liberal eddication The way he d talk about things he done, Hosses he d swapped and risks he d run With doctors and medication. Eben certainly would a made a good preacher, Or mebbe a lawyer or some kind o teacher, His lyin w r as easy an glib; Led up to what he wanted to say In such a plausible kind o way That you never suspected a fib. Forty- six I reck lect well one August day, Thunder caps hanging over the bay And growlin to beat the band, We sat with our tongues just hangin out And every feller thet chanced to be stout Hed a palm leaf fan in his hand. There warn t a collar in all the crowd, Nor a waist-coat neither, for we wan t proud, And twas everlastin hot; And Sol Smith said, ez he wiped his brow, "Ef I hed a melon here right now I d eat it ez like ez not." "Watermelon?" sez Eben kinder slow, "I bet you fellers don t reely know How good a melon kin be. Old Farmer Brown up Stony Lane Hed melons well, say! it gives me a pain To think of em yes, sirree! When I was a youngster, to save my soul, I couldn t eat melon except it was stole, And one blisterin day in September I climbed into old Brown s melon patch, Tore my trousers and got a scratch On the picket fence, I remember. I searched around for the biggest one, But jest as I started to hev some fun, I heard old Brown behind me Callin his bulldog "Sick him, Towser! Catch him behind in the full o the trouser ; Sick him, old dog, now mind me." Forty-seven I hed a melon hugged to my chest, And when the old dog came abreast I threw it over the wall, And jest as I was gittin there too, Towser got hold o the heel of my shoe, But he didn t hurt me at all. And say! that melon was surely nice, Sweet as sugar and cold as ice. My! I wish that I hed it now." A sorrowful pause fell on all around, And Eben gave a sobbin sound As he wiped off his drippin brow. But Sol Smith says, in a doubtin way "Of course, Eben, it s jest as you say, But it s natteral to remember That melons is apt to go to smash When they meet with any kind of a crash, And it s terrible hot in September." That didn t feaze Eben; no, sirree! He was jest as calm as a man could be. Says he, "Wa al, I ll hev ye to know That when that melon flew over the wall It didn t go to smash at all, For it lit in a bank of snow I * Forty-eight The Hearth Motto The year was in the blooming At flood of the Spring tide, When I came down To the old town, Bringing my chosen bride. And oh! but the world was merry, For oh! but our hearts were young, No day seemed long For jest and song Were ever upon the tongue. Under the boughs of an orchard Whose petals fluttered down In a rosy foam We made our home In a cottage old and brown. And we wrote across the hearth where we Were beginning life together, "Here shall ye see No enemy Save Winter and rough Weather." And I said, "Dear wife, be it ever so, For all, whether simple or grand, Who enter here Shall meet good cheer And a welcome of heart and hand." Fifty-one In the dusk of summer evenings We sat on the latticed porch Where the firefly Went dancing by Waving a fairy torch. And we talked of the misty future, Of wonderful things to be, Of friendships long And a love that was strong For time and eternity. And now the year s in the gloaming, And Life s on the ebbing tide, Dry leaves fall down In the old town Where I took my youthful bride. Far from that hearth have we roamed and long Have we traveled Life s road together; By our fireside glow There is still no foe Save Winter and Rough Weather. Fifty- two The Whistlin Poet Lord! how I wisht I could sing; Sometimes when I m down by the spring Or plowin the field, Seems though I should bust! I m plumb full of it all The smell o the earth, the blue o the sky And birds flyin high, It jest hurts! And I feel bout the way the dumb critters look When they re tryin to tell ye what ails em. I wisht I could sing like the brook, But I cayn t do nothing but whistle. I kin carry a tune but the words won t come, Seems as if me and the critters was dumb And I cayn t tell what I m whistlin about; Lord who give me this feeling, oh help git it out! Why thet s rhymin oh shucks! the idee! How in thunder d it happen to me, I didn t mean to, it came, Is thet the way, Lord ? Do ye mean it? Why, I hain t hed but two terms o schoolin , Hed to work on the farm and quit foolin Ever since I was ten. Never knew the time when I wan t toilin . But every chanct I got at a book Twas allers the poetry ones I took, And mebbe that s what s boilin within me. Fifty-three Why I feel like a swarm o bees Sailin among the trees; Don t know jest whar I shall light, But feel jest ez ef I might Settle down in a hive, Sakes alive! Kin I make poetry like honey? Gather in the idees from the flowers, Pack em down in the cells o my brain And send em streamin again Fit for nourishin folks? There tis again, I cayn t sing, only whistle. When I try to think of a rhyme It flies from me every time Jest like a bird