"03204008LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA FROM THE LIBRARY OF OLIVE TROWBRIDGE AND FRANK CAMPBELL LITTLETON “OAK HILL”, ALDIE, VIRGINIA 1949iy Mt eran ie nae ns ro} . ear ayy i CATHE WORKS OF JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY # 2 VOL. |ryCee naanTHE POEMS AND PROSE eo SKETCHES OF & & JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS ¥ NEW YORK # 1915Copyright, 1883, 1891, and 1897, by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY *,* The publication of this Homestead Edition of the works of James Whitcomb Riley is made possible by the courtesy of The Bowen-Merrill Company, of Indian- apolis, the original publishers of Mr. Riley’s books.INTRODUCTORY NOTE TO THE HOMESTEAD EDITION IN arranging for the author’s complete writings in this, The Homestead Hdition, it has been found necessary to make some deviations from the order of the contents of his volumes as they first consecutively appeared and, in the same editions, are continued by their original pub- lishers, severally, —The Bowen-Merrill Co., Indianapolis; The Century Co., New York; and Longmans, Green & Co., London. The titles of the two volumes, “An Old Sweetheart of Mine’ (The Bowen-Merrill Co., Indian- apolis) and “Old-Fashioned Roses” (Longmans. Green & Co., London), do not here reappear, but their contents are duly brought over and preserved in full in this edi- tion. To the generous courtesy of both American and English publishers the author is additionally indebted, and so permitted to reshape, in rounded form, his verse and prose product entire—the base of all changes made VvINTRODUCTORY NOTE being simply in the interest of symmetry and the avoid- ance of repetitions peculiar to the novice’s first brood of books. | No further word seems due or pertinent, at this new beginning and first volume, unless it be to emphasize the strictly conscientious intent of the real writer to be lost wholly in the personality of this book’s supposed old Hoosier author, Benj. F. Johnson. Therefore the gener- ous reader is fervently invoked to regard the verse-pro- duct herein not only as the work of the old man’s mind, but as the patient labor of his unskilled hand and pen as well—and the whole of it thus reverently held unedited, save in simplest essential marks of punctuation, —these conditions only changing in his prose sketch, “An Old Settler’s Story,” which primitive chronicle is, for appa- rent reasons, retold as by a pleased listener to the ori- ginally impromptu narration. J. W. R.TO MY BROTHER HUMBOLDT RILEYis PeayPREFACE 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 “sountry fiddler,” and as full of good old-fashioned music. Nota 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. In adding to this series, as the writer has, for many years, been urged to do, and answering as steadfast a 1XPREFACE demand of Benj. F. Johnson’s first and oldest friends, it has been decided that this further work of his be intro- duced 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 * 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 Pas- toral,” this article is herewith quoted: Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone county, who considers the Jour- nal a “very valubul” newspaper, writes to inclose us an origi- nal poem, desiring that we kindly accept it for publication, as “many neghbors and friends is astin’ him to have the same struck off.” Mr. Johnson thoughtfully informs us that he is “no edjucated 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 xPREFACE 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 ob- serve—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, fol- lowed 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 indorse our high opinion of its poetic value. We have just received a letter from Mr. Johnson, the author, inclosing us another lyrical per- formance, which in many features even surpasses the original- ity 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 as- . RlPREFACE sertion, 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 inspiration, modes of study, home-life, and surroundings. “To the Editer of the Indanoplus Jurnal: “Respected Sir—The paper is here, markin’ 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, fer speakin’ of its merrits in the way in which you do. Iam 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 ortent of told you it went to the tune I spoke of in my last. I felt highly flatered tel I got that fur. Wasit 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 I 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 XllPREFACE 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. “Hf you print this one I think you will like it better than the other. This ain’t 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 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 alto- gether in full. Ever your true friend, BENJ. F’. JOHNSON. ““N. B.—The tune of this one is ‘The Bold Privateer.’” XillPREFACE Here followed the poem, “Thoughts Fer The Discur- aged Farmer ”;—and here, too, fittingly ends any com- ment 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 manifest, that many times, in visionary argument with the sturdy old myth over cer- tain changes from the original forms of his productions, he has so incontinently beaten down all suggestions as to a less incongruous association of thoughts and words, together 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 dicta- tion. J. W. R. Indianapolis, July, 1891.SALUTATION TO BENJ. F. JOHNSON Jw THE OLD MAN Lo! steadfast and serene, In patient pause between The seen and the unseen, What gentle zephyrs fan Your silken silver hair,— And what diviner air Breathes round you like a prayer, Old Man? Can you, in nearer view Of Glory, pierce the blue Of happy Heaven through; And, listening mutely, can Your senses, dull to us, Hear Angel-voices thus, In chorus glorious— Old Man? XVSALUTATION In your reposeful gaze The dusk of Autumn days Ts blent with April haze, As when of old began The bursting of the bud Of rosy babyhood— When all the world was good, Old Man. And yet I find a sly Little twinkle in your eye; And your whisperingly shy Little laugh is simply an Internal shout of glee That betrays the fallacy You'd perpetrate on me, Old Man! So just put up the frown That your brows are pulling down! Why, the fleetest boy in town, As he bared his feet and ran, Could read with half a glance— And of keen rebuke, perchance— Your secret countenance, Old Man! Now, honestly, confess: Is an old man any less Than the little child we bless And caress when we can? Isv’t age but just a place Where you mask the childish face To preserve its inner grace, Old Man? XV1SALUTATION Hasn’t age a truant day, Just as that you went astray In the wayward, restless way, When, brown with dust and tan, Your roguish face essayed, In solemn masquerade, To hide the smile it made, Old Man? Now, fair, and square, and true, Don’t your old soul tremble through, As in youth it used to do When it brimmed and overran With the strange, enchanted sights, And the splendors and delights Of the old “ Arabian Nights,” Old Man? When, haply, you have fared Where glad Aladdin shared His lamp with you, and dared The Afrite and his clan; And, with him, clambered through The trees where jewels grew— And filled your pockets, too, Old Man? Or, with Sinbad, at sea— And in veracity Who has sinned as bad as he, Or would, or will, or can?—= Have you listened to his lies, With open mouth and eyes, And learned his art likewise, Old Man? XVilSALUTATION And you need not deny That your eyes were wet as dry, Reading novels on the sly! And review them, if you can, And the same warm tears will fall— Only faster, that is all— Over Little Nell and Paul, Old Man! O, you were a lucky lad— Just as good as you were bad! And the host of friends you had— Charley, Tom, and Dick, and Dan; And the old School-Teacher, too, Though he often censured you; And the girls in pink and blue, Old Man. And—as often you have leant, In boyish sentiment, To kiss the letter sent By Nelly, Belle, or Nan— Wherein the rose’s hue Was red, the violet blue— And sugar sweet—and you, Old Man,— So, to-day, as lives the bloom, And the sweetness, and perfume Of the blossoms, I assume, On the same mysterious plan The Master’s love assures, That the self-same boy endures In that hale old heart of yours, Old Man. XVillCONTENTS THE OLD SWIMMIN’-HOLE, AND "LEVEN MORE POEMS The Delights of our Childhood is soon Passed Away THE OLD SWIMMIN’-HOLE THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER . A SUMMER’S DAY A Hye oF FAITH WORTERMELON TIME . My PHILOSOFY . WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT . THE MULBERRY TREE To MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN . My FIDDLE THE CLOVER PAGE tt 14 18 21 27 34 36CONTENTS NEGHBORLY POEMS ON FRIENDSHIP, GRIEF AND FARM-LIFE Us Farmers in the Country, as the Seasons go and Come . ERASMUS WILSON ‘ : : : My RUTHERS . : : ON A DEAD BABE . A s : A Op PLAYED-OUT SONG . : : ““CooNn-DoG WESS” PERFESSER JOHN CLARK RIDPATH A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS “MyLo JONES’S WIFE” ON A SPLENDUD MATCH OLD JOHN CLEVENGER ON BUCKEYES THE Hoss . EzRA HOUSE A PEN-EICTUR < . : : ;: WET-WEATHER TALK . THOUGHTS ON A PORE JOKE A MortuL PRAYER THE FIRST BLUEBIRD . 3 : ° EVAGENE BAKER ON ANY ORDENARY MAN TOWN AND COUNTRY . LINES WRIT FER ISAAC BRADWELL DECORATION DAY ON THE PLACE XX PAGE AO 4] 46 49 50 - do 59 . Oo = 65 68 69 75 19 83 87 90 91 93 94 97 98 - 101 - 102CONTENTS PAGE THE TREE-TOAD : : : - 105 THE ROSSVILLE LECTUR’ COURSE - 107 WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES 0 How IT HAPPENED : had jined meetin went so fur as to tell Ezry ef they didn’t putt a stop te it he’d quit the neighberhood and go somers else. And Bills was Ezry’s head man then, and he couldn’t a-got along ’thout him; and I b’lieve ef Bills had a-said the word old Ezry would a-turned off ever’ hand he had.—He got so he jist left ever’thing to Bills. Ben Carter was turned off fer somepin’, and nobody ever knowed what. Bills and him had never got along jist right sence the fight. 167AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY Ben was with this set I was a-tellin’ you “bout, and they’d got him to drinkin’ and in trouble, o’ course. I'd knowed Ben well enough to know he wouldn’t do nothin’ ornry ef he wasn’t agged on, and ef he ever was mixed up in anything o’ the kind Wes Morris and John Coke was at the bottom of it, and I take notice they wasn’t turned off when Ben was. One night the crowd was out, and Ben amongst ’em, o’ course.—Sence he’d be’n turned off he’d be’n a-drink- in’,—and I never blamed him much; he was so good- hearted like and easy led off, and I allus b’lieved it wasn’t his own doin’s. Well, this night they cut up awful, and ef they was one fight they was a dozend; and when all the devilment was done they could do, they started on a stealin’ expedi- tion, and stold a lot o’ chickens and tuk ’em to the mill to roast ’em; and, to make a long story short, that night the mill burnt clean to the ground. And the whole pack of ’em collogued together aginst Carter to saddle it onto him; claimed ’at they left Ben there at the mill ’bout twelve o’clock—which was a fact, fer he was dead drunk and couldn’t git away. Steve stumbled over him while the mill was a-burnin’ and drug him out afore he knowed what was a-goin’ on, and it was all plain enough to Steve ‘at Ben didn’t have no hand in the firin’ of it. But Ill 168AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY tell you he sobered up mighty suddent when he seed what was a-goin’ on, and heerd the neighbers a-hollerin’, and a-threatenin’ and a-goin’ on!—fer it seemed to be the ginerl idee ’at the buildin’ was fired a-purpose. And says Ben to Steve, says he, “I expect I'll haf to say good-bye to you, fer they’ve got me in a ticklish place! I kin see through it all now, when it’s too late!” And jist then Wesley Morris hollers out, “Where’s Ben Carter?” and started to’rds where me and Ben and Steve was a-standin’; and Ben says, wild-like, “ Don’t you two fellers ever think it was my doin’s,” and whispers “ Good- bye,” and started off; and when we turned, Wesley Morris was a-layin’ flat of his back, and we heerd Carter yell to the crowd ’at “that man”—meanin’ Morris—“ needed lookin’ after worse than he did,” and another minute he plunged into the river and swum acrost; and we all stood and watched him in the flickerin’ light tel he clum out on t?other bank; and ’at was the last anybody ever seed o’ Ben Carter! It must a-be’n about three o’clock in the morning by this time, and the mill then was jist a-smoulderin’ to ashes—fer it was as dry as tinder and burnt like a flash —and jist as a party was a-talkin’ o’ organizin’ and fol- lerin’ Carter, we heerd a yell ’at I'll never fergit ef I’d live tel another flood. Old EHzry, it was, as white as a 169AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY corpse, and with the blood a-streamin’ out of a gash in his forred, and his clothes half on, come a-rushin’ into the crowd and a-hollerin’ fire and murder ever’ jump. ‘My house is a-burnin’, and my folks is all a-bein’ mur- dered whilse you’re a-standin’ here! And Bills done it! Bills done it!” he hollered, as he headed the crowd and started back fer home. “Bills doneit! I caught him at it; and he would a-murdered me in cold blood ef it hadn’t a-be’n fer his woman. He knocked me down, and had me tied to a bed-post in the kitchen afore I come to. And his woman cut me loose and told me to run fer he’p; and says I, ‘Where’s Bills?’ and she says, ‘He’s after me by this time.’ And jist then we heerd Bills holler, and we looked, and he was a-standin’ out in the clearin’ in front 0’ the house, with little Annie in his arms ; and he hollered wouldn’t she like to kiss the baby good-bye. And she hollered My God! fer me to save little Annie, and fainted clean dead away. And I heerd the roof a-crackin’, and grabbed her up and packed her out jist in time. And when I looked up, Bills hollered out agin, and says, “Ezry,’ he says, ‘you kin begin to kindo’ git an idee o’ what a good fellerI am! And ef you hadn’t a-caught me you’d a-never a-knowed it, and “ Brother Williams” wouldn’t a-be’n called away to another ap- 170AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY p’intment like he is.” And says he, ‘Now, ef you foller me I'll finish you shore!—You’re safe now, fer I hain’t got time to waste on you furder. And jist then his woman kindo’ come to her senses ag’in and hollered fer little Annie, and the child heerd her and helt out its little arms to go to her, and hollered ‘Mother! Mother!’ And Bills says, “Dam yer mother! ef it hadn’t a-be’n fer her ld a-be’n all right. And dam you, too!’ he says to me.—‘ This’ll pay you fer that lick you struck me; and fer you a-startin’ reports, when I first come,’at more’n likely I’d done somepin’ mean over East and come out West to reform! And I wonder ef I didn’t do somepin’ mean afore I come here?’ he went on; ‘kill somebody er somepin’? And I wonder ef I ain’t reformed enough to go back? Good-bye, Annie!’ he hollered; ‘and you needn’t fret about yer baby, Pll be the same indulgent father to it I’ve allus be’n!’ And the baby was a-cryin’ and a-reachin’ out its little arms to’rds its mother, when Bills he turned and struck off in the dark to’rds the river.” This was about the tale ’at Ezry told us, as nigh as | can rickollect: and by the time he finished, I never want to see jist sich another crowd o’ men as was a-swarmin’ there. Ain’t it awful when sich a crowd gits together? I tell you it makes my flesh creep to think about it! 171AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY As Bills had gone in the direction of the river, we wasn’t long in makin’ our minds up ’at he’d haf to cross it, and ef he done that he’d haf to use the boat ’at was down below the mill, er wade it at the ford, a mil’d er more down. So we divided in three sections, like—one to go and look after the folks at the house, and another to the boat, and another to the ford. And Steve and me and Ezry was in the crowd ’at struck fer the boat: and we made time a-gittin’ there! It was awful dark, and the sky was a-cloudin’ up, like a storm; but we wasn’t long a-gittin’ to the p’int where the boat was allus tied; but they wasn’t no boat there! Steve kindo’ tuk the lead, and we ail talked in whispers. And Steve said to kindo’ lay low and maybe we could hear somepin’; and some feller said he thought he heerd somepin’ strange- like, but the wind was kindo’ raisin’ and kep’ up sich a moanin’ through the trees along the bank ’at we couldn’t make out nothin’. “Listen!” says Steve, suddent-like, “I hear somepin’!” We was all still ag’in—and we all heerd a moanin’ ’at was sadder’n the wind—sounded mournfuller to me, —’cause I knowed it in a minute, and I whispered, “Little Annie.” And ’way out acrost the river we could hear the little thing a-sobbin’, and we all was still’s death; and we heerd a voice we knowed was Bills’s say, “Dam ye! Keep still, or I'll drownd ye!” 172AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY And the wind kindo’ moaned ag’in, and we could hear the trees a-screetchin’ together in the dark, and the leaves a-rustlin’; and when it kindo’ lulled ag’in, we heerd Bills make a kindo’ splash with the oars; and jist then Steve whispered fer to lay low and be ready—he was a-goin’ to riconmitre; and he tuk his coat and shoes off, and slid over the bank and down into the worter as slick as a’ eel. Then ever’thing was still ag’in, ’cept the moanin’ o’ the child, which kep’ a-gittin’ louder and louder; and then a voice whispered to us, ‘‘He’s a-comin’ back; the crowd below has sent scouts up, and they’re on t’other side. Now watch clos’t, and he’s our meat.” We could hear Bills, by the moanin’ o’ the baby, a-comin’ nearder and nearder, tel suddently he made a sorto’ miss-lick with the oar, I reckon, and must a-splashed the baby, fer she set up a loud cryin’; and jist then old Ezry, who was a-leanin’ over the bank, kindo’ lost his grip, some way 0’ nother, and fell kersplash in the worter like a’ old chunk. “Hello!” says Bills, through the dark, “you’re there, too, air ye?” as old Ezry splashed up the bank ag’in. And “Cuss you!” he says then, to the baby—‘“‘ef it hadn’t be’n fer your infernal squawkin’ I’d a-be’n all right; but you’ve brought the whole neighberhood out, and, dam you, I'll jist let you swim out to ’em!” And we heerd a splash, then a kindo’ gurglin’, and then 173AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY Steve’s voice a-hollerin’, “Close in on him, boys; I’ve got the baby!” And about a dozent of us bobbed off the bank like so many bull-frogs, and [il tell you the worter bled! We could jist make out the shape o’ the boat, and Bills a-standin’ with a’ oar drawed back to smash the first head ’at come in range. It was a mean place to git at him. We knowed he was despert, and fer a minute we kindo’ helt back. Fifteen foot o’ worter’s a mighty onhandy place to git hit over the head in! And Bills says, “You hain’t afeard, I rickon—twenty men ag’in one!” “You'd better give yourse’f up!” hollered Kzry from the shore. “No, Brother Sturgiss,” says Bills, “TI can’t say ’at I’m at all anxious ’bout bein’ borned ag’in, jist yit awhile,” he says; “I see you kindo’ ’pear to go in fer babtism; guess you’d better go home and git some dry clothes on; and, speakin’ 0’ home, you’d ort ’o be there by all means—your house might catch afire and burn up whilse you’re gone!” And jist then the boat give a suddent shove under him—some feller’d div under and tilted it—and fer a minute it throwed him off his guard, and the boys closed in. Still he had the advan- tage, bein’ in the boat: and as fast as a feller would climb in he’d git a whack o’ the oar, tel finally they got to pilin’ in a little too fast fer him to manage, and he hol- lered then ’at we’d have to come to the bottom ef we 174AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY got him, and with that he div out o’ the end o’ the boat, and we lost sight of him; and I'll be blame ef he didn’t give us the slip after all! Wellsir, we watched fer him, and some o’ the boys swum on down stream, expectin’ he’d raise, but couldn’t find hide ner hair of him; so we left the boat a-driftin’ off down stream and swum ashore, a-thinkin’ he’d jist drownded hisse’f a-purpose. But they was more su’prise waitin’ fer us yit,—fer lo-and-behold-ye, when we got ashore they wasn’t no trace o’ Steve er the baby to be found. lzry said he seed Steve when he fetched little Annie ashore, and she was all right, on’y she was purt- nigh past cryin’; and he said Steve had lapped his coat around her and give her to him to take charge of, and he got so excited over the fight he laid her down betwixt a couple o’ logs and kindo’ fergot about her tel the thing was over, and he went to look fer her, and she was gone. Couldn’t a-be’n ’at she’d a-wundered off her-own-se’f; and it couldn’t a-be’n ’at Steve’d take her, ’thout a-lettin’ us knowit. It was a mighty aggervatin’ conclusion to come to, but we had to do it, and that was, Bills must a-got ashore unbeknownst to us and packed her off. Sich a thing wasn’t hardly probable, yit it was a thing ’at might be; and after a-talkin’ it over we had to admit ’at that must a-be’n the way of it. But where was Steve? W’y, 175AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY we argied, he’d diskivvered she was gone, and had putt out on track of her ’thout losin’ time to stop and explain the thing. The next question was, what did Bills want with her ag’in?—He’d tried to drownd her onc’t. We could ast questions enough, but c’rect answers was mighty skearce,and we jist concluded ’at the best thing to do was to putt out fer the ford, fer that was the nighdest place Bills could cross ’thout a boat, and ef it was him tuk the child, he was still on our side o’ the river, 0’ course. So we struck out fer the ford, a-leavin’ a couple o’ men to search up the river. A drizzlin’ sorto’ rain had set in by this time, and with that and the darkness and the moanin’ of the wind, it made ’bout as lonesome a prospect as a feller ever wants to go through ag’in. It was jist a-gittin’ a little gray-like in the morning by the time we reached the ford, but you couldn’t hardly see two rods afore you fer the mist and the fog ’at had settled along the river. We looked fer tracks, but couldn’t make out nothin’. Thereckly old Ezry punched me and p’inted out acrost the river. “ What’s that?” he whispers. Jist "bout half-way acrost was somepin’ white-like in the worter—couldn’t make out what—per- feckly still it was. And I whispered back and told him I guess it wasn’t nothin’ but a sycamore snag. “Listen!” says he; “sycamore snags don’t make no noise like that!” 176AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY And, shore enough, it was the same moanin’ noise we’d heerd the baby makin’ when we first got on the track. Sobbin’ she was, as though nigh about dead. “ Well, ef that’s Bills,” says I—“‘ and I reckon they hain’t no doubt but it is—what in the name o’ all that’s good and bad’s the feller a-standin’ there fer?” And a-creepin’ clos’ter, we could make him out plainer and plainer. It was him; and there he stood breast-high in the worter, a-holdin’ the baby on his shoulder like, and a-lookin’ up stream, and a-waitin’. “What do you make out of it?” says Hzry. ‘‘ What’s he waitin’ fer?” And, a-strainin’ my eyes in the direction he was a-lookin’, I seed somepin’ a-movin’ down the river, and a minute later ’'d made out the old boat a-driftin’ down stream; and then of course ever’thing was plain enough: He was waitin’ fer the boat, and ef he got that he’d have the Same advantage on us he had afore. “ Boys,” says I, “he mustn’t git that boat ag’in! Foller me, and don’t let him git to the shore alive!” And in we plunged. He seed us, but he never budged, on’y to grab the baby by its little legs, and swing it out at arms- len’th. “Stop, there!” he hollered.—“ Stop jist where ye air! Move another inch and Ill drownd this dam young-un afore yer eyes!” he says.—And he’d a-done LEAN OLD SETTLER’S STORY it. “Boys,” says I, “he’s got us. Don’t move! This thing’ll have to rest with a higher power’n our’n!t Ef any of you kin pray,” says I, “now’s a good time to do it!” Jist then the boat swung up, and Bills grabbed it and retch ‘round and set the baby in it, never a-takin’ his eye off o’ us, though, fer a minute. “Now,” says he, with a gorto’ snarlin’ laugh, “‘ I’ve on’y got a little while to stay with you, and I want to say a few words aforeI go. I want to tell you fellers, in the first place, ’at you’ve be’n fooled in me: 1 hain’t a good feller—now, honest? And ef you're a little the worse fer findin’ it out so late in the day, you hain’t none the worse fer losin’ me so soon— fer ’m a-goin’ away now, and any interference with my arrangements’ll on’y give you more trouble; so it’s better all around to let me go peaceable and jist while I’m in the notion. I expect it’ll be a disapp’intment to some 0’ you that my name hain’t ‘ Williams,’ but it hain’t. And maybe you won’t think nigh as much o’ me when I tell you furder ’at I was obleeged to ’dopt the name 0’ *Wil- liams’ onc’t to keep from bein’ strung up to a lamp-post, but sich is the facts. I was so extremely unfortunit onc’t as to kill a p’tickler friend o’ mine, and he forgive me with his dyin’ breath, and told me to run whilse I could, and be a better man. But he’d spotted me with a’ ugly mark ’at made it kindo’ onhandy to git away, but 178AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY I did at last; and jist as I was a-gittin’ reformed-like, you fellers had to kick in the traces, and I’ve made up my mind to hunt out a more moraler community, where they don’t make sich a fuss about trifles. And havin’ nothin’ more to say, on’y to send Annie word ’at V’'ll still be a father to her young-un here, I'll bid you all good- bye.” And with that he turned and clum in the boat— or ruther fell in,—fer somepin’ black-like had riz up in it, with a’ awful lick—my—God!—And, a minute later, boat and baggage was a-gratin’ on the shore, and a crowd come thrashin’ ’crost from t’other side to jine us, — and ’peared like wasn’t a second longer tel a feller was a-swingin’ by his neck to the limb of a scrub-oak, his feet clean off the ground and his legs a-jerkin’ up and down like a limber-jack’s. And Steve it was a-layin’ in the boat, and he’d rid a mil’d er more ’thout knowin’ of it. Bills had struck and stunt him as he clum in whilse the rumpus was a-goin’ on, and he’d on’y come to in time to hear Bills’s farewell address to us there at the ford. Steve tuk charge o’ little Annie ag’in, and ef she’d a-be’n his own child he wouldn’t a-went on more over her than he did; and said nobody but her mother would git her out o’ his hands ag’in. And he was as good as his word; and ef you could a-seed him a half hour after 179AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY that, when he did give her to her mother—all lapped up in his coat and as drippin’-wet as a little drownded angel—it would a-made you wish’t you was him to see that little woman a-caperin’ round him, and a-thankin’ him, and a-cryin’ and a-laughin’, and almost a-huggin’ him, she was so tickled,—well, | thought in my soul she’d die! And Steve blushed like a girl to see her a-takin’ on, and a-thankin’ him, and a-cryin’, and a-kissin’ little Annie, and a-goin’ on. And when she inquired *hout Bills, which she did all suddent-like, with a burst 0’ tears, we jist didn’t have the heart to tell her—on’y we said he’d crossed the river and got away. And he had! And now comes a part o’ this thing ’at’ll more’n like tax you to believe it: Williams and her wasn’t man and wife—and you needn’t look su’prised, nuther, and Ill tell you fer why:—They was own brother and sister; and that brings me to her part of the story, which you'll haf to admit beats anything ’at you ever read about in books. Her and Williams—that wasn’t his name, like he ac- knowledged,hisse’f, you rickollect—ner she didn’t want to tell his right name; and we forgive her fer that. Her and “Williams” was own brother and sister, and their parunts lived in Ohio some’ers. Their mother had be’n dead five year’ and better—grieved to death over her 180 .AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY onnachurl brother’s recklessness, which Annie hinted had broke her father up in some way, in tryin’ to shield him from the law. And the secret of her bein’ with him was this: She had married a man o’ the name of Curtis or Custer, I don’t mind which, adzackly—but no matter; she’d married a well-to-do young feller ’at her brother helt a’ old grudge ag’in, she never knowed what; and, sence her marriage, her brother had went on from bad to worse, tel finally her father jist give him up and told him to go it his own way—he’d killed his mother and ruined him, and he’d jist give up all hopes! But Annie —you know how a sister is—she still clung to him and done ever’thing fer him, tel finally, one night, about three years after she was married, she got word some way that he was in trouble ag’in, and sent her husband to he’p him; and a half hour after he’d gone, her brother come in, all excited and bloody, and told her to git the baby and come with him, ’at her husband had got in a quarrel with a friend o’ his and was bad hurt. And she went with him, of course, and he tuk her in a buggy, and lit out with her as tight as he could go all night; and then told her ’at he was the feller ’at had quarrelled with her husband, and the officers was after him, and he was obleeged to leave the country, and fer fear he hadn’t made shore work o’ him, he was a-takin’ her along to 181AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY make shore of his gittin’ his revenge; and he swore he’d kill her and the baby too ef she dared to whimper. And so it was, through a hunderd hardships he’d made his way at last to our section o’ the country, givin’ out ’at they was man and wife, and keepin’ her from denyiw’ of it by threats, and promises of the time a-comin’ when he’d send her home to her man ag’in in case he hadn’t killed him. And so it run on tel you'd a-cried to hear her tell it, and still see her sister’s love fer the feller a-breakin’ out by a-declarin’ how kind he was to her at times, and how he wasn’t railly bad at heart, on’y fer his ungovnable temper. But I couldn’t he’p but notice, when she was a-tellin’ of her hist’ry, what a quiet sorto’ look 0’ satisfaction settled on the face o’ Steve and the rest of ’em, don’t you understand. And now they was on’y one thing she wanted to ast, she said; and that was,—could she still make her home with us tel she could git word to her friends?—and there she broke down ag’in, not knowin’, of course, whether they was dead er alive; fer time and time ag’in she said somepin’ told her she’d never see her husband ag’in on this airth; and then the women-folks would cry with her and console her, and the boys would speak hopeful—all but Steve; some way o’ nother Steve was never like hisse’f from that time on. 182AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY And so things went fer a month and better. Ever’: thing had quieted down, and Hzry and a lot o’ hands, and me and Steve amongst ’em, was a-workin’ on the frame-work of another mill. It was purty weather, and we was all in good sperits, and it ’peared like the whole neighberhood was interested—and they was, too —women-folks and ever’body. And that day Hzry’s woman and amongst ’em was a-gittin’ up a big dinner to fetch down to us from the house; and along about noon a spruce-lookin’ young feller, with a pale face and a black beard, like, come a-ridin’ by and hitched his hoss, and comin’ into the crowd, said “ Howdy,” pleasant-like, and we all stopped work as he went on to say ’at he was on the track of a feller o’ the name 0’ “Williams,” and wanted to know ef we could give him any infermation hout sich a man. Told him maybe,—’at a feller bearin’ that name desappeared kindo’ myster’ous from our neighberhood "bout five weeks afore that. “My God!” says he, a-turnin’ paler’n ever, ‘‘am 1 too late? Where did he go, and was his sister and her baby with him?” Jist then I ketched sight o’ the women-folks a-comin’ with the baskets, and Annie with ’em, with a jug 0 worter in her hand; soI spoke up quick to the stranger, and says I, “I guess ‘his sister and her baby’ wasn’t along,” says I, “but his wife and baby’s some’eres here in 183AN OLD SETTLER’S STORY the neighberhood yit.” And then a-watchin’ him clos’t, I says, suddent, a-p’intin’ over his shoulder, ‘There his woman is now—that one with the jug, there.” Well, Annie had jist stooped to lift up one o’ the little girls, when the feller turned, and their eyes met. “Annie! My wife!” he says; and Annie she kindo’ give a little yelp like and come a-flutterin’ down in his arms; and the jug o’ worter rolled clean acrost the road, and turned a somerset and knocked the cob out of its mouth and jist laid back and hollered “ Good—good—good—good— good!” like as ef it knowed what was up and was jist as glad and tickled as the rest of us,DIALECT IN LITERATUREDIALECT IN LITERATURE “And the common people heard him gladly.” | OF what shall be said herein of dialect, let it be un- derstood the term dialect referred to is of that general breadth of meaning given it to-day, namely, any speech or vernacular outside the prescribed form of good Eng- lish in its present state. The present state of the English is, of course, not any one of its prior states. So first let it be remarked that it is highly probable that what may have been the best of English once may now by some be counted as a weak, inconsequent patois, Or dialect. To be direct, it is the object of this article to show that dialect is not a thing to be despised in any event— that its origin is oftentimes of as royal caste as that of any speech. Listening back, from the standpoint of to- day, even to the divine singing of that old classic master to whom England’s late laureate refers as 187DIALECT IN LITERATURE “*. « the first warbler, whose sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still”; or to whom Longfellow alludes, in his matchless sonnet, as “. . . the poet of the dawn, who wrote The Canterbury Tales, and his old age Made beautiful with song ”;— Chaucer’s verse to us is now as veritably dialect as to that old time it was the chastest English; and even then his materials were essentially dialect when his song was at best pitch. Again, our present dialect, of most plebeian ancestry, may none the less prove worthy. Mark the recognition of its own personal merit in the great new dictionary, where what was, in our own re- membrance, the most outlandish dialect, is now good, sound, official English. Since Literature must embrace all naturally existing materials—physical, mental, and spiritual—we have no occasion to urge its acceptance of so-called dialect, for dialect is in Literature, and has been there since the be- ginning of all written thought and utterance. Strictly 188DIALECT IN LITERATURE speaking, as well as paradoxically, all verbal expression is more or less dialectic, however grammatical. While usage establishes grammar, it no less establishes so- called dialect. Therefore we may as rightfully refer to “so-called grammar.” It is not really a question of Literature’s position toward dialect that we are called upon to consider, but rather how much of Literature’s valuable time shall be taken up by this dialectic country cousin. This question Literature her gracious self most amiably answers by hugging to her breast voluminous tomes, from Chaucer on to Dickens, from Dickens on to Joel Chandler Harris. And this affectionate spirit on the part of Literature, in the main, we all most feelingly indorse. Briefly summed, it would appear that dialect means something more than mere rude form of speech and action—that it must, in some righteous and substantial way, convey to us a positive force of soul, truth, dignity, beauty, grace, purity and sweetness that may even touch us to the tenderness of tears. Yes, dialect as certainly does all this as that speech and act refined may do it, and for the same reason: it is simply, purely natural and human. Yet the Lettered and the Unlettered powers are at swords’ points; and very old and bitter foemen, too, they 189DIALECT IN LITERATURE are. As fairly as we can, then, let us look over the field of these contending forces and note their diverse posi- tions: First, the Lettered—they who have the full ad- vantages of refined education, training, and association —are undoubtedly as wholly out of order among the Un- lettered as the Unlettered are out of order in the exalted presence of the Lettered. Hach faction may in like aversion ignore or snub the other; but a long-suffering Providence must bear with the society of both. There may be one vague virtue demonstrated by this feud: each division will be found unwaveringly loyal to its kind, and mutually they desire no interchange of sympathy what- ever.—Neither element will accept from the other any patronizing treatment; and, perhaps, the more especially does the Unlettered faction reject anything in vaguest likeness of this spirit. Of the two divisions, in graphic summary,—one knows the very core and centre of refined civilization, and this only; the other knows the outlying wilds and suburbs of civilization, and this only. Whose, therefore, is the greater knowledge, and whose the just right of any whit of self-glorification? A curious thing, indeed, is this factional pride, as made equally manifest in both forces; in one, for in- stance, of the Unlettered forces: The average farmer, or countryman, knows, in reality, a far better and wider 190DIALECT IN LITERATURE range of diction than he permits himself to use. He restricts and abridges the vocabulary of his speech, fundamentally, for the reason that he fears offending his rural neighbors, to whom a choicer Speech might suggest, on his part, an assumption—a spirit of con- scious superiority, and therewith an implied reflection on their lack of intelligence and general worthiness. If there is any one text universally known and nurtured of the Unlettered masses of our common country, it is that which reads, “All men are created equal.” Therefore it is a becoming thing when true gentility prefers to overlook some variations of the class who, more from lack of cultivation than out of rude intent, sometimes almost compel a positive doubt of the nice veracity of the declaration, or at least a grief at the munificent liberality of the so-bequoted statement. The somewhat bewildering position of these conflicting forces leaves us nothing further to consider, but how to make the most and best of the situation so far as Literature may be hurt or helped thereby. Kqually with the perfect English, then, dialect should have full justice done it. Then always it is worthy, and in Literature is thus welcome. The writer of dialect should as reverently venture in its use as in his chastest English. His effort in the scholarly and elegant direction 19]DIALECT IN LITERATURE suffers no neglect—he is schooled in that, perhaps, he may explain. Then let him be schooled in dialect before he sets up as an expounder of it—a teacher, forsooth a master! The real master must not only know each vary- ing light and shade of dialect expression, but he must as minutely know the inner character of the people whose native tongue it is, else his product is simply a pretence—a wilful forgery, a rank abomination. Dia- lect has been and is thus insulted, vilified, and degraded, now and continually; and through this outrage solely, thousands of generous-minded readers have been turned against dialect who otherwise would have loved and blessed it in its real form of crude purity and unstrained sweetness— “Honey dripping from the comb!” Let no impious faddist, then, assume its just inter- pretation. He may know everything else in the world, but not dialect, nor dialectic people, for both of which he has supreme contempt, which same, be sure, is heartily returned. Such a “superior” personage may even go among these simple country people and abide indefinitely in the midst of them, yet their more righteous contempt never for one instant permits them to be their real selves in his presence. In consequence, his most conscientious 192“nA AR DIALECT IN LITERATURE report of them, their ways, lives, and interests, is abso- lutely of no importance or value in the world. He never knew them, nor will he ever know them. They are not his kind of people, any more than he is their kind of man; and their disappointment grieves us more than his. The master in Literature, as in any art, is that “di- vinely gifted man” who does just obeisance to all living creatures, “both man and beast and bird.” It is this master only who, as he writes, can sweep himself aside and leave his humble characters to do the thinking and the talking. This man it is who celebrates his perform- ance—not himself. His work he celebrates because it is not his only, but because he feels it the conscientious reproduction of the life itself—as he has seen and known and felt it;—a representation it is of God’s own script, translated and transcribed by the worshipful mind and heart and hand of genius. This virtue in all art is im- partially demanded, and genius only can fully answer the demand in any art for which we claim perfection. The painter has his expression of it, with no slighting of the dialectic element; so, too, the sculptor, the musician, and the list entire. In the line of Literature and literary material, an illustration of the nice meaning and dis- tinction of dialectic art will be found in Charles Dudley Warner’s comment of George Cable’s work, as far back 193DIALECT IN LITERATURE as 1883, referring to the author’s own rendition of it from the platform. Mr. Warner says: While the author was unfolding to his audience a life and society unfamiliar to them and entrancing them with pictures, the reality of which none doubted and the spell of which none cared to escape, it occurred to me that here was the solution of all the pother we have recently got into about the realistic and the ideal schools in fiction. In “ Posson Jone,” an awkward camp-meeting country preacher is the victim of a vulgar con- fidence game; the scenes are the street, a drinking-place, a gambling-saloon, a bull-ring, and a calaboose; there is not a “respectable” character init. Where shall we look for a more faithful picture of low life? Where shall we find another so vividly set forth in all its sordid details? And yet see how art steps in, with the wand of genius, to make literature! Over the whole the author has cast an ideal light; over a picture that, in the hands of a bungling realist, would have been re- pellent he has thrown the idealizing grace that makes it one of the most charming sketches in the world. Here is nature, as nature only ought to be in literature, elevated but never de- parted from. So we find dialect, as a branch of Literature, worthy of the high attention and employment of the greatest master in letters—not the merest mountebank. Turn to Dickens, in innumerable passages of pathos: the death 194Rea UU ARG CU ty DIALECT IN LITERATURE of poor Jo, or that of the “Cheap John’s” little daughter in her father’s arms, on the foot-board of his peddling cart before the jeering of the vulgar mob; smile moistly, too, at Mr. Sleary’s odd philosophies; or at the trials of Sissy Jupe; or lift and tower with indignation, giving ear to Stephen Blackpool and the stainless nobility of his cloyed utterances. The crudeness or the homeliness of the dialectic ele- ment does not argue its unfitness in any way. Some readers seem to think so; but they are wrong, and very gravely wrong. Our own brief history as a nation, and our finding and founding and maintaining of it, left our fore- fathers little time indeed for the delicate cultivation of the arts and graces of refined and scholarly attainments. And there is little wonder, and great blamelessness on their part, if they lapsed in point of high mental ac- complishments, seeing their attention was so absorbed by propositions looking toward the protection of their rude farm-homes, their meagre harvests, and their half- stabled cattle from the dread invasion of the Indian. Then, too, they had their mothers and their wives and little ones to protect, to clothe, to feed, and to die for in this awful line of duty, as hundreds upon hundreds did. These sad facts are here accented and detailed not so much for the sake of being tedious as to more clearly 195DIALECT IN LITERATURE indicate why it was that many of the truly heroic an- cestry of “our best people” grew unquestionably dialect of caste—not alone in speech, but in every mental trait and personal address. It is a grievous fact for us to confront, but many of them wore apparel of the com- monest, talked loudly, and doubtless said “thisaway ” and “‘thataway,” and “ Watch y’ doin’ of?” and “ Whur y goin’ at?”—using dialect even in their prayers to Him who, in His gentle mercy, listened and was pleased; and who listens verily unto this hour to all like prayers, yet pleased; yea, haply listens even to the refined rhetorical petitions of those who are not pleased. There is something more at fault than the language when we turn from or flinch at it; and, as has been in- timated, the wretched fault may be skulkingly hidden away in the ambush of ostensible dialect—that type of dialect so copiously produced by its sole manufacturers, who, utterly stark and bare of the vaguest idea of country life or country people, at once assume that all their “ gifted pens” have to do is to stupidly misspell every word; vulgarly mistreat and besloven every theme, however sacred; maim, cripple, and disfigure language never in the vocabulary of the countryman — then smuggle these monstrosities of either rhyme or prose somehow into the public print that is to innocently 196f Peanut CA oe HRM CCP Ano IIE ae aya MeL OMe NU ESD ENS A DIALECT IN LITERATURE smear them broadcast all over the face of the country they insult. How different the mind and method of the true inter- preter. As this phrase goes down the man himself arises—the type perfect—Colonel Richard Malcolm Johnston, who wrote “The Dukesborough Tales ”—an ac- complished classic scholar and teacher, yet no less an accomplished master and lover of his native dialect of middle Georgia. He, like Dickens, permits his rustic characters to think, talk, act, and live, just as nature designed them. He does not make the pitiable error of either patronizing or making fun of them. He knows them and he loves them; and they know and love him in return. Recalling Colonel Johnston’s dialectic sketches, with his own presentation of them from the platform, the writer notes a fact that seems singularly to obtain among all true dialect-writers, namely, that they are also endowed with native histrionic capabilities: Hear, as well as read, Twain, Cable, Johnston, Page, Smith, and all the list, with barely an exception. Did space permit, no better illustration of true dialect sketch and characterization might here be offered than Colonel Johnston’s simple story of “Mr. Absalom Bil- lingslea,” or the short and simple annals of his like quaint contemporaries, “Mr. Bill Williams” and “Mr. Jonas AoTDIALECT IN LITERATURE Lively.” The scene is the country and the very little country town, with landscape, atmosphere, simplicity, cir- cumstance—all surroundings and conditions—veritable— everything rural and dialectic, no less than the simple, primitive, common, wholesome-hearted men and women who so naturally live and have their blessed being in his stories, just as in the life itself. This is the manifest work of the true dialect writer and expounder. In every detail, the most minute, such work reveals the master- hand and heart of the humanitarian as well as artist— the two are indissolubly fused—and the result of such just treatment of whatever lowly themes or characters we can but love and loyally approve with all our human hearts. Such masters necessarily are rare, and such ripe perfecting as is here attained may be in part the mellowing result of age and long observation, though it can but be based upon the wisest, purest spirit of the man as well as artist. In no less excellence should the work of Joel Chandler Harris be regarded: His touch alike is ever reverential. He has gathered up the bruised and broken voices and the legends of the slave, and from his child-heart he has affectionately yielded them to us in all their eerie beauty and wild loveliness. Through them we are made to glorify the helpless and the weak and to revel in their 198Dee Si Ou cReE Eateay DIALECT IN LITERATURE victories. But, better, we are taught that even in bar- baric breasts there dwells inherently the sense of right above wrong—equity above law—and the One Unerring Righteousness Hternal. With equal truth and strength, too, Mr. Harris has treated the dialectic elements of the interior Georgia country—the wilds and fastnesses of the “moonshiners.” His tale of “Teague Poteet,” of some years ago, was contemporaneous with the list of striking mountain stories from that strong and highly gifted Tennesseean, Miss Murfree, or “Charles Egbert Craddock.” In the dialectic spirit her stories charm and hold us. Always there is strangely mingled, but most naturally, the gentle nature cropping out amid the most desperate and stoical: the night scene in the iso- lated mountain cabin, guarded ever without and within from any chance down-swooping of the minions of the red-eyed law; the great man-group of gentle giants, with rifles never out of arm’s-reach, in tender rivalry ranged admiringly around the crowing, wakeful little boy-baby; the return, at last, of the belated mistress of the house—the sister, to whom all do great, awkward reverence. Jealously snatching up the babe and kissing it, she querulously demands why he has not long ago been put to bed. “He lowed he wouldn’t go,” is the reply. Thomas Nelson Page, of Virginia, who wrote “Meh 199DIALECT IN LITERATURE Lady,” a positive classic in the Negro dialect, his work is veritable—strong and pure and sweet; and as an oral reader of it the doubly gifted author, in voice and ca- dence, natural utterance, every possible effect of speech and tone, is doubtless without rival anywhere. Many more, indeed, than may be mentioned now there are of these real benefactors and preservers of the way- side characters, times, and customs of our ever-shifting history. Needless is it to speak here of the earlier of our workers in the dialectic line—of James Russell Lowell’s New England “Hosea Biglow,” Dr. Hggles- ton’s “Hoosier School-Master,” or the very rare and quaint, bright prattle of “Helen’s Babies.” In connec- tion with this last let us very seriously inquire what this real child has done that Literature should so persistently refuse to give him an abiding welcome? Since for ages this question seems to have been left unasked, it may be timely now to propound it. Why not the real child in Literature? The real child is good enough (we all know he is bad enough) to command our admiring at- tention and most lively interest in real life, and just as we find him “in the raw.” Then why do we deny him any righteous place of recognition in our Literature? From the immemorial advent of our dear old Mother Goose, Literature has been especially catering to, the 200DIALECT IN LITERATURE Juvenile needs and desires, and yet steadfastly overlook- ing, all the time, the very principles upon which Nature herself founds and presents this lawless little brood of hers—the children. It is not the children who are out of order; it is Literature. And not only is Literature out of order, but she is presumptuous; she is impudent. She takes Nature’s children and revises and corrects them till “their own mother doesn’t know them.” This is literal fact. So, very many of us are coming to in- 3 quire, as we’ve a right, why is the real child excluded ae from a just hearing in the world of. letters as he has in the world of fact? For instance, what has the lovely little ragamuffin ever done of sufficient guilt to eternally consign him to the monstrous penalty of speaking most accurate grammar all the literary hours of the days of the years of his otherwise natural life?— “Oh, mother, may I go to school With brother Charles to-day? The air is very fine and cool; Oh, mother, say I may!” —Is this a real boy that would make such a request, and is it the real language he would use? No, we are glad to say that it is not. Simply it is a libel, in every particular, on any boy, however fondly and exactingly 201DIALECT IN LIVERATURE trained by parents however zealous for his overdecorous future. Better, indeed, the dubious sentiment of the most trivial nursery jingle, since the latter at least main- tains the lawless though wholesome spirit of the child- genuine. — “ Hink! Minx! The old witch winks— The fat begins to fry; There’s nobody home but Jumping Joan, Father and mother and I.” Though even here the impious poet leaves the scar of grammatical knowledge upon childhood’s native diction; and so the helpless little fellow is again misrepresented, and his character, to all intents and purposes, is as- saulted and maligned outrageously thereby. Now, in all seriousness, this situation ought not to be permitted to exist, though to change it seems an almost insurmountable task. The general public, very proba- bly, is not aware of the real gravity of the position of the case as even unto this day it exists. Let the public try, then, to contribute the real child to the so-called Child Literature of its country, and have its real child returned as promptly as it dare show its little tousled head in the presence of that scholarly and dignified in- stitution. Then ask why your real child has been spanked back home again, and the wise mentors there 202SSAA GER DIALECT IN LITERATURE will virtually tell you that Child Literature wants no real children in it, that the real child’s example of de- fective grammar and lack of elegant deportment would furnish to its little patrician patrons suggestions very hurtful indeed to their higher morals, tendencies, and ambitions. Then, although the general public couldn’t for the life of it see why or how, and might even be reminded that it was just such a rowdying child itself, and that its father—the Father of his Country—was just such a child; that Abraham Lincoln was just such a lovable, lawless child, and yet was blessed and chosen in the end for the highest service man may ever render unto man,—all—all this argument would avail not in the least, since the elegantly minded purveyors of Child Literature cannot possibly tolerate the presence of any but the refined children—the very proper children—the studiously thoughtful, poetic children;—and these must be kept safe from the contaminating touch of our rough- and-tumble little fellows in “ hodden gray,” with frowzly heads, begrimed but laughing faces, and such awful, awful vulgarities of naturalness, and crimes of sim- plicity, and brazen faith and trust, and love of life and everybody in it. All other real people are getting into Literature; and without some real children along will they not soon be getting lonesome, too? 203