-The 
 
 Old <Wimmin'-bK 
 
 <3 
 
 AN D 
 
 BY 
 
 BENJ. F. JQKNSON, OF BOONE, 
 
 WUITCOMB KII.KV | 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS. 1NU. 
 GEU ROE C. H ITT & CO.
 
 FACSIMILE REPRINT 
 
 of the first edition of the first book by 
 
 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 Presented with the compliments 
 MARSHALL FIELD AND COMPANY 
 
 Courtesy 
 THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY 
 
 as a souvenir of 
 
 THE MARSHALL FIELD BOOK FAIR 
 1920
 
 " THE OLD SWIMMINVHOLE," 
 AND XEVEN MORE POEMS.
 
 "The 
 
 Old <Wi mm in'- foK 
 
 & 
 
 AND 
 
 BY 
 
 BENJ, F, JQHNSON, OF BOONE. 
 
 [JAMES WHITCOMB RII.EY.] 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS, IND.: 
 
 GEORGE C. H IT T & CO. 
 
 1883
 
 Copyrighted 
 BY JAMES W RILEY
 
 PUBLISHERS' NOTE. 
 
 This series of Hoosier dialect poems, 
 by James W. Riley, originally appeared 
 in THE INDIANAPOLIS JOURNAL, over the 
 pseudonym of Benj. F. Johnson, of 
 Boone. They commanded such general 
 attention and praise, as to lead the pub- 
 lishers of this volume to place them 
 before the public in their present com- 
 plete form. 
 
 2038961
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 MS 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 dialectic Studies, to reflect the 
 real worth of this homely child of Nature, 
 and to echo faithfully, if possible, the 
 faltering music of his song. 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS, IND. ) J. W. R. 
 
 Julv, 1 883
 
 CONTENTS: 
 
 THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOI.E 9 
 
 THOUGHTS PER THE DISCURAGED FARMER, 13 
 
 A SUMMER'S DAY, . 17 
 
 A HYMB OF FAITH 20 
 
 WORTER-MELON-TIMK. . . 23 
 
 MY PHII.OSOFY, . . ... 28 
 
 WHEN THE FROST is ON THE PUNKIN, ... 31 
 ON THE DEATH OP LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT, 34 
 
 THE MULBERRY T.IEE .37 
 
 To MY OLD NEGHBOR, WILLIAM LEACHMAN, 40 
 
 MY FIDDLE, ... .44 
 
 THE CLOVER. 49
 
 THE OLD SWTMMIN'-HOLE AND 
 'LEVEN MORE POEMS. 
 
 THE OLP SWIMMIN'-HOLE. 
 
 OH! the-- old swimmin'-hole! wbare the 
 
 crick so still and deep 
 Looked like a baby-river that was laying 
 
 half asleep, 
 And the gurgle of the worter round the 
 
 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 Para- 
 dise ; 
 But the merry days of youth is beyond our 
 
 control, 
 And it's hard to part ferever with the old 
 
 swimmin'-hole.
 
 10 THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE. 
 
 Oh! the old swimmin'-holeJ 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 ca- 
 ress 
 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. 
 
 Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, 
 
 lazy days 
 When the hum-dcum of school made so 
 
 many run-a-ways, 
 How pleasant was the jurney down the old 
 
 dusty lane, 
 Whare the tracks of our bare feet waa all 
 
 printed so plain 
 You could tell by the dent of the heel and 
 
 the sole 
 They was lots o' fun on hands at the old 
 
 swimmin'-hole.
 
 THE OLD SWIMMIN HOLE. 11 
 
 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 bullrusbes growed, and the cat 
 
 tails so tall, 
 And the sunshine and shadder fell over it 
 
 all; 
 And it mottled the worter with amber and 
 
 gold - 
 Till the glad lilies 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 
 
 control, 
 As it cut acrost some orchard 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
 
 12 THE OLD SWJMMIN'-HOLE. 
 
 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 their shade shelter me! 
 And I wish in my sorrow 1 could strip to 
 
 the soul, 
 And dive off in my grave like the old 
 
 swimniin'-hole!
 
 THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED 
 FARMER. 
 
 THE summer winds is sniffiu' round the 
 bloomin 1 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, 
 
 Till they stutter in their buzzin', and stagger 
 as they fly. 
 
 The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to 1 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 fore- 
 legs fer biz, 
 
 And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her 
 tale they is. 
 
 You can heal .tjie blackbirds jawin' as they 
 
 foller up the plow 
 Oh, tHeyr bound to git theyr brekfast, 
 
 and thuyr not a cariu* how;
 
 14 DISCURAGED FARMER. 
 
 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 yaller- 
 
 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 ! 
 
 Tney'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, tut I don't 
 
 think it will. 
 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 I
 
 DTSCURAGED FARMER. 15 
 
 Does the medder-lark complain, as he swims 
 
 high and dry 
 Through the waves of the wind and the 
 
 blue of the sky? 
 Does the quail set up and whistle in a dis- 
 
 appin.ted way, 
 Er hang his head in silence, and sorrow all 
 
 the day ? 
 Is the chipmunck'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 mortal 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 glorv 
 of the day, 
 
 And banish ev'ry doubt -and care and sor- 
 row far away ! 
 
 Whatever be our station, with Providence 
 1 fer guide,
 
 16 D1SCURAGED FARMER. 
 
 Such fine circumstances ort to make us 
 
 satisfied; 
 Per 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. 
 
 THE Summer's put the idy in 
 My head that I. 'ma 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 
 Yet, 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" 
 Whistles his name in high delight, 
 And whirrs away. I wunder still 
 Whichever way a boy- s feet will 
 Whare trees has fell, ivith lajugled tops 
 
 Whare dead leaves shakes, I stop fer 
 Hearin' the acorn as it drops [breath, 
 
 H'istin' my chin up still as deth,
 
 18 A SUMMERS DA Y. 
 
 And watchin 1 clos't, with upturned ey* ?. 
 The tree whare Mr. Squirrel tries 
 To hide hisself above the limb, 
 But lets his own tale tell on him. 
 
 I wur.der on in deeper glooms 
 Git hungry, hearin' female crias 
 
 From old farm-houses, whare perfumes 
 Of harvest dinners seems to rise 
 
 And ta'nt a feller, hart and brne, 
 
 With memories he can 't explain. 
 
 I wunder through the underbrcsh, 
 Whare pig-tracks. pintin' to'rds thecriok. 
 
 Is picked and printed in the fresh 
 Black-bottom lands, like wimmern pick 
 
 Their pie-crusts with a fork, some way, 
 
 When lkin' fer camp-meetin' day. 
 
 I wund?r on and on and on, 
 
 Till my gray hair and beard is gone, 
 
 And every wrinkle on my brow 
 
 Is rubbed clean out, and shaddered now 
 
 With curls as brown and fair and fine 
 
 As tendrils of the wild grape-vine 
 
 That ust to climb the highest tree 
 
 To keep the ripest ones fer me. 
 
 1 wunder still, and here I am 
 
 Wad in' the ford below the dam
 
 A SUMMER'S DA Y. 19 
 
 The worter chucklin' round my knee 
 
 At hornet-welt and bramble-scratch, 
 And me^a-slippin' 'crost to see 
 
 Ef Tyner's plums is ripe, and size 
 The old man's wortermelon-patch 
 
 With juicy mouth and drouthy eyes. 
 Then, after sich a day of mirth 
 And happiness as worlds is worth 
 
 So tired that heaven seems nigh about 
 The sweetest tiredness on earth 
 
 Is to git home and flatten out 
 So tked you can't lay flat enough, 
 And sort o' wish that you could spread 
 Out like molasses on the bed, 
 And jest drip off the aidges in 
 The dreams that never comes again.
 
 A HYMB OF FAITH. 
 
 O, THOU that doth all things devise 
 
 And fashion fer the best, 
 Help us who sees with mortal eyes 
 
 To overlook the rest. 
 
 t 
 
 They's times, of course, we grope in doubt, 
 
 And in affliction 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 help 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 worth. 
 
 Ef storms and tempests dread to see 
 Makes black the heavens o'er,
 
 A HYMB OF FAITH. 21 
 
 They done the same in Galillee, 
 ' Two thousand years before I 
 
 But, after all, the golden sun 
 
 Poured out its floods on them 
 That watched and waited fer the One 
 
 Then borned in Bethlyham. 
 
 Also, the star of holy writ 
 
 Made noonday of the night, 
 While other stars that looked at it 
 
 Was envious with delight. 
 
 The sages then in worship bowed, 
 
 From every clime so fare; 
 0, sinner, think of that glad crowd 
 
 That congregated thare 1 
 
 They was content to fall in ranks 
 With One that knowed the way 
 
 From Good old Jurden's stormy banks 
 Clean up to Judgment 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.
 
 22 A HYMB OF FAITH. 
 
 Then take things as God sends 'em here, 
 
 And, ef we live or die, 
 Be more and more contenteder, 
 
 Without a asking why. 
 
 0, thou that doth all things devise 
 
 And fashion fer the best, 
 Help us who sees with mortal eyes 
 
 To overlook the rest.
 
 WORTER-MELON TIME. 
 
 OLD worter-melon time is a-comin* round 
 
 again, 
 And they ain't no man a-livin' any tick- 
 
 leder'n me, 
 For the. way I hanker after worter-melons 
 
 is a sin 
 
 Which is the why and wharefore, as you 
 can plainly see. 
 
 Oh, its in the sandy soil worter-melons 
 
 does the best, 
 And it's thare they'll lay and~waller in 
 
 the sunshine and the dew 
 Till they wear all the green streaks clean, 
 
 off of their breast, 
 
 And you bet I ain't a-findin 1 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;
 
 24 SORTER-MELON TIME. 
 
 And when they're ripe and ready fer to 
 
 pluck from the vine, 
 I want to say to you they're the best fruit 
 that grows. 
 
 It's some likes the yaller-core, and some 
 
 likes the red, 
 And it's some says " The little Californy " 
 
 l 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 wor- 
 
 ter-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 heerd of 
 before. 
 
 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
 
 WORTER-MELON TIME. 25 
 
 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 geth- 
 
 ered all around 
 
 And you says unto your sweetheart, "Oh, 
 here's the core fer you !" 
 
 And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 
 
 'em all, 
 Especially the children, and watch their 
 
 high delight 
 As one by one the rines with their pink 
 
 notches falls, 
 
 And they holler fer some more, with un- 
 quenched appetite. 
 
 Boys takes to it natural, and I like to see 
 
 'em eat 
 A slice of worter-melon's like a french- 
 
 harp in their 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 understands.
 
 WORTER-MELON TIME. 
 
 Oh, thcy's more in worter-melons than the 
 purty-colored meat, 
 And the overflowin 1 sweetness of the 
 
 worter squashed betwixt 
 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 sum- 
 mer day, 
 
 And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the 
 night a-comin' on. 
 
 And thare's the corn abound 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' o'er us like a 
 yaller-cored slice. 
 
 Oh, it's worter-melon time is a-comin' round 
 again,
 
 WORTER-MELON TIME. 27 
 
 And they ain't no man a-livin' any tick- 
 
 leder'n me, 
 Fcr the way I hanker after worter-melons 
 
 is a sin 
 Which is the why and wharefore, as you 
 
 can plainly see.
 
 \3Ot <"> 
 
 -r-* 1 - 1 ., i Jh TV J 
 
 MY PHILOSOFY 
 
 1 AIXT, ner don't p'tend to be, 
 Much posted on philosjfy; 
 But thare is times, when all alone, 
 I work out idtes of my own. 
 And of these same thare is a few 
 I'd like to jest refer to you 
 Pervidin 1 that you don't objtct 
 To listen clos't and rickollect. 
 
 I allus argy that a man 
 Who does about the best he can 
 Is plenty good enough 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 yaller-janders mighty bad, 
 And each and ev'ry friend he'd meet- 
 Would stop and give him a receet
 
 MY PIIILOSOFY. 29 
 
 Per cui in' of 'em. But he'd say 
 He kind o' thought they'd go away 
 Without no meclicin', and boast 
 That he'd git well without one doste. 
 
 He kep' a yallerin' 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 eternaly I 
 
 Its natchural enough, I guess. 
 
 When some gits more and some gits less, 
 
 Fer them-uns on the slimmest side 
 
 To claim it aint a fair 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.
 
 MY PHILOSOFY. 
 
 No man is great till 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 doctern is to lay aside 
 
 Contensions, and be satisfied. 
 
 Jest do your best, and praise er blame 
 
 That follers that, counts jest the same. 
 
 I've all us noticed grate success 
 
 Is mixed with troubles, more or less, 
 
 And its the man who does the best 
 
 That gits more kicks than all the rest.
 
 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; 
 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 bouse, 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' hearty-like about 
 the atmosphere
 
 32 FROST ON THE PUN KIN. 
 
 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 land- 
 scape 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. 
 
 The husky, rusty rustle of the tossels of the 
 
 corn, 
 And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as 
 
 golden as the morn ; 
 The stubble in the furries kindo' lone- 
 
 some-like, but still 
 A-preachin' sermons to us of the barns they 
 
 growed to fill ; 
 The strawstackvin the medder, and the 
 
 reaper in the sb7ed ; 
 The bosses in their stalls below the clover 
 
 overhead !
 
 FROST ON THE PUN KIN. 
 
 33 
 
 0, it sets my heart a-clickin* like the tickin' 
 
 of a clock, 
 When the frost is on the punkin and the 
 
 fodder's in the shock !
 
 ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE MAHAL A 
 ASHCRAFT. 
 
 "LITTLE HALT! Little Haly !" cheeps the 
 robin in the tree ; 
 
 "Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little 
 Haly!" moans the bee; 
 
 " Little Haly I 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,
 
 L ITTL E MA HA LA ASHCRA FT. 35 
 
 When any one comes nigh it, acts so lone- 
 some-like and queer ; 
 
 And the little Baqty chickens kind o' cut- 
 ters faint and low 
 
 Like the hand that now was feedin' 'era 
 was one they didn't know. 
 
 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 " Lit- 
 tle Haly's dead I" 
 
 The medder 'pears to miss her, and the 
 
 pathway through the grass. 
 Whare the dewdrops ust to kiss her little 
 
 bare feet a's she passed ; 
 And the old pin In the gate-post seems to 
 
 kindo-sorto' doubt 
 That Efaly'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 tenderly?
 
 36 LITTLE M AHA LA ASHCEAFT. 
 
 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 I" moans the bee ; 
 " Little Haly I Little Haly I" calls the kill- 
 
 deer at twilight, 
 And the katydids and crickets hollers 
 
 " Haly " all the night.
 
 .THE MULBERRY TREE. 
 
 0, ITS many's the scen'es which is dear to 
 
 my mind 
 As I think of my childhood so long left 
 
 behind ; 
 
 The home of my birth, with its old pun- 
 cheon floor, 
 And the bright mofnin'-glories thatgrowed 
 
 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
 
 38 THE MULBERRY TREE. 
 
 And the long purple berries that rained 
 
 on the ground 
 Whare the pastur was bald whare we 
 
 trommped 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 too-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 certain and 
 
 shore 
 As I'll never climb thare by that rout' any 
 
 more 
 What was all the green laurels of Fame 
 
 unto me, 
 
 With my brows in the boughs of the mul- 
 berry tree?
 
 THE MULBERRY TREE. 30 
 
 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? 
 0, a crowd of my memories, laughin* and 
 
 gay, 
 
 Is a-climbin' the fence of that pastur 1 to- 
 day, 
 
 And a-pantin" with joy, as us boys ust to be, 
 They go racin' acrost fer the mulberry tree.
 
 TO MY OLD NEGHBOR, 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 counsel to 
 
 impart, 
 Which was like a healin' 'intment to the 
 
 sorrow of my hart. 
 
 When I burried my first womern, William 
 Leachman, it was you 
 
 Had the only consolation that I could lis- 
 ten 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
 
 WILLIAM LEACHMAN. 41 
 
 Through the settin'-room and kitchen, and 
 
 out in the open air 
 And the snow-flakes whirlin', whirlin', and 
 
 the fields a frozen glare, 
 And the neghbors' sleds and wagons con- 
 
 gregatin' ev'rywhare. 
 
 I turned my eyes to'rds heaven, but the 
 
 sun was hid away ; 
 1 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 ! 
 
 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 sum- 
 mers long ago, 
 
 And a-writin' " Marthy $T arthy " with my 
 finger in the snow ! 
 
 illiam Leachman, I can see you jest as 
 plain as I could then ;
 
 42 WILLIA M L EA CHMA N. 
 
 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 reconciled and bear it we but linger 
 
 fer a day 1" 
 
 At the last Old Settlers' Meetin', we went 
 j'intly, you and me 
 
 Your bosses 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 
 
 9-mile talk we had 
 Of the times when we first settled here and 
 
 travel was so bad ; 
 When we had to go on boss-back, and 
 
 sometimes on " Shan ks'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,
 
 WILLIAM LEACHMAN. 43 
 
 In a big two-boss road-wagon, jest as easy 
 
 as you like 
 Two of us on the front seat, and our wim- 
 
 ern-folks behind, 
 A-settin 1 in their Winsor cheers in perfect 
 
 peace of mind!. 
 
 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,"
 
 44 WILLIA M LEA CHMA N. 
 
 And thare, beyent the covered bridge, 
 
 " The Counterfeiters' Nest " 
 Whare th.ej claimed the house was ha'nted 
 
 that a man was murdered thare, 
 And burried underneath the floor, er round 
 
 the place somewhare. 
 
 And the old Plank Road they laid along in 
 
 Fifty -one er two 
 You know we talked about the times when 
 
 that old road was new: 
 How " Uncle Sam " put down that road and 
 
 never taxed the State 
 Was a problem, don't you rickollect, we 
 
 couldn't dimonstrate ? 
 
 Ways was devious, William Leach man, that 
 
 me and you has past; 
 But as 1 found you true at first, I find you 
 
 true at last, 
 And, now the time's a-comin' mighty nigh 
 
 our jurney's end, 
 J 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,
 
 WILLIAM LEACH MAN. 
 
 45 
 
 And ev'ry livin' drop of blood in artery 
 
 and vane, 
 I love you and respect you, and I venerate 
 
 your name, 
 For the name of William Leachman and 
 
 True Manhood's jest the same!
 
 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 ; 
 Yet 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 I "saw" when the 
 
 ch'ice is left to me;
 
 MY FIDDLE. 47 
 
 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 ! 
 
 I was allus a romuncin', do-less boy, to tell 
 
 the truth, 
 A-fiddlin' and a-dancin', and a-wastin' of 
 
 my youth, 
 And a nctin' and a cuttin'-up all sorts o" 
 
 silly pranks 
 That wasn't wo'th 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 
 
 0' drivin* cares away ! 
 
 That's how this here old fiddle's won my 
 
 hart's enduriri' love! 
 From the strings acrost her middle to the 
 
 schreechin' keys above 
 From her " aperh," over bridge, and to the 
 
 ribbon round her throat, 
 She's a wooin', cooin' pigeon, singin 1 " Love 
 
 me" ev'ry note!
 
 48 MY FIDDLE. 
 
 And so I pat her neck, and plink 
 Her strings with lovin! hands, 
 
 And, list'nin' clos't, I sometimes think 
 She kindo' understands!
 
 THE CLOVER. 
 
 SOME sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose, 
 
 And the pansies and pinks that .the sum- 
 mertime throws 
 
 In the green grassy lap of the medder that 
 lays 
 
 Blinkin' up at the skies through the sun- 
 shiny days; 
 
 But what is the lily, and all of the rest 
 
 Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his 
 breast 
 
 That was dipped brimmi-n' 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 plain 
 As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin 
 
 again ; 
 And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream,
 
 50 THE CLOVER 
 
 Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms 
 
 that gleam 
 With the dew of the dawn of the morning 
 
 of love 
 Ere it wept o'er the graves that I'm weepin' 
 
 above. 
 
 And so 1 love clover it seems like a part 
 Of the sacredest sorrows and joys of my 
 
 hart; 
 And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me 
 
 bow 
 And thank the good God as I'm thanUin' 
 
 Him now; 
 And 1 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 
 
 perfume.
 
 A 000103704 3