that you re chasin , somehow Allers flies off to a different bough, I ll hev ter be a Whistlin Poet! Ef the tune is all right The words ain t so needful, Not quite! Of course taint likely I shall be A poet like Shakespeare or Riley jest me. Folks hev to write about what they know, Men cayn t talk about winter thet never seen snow. And what other folks like to hear, they say, Is the things thet don t happen to them every day. I m so full of it all the birds and the bees And the strength o the hills I know I kin please In tellin o these Fifty-four If I only kin whistle the tune. And Lord! you re right in it, Thar isn t a day Thet I don t open my eyes an say "I m watchin the Lord an his glory, The fields tell his wonderful story," And my thoughts rise right up to the mountain Seekin the heavenly fountain Of life on the summit. Oh Lord, if I find I kin tell Of the things you hev made And the places wherein you do dwell, Ye ll know, Lord, I thank ye For helpin me tell em. And I m glad I m jest me. Now Shakespeare or Milton and Riley maybe Must allers be buried beneath a stone Somewhere in a crowd and never alone. Now ez for me I want to lie In some place under the open sky. In a pasture mebbe where mosses foam And children pick berries to carry home. And p raps right over my peaceful breast Some little sparrer will build her nest. And on the headstone they ll write may be, "The Whistlin Poet Jonas Green" thet s me! Fifty-five Chums Yet There were so many things he didn t know, My boyhood chum of the long ago, That except on one day of seven I had to teach him, because, you see, He was only a boy of thirty-three And I was a man of eleven. On Sundays he left me in lurch When he went to preach in the village church, And talk to folks about Heaven. Twas Heaven the rest of the week to me When I played with my chum of thirty-three, And taught him the lore of eleven. I showed him how to dig for bait And where the berries ripened late Against an old stone wall; The black snake s hole, the king-bird s nest, The swimming pool I liked the best, Hemmed in by alders tall. We sailed and fished upon the bay, Tramped through the fields and raked the hay Or drove the country over; And while he made his parish calls I grass-greened my clean overalls Rolling among the clover. Fifty-six Somehow I never seemed to see # That he was really teaching me, So gentle was his guile; For he would say, "Of course you know That such a thing is so and so, You ve known it all the while." Of course a fellow had to do Just what he said to make it true. So if he thought me good, Why, hang it all, I had to be; Though if I failed I knew that he Never misunderstood. Still on through all my college days There came his helpful note of praise To aid my least endeavor; And now in all my manhood prime That friendship of a boyhood time Nor years nor space can sever. I love him now as I loved him then, He is still the wisest and best of men That dwells in Earth or Heaven ; He s as blithe in spirit, it seems to me, As when he was a lad of thirty-three And I was a man of eleven. Fifty-seven Memorial Day Back in the town, the old, old town, the town where I was born, Some gray-haired men are carrying a faded flag this morn. And groups of eager children from all the country side Are bringing wreaths of flowers gathered from far and wide. Down through the village street they pass with muffled fife and drum, "Fall in! Atttention, Comrades! Brothers, again we come." Under the elms and maples fresh foliaged by May Out to the quiet graveyard slowly they take their way. And today my thoughts turn backward half a century of years, I see the low beamed sitting room, I see my mother s tears. The purring cat, the hearth rug, and I remember still A pot of flowers blooming upon the window sill. Fifty- eight I hear the sound of weeping and the solemn tock-tick- tock Of the pendulum slow swinging in the old eight day clock. Too young to tell the time I was, yet knew the moment when The creeping hands moved slowly and stood at half-past ten. That marked the hour of parting and the stage was at the door To take my elder brothers off to something they called War. Sturdy and tall, and handsome, they stood there, shoulder to shoulder, One of them was just fourteen, the other one year older. Proud and excited they chattered, eager and ready to start, Men they were in stature, but boys, mere boys, at heart. And none of us knew who stood there watching the gallant scene That one would come back to his mother dead and not yet sixteen. Fifty-nine V > t." i 1 He fell in the battle at Newbern, ah! but the end was sweet, For he gave his life to Freedom and died ere he knew Defeat. Under the elms and maples sound the low fife and drum, "Forward! Attention, Comrades! Brothers, again we come." Sixty LD 21-100w-7, 33 YC 14703 U. C. BERKELEY LIBRARIES CD4bb720S5 34196? UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY