Front Cover
 Front Matter
 Half Title
 Title Page
 Table of Contents
 The child-world
 The old home folks
 Almon Keefer
 Noey Bixler
 "A noted traveler"
 A prospective visit
 At Noey's house
 "That little dog"
 The Loehrs and the Hammonds
 The hired man and Floretty
 The evening company
 Maymie's story of Red Riding...
 Limitations of genius
 Mr. Hammond's parable: The...
 Floretty's musical contributio...
 Bud's fairy-tale
 A delicious interruption
 Noey's night-piece
 Cousin Rufus' story
 Bewildering emotions
 The bear story: That Alex "ist...
 The pathos of applause
 Told by "the noted traveler"
 Heat lightning
 Uncle Mart's poem: The old...
 "Little Jack janitor"
 Back Cover

Title: A child-world
Full Citation
Permanent Link: http://ufdc.ufl.edu/UF00085615/00001
 Material Information
Title: A child-world
Physical Description: 209, 14 p. : ill. (some col.), music, facsim. ; 19 cm.
Language: English
Creator: Riley, James Whitcomb, 1849-1916
Bowen-Merrill Company ( Publisher )
Publisher: Bowen-Merrill Company
Place of Publication: Indianapolis ;
Kansas City
Publication Date: 1897
Subject: Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile poetry   ( lcsh )
Conduct of life -- Juvenile poetry   ( lcsh )
Storytelling -- Juvenile poetry   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry   ( lcsh )
Children's poetry -- 1897   ( lcsh )
Publishers' catalogues -- 1897   ( rbgenr )
Bldn -- 1897
Genre: Children's poetry
Publishers' catalogues   ( rbgenr )
poetry   ( marcgt )
Spatial Coverage: United States -- Indiana -- Indianapolis
United States -- Missouri -- Kansas City
Statement of Responsibility: by James Whitcomb Riley.
General Note: Frontispiece printed in sepia.
General Note: Publisher's catalogue follows text.
 Record Information
Bibliographic ID: UF00085615
Volume ID: VID00001
Source Institution: University of Florida
Rights Management: All rights reserved by the source institution and holding location.
Resource Identifier: aleph - 002236649
notis - ALH7126
oclc - 02026962
lccn - 06024741

Table of Contents
    Front Cover
        Page 1
        Page 2
    Front Matter
        Page 3
        Page 4
    Half Title
        Page 5
        Page 6
        Page 7
    Title Page
        Page 8
        Page 9
        Page 10
        Page 11
    Table of Contents
        Page 12
        Page 13
        Page 14
        Page 15
        Page 16
    The child-world
        Page 17
        Page 18
        Page 19
        Page 20
        Page 21
        Page 22
        Page 23
        Page 24
        Page 25
    The old home folks
        Page 26
        Page 27
        Page 28
        Page 29
        Page 30
        Page 31
        Page 32
        Page 33
        Page 34
        Page 35
        Page 36
        Page 37
        Page 38
        Page 39
        Page 40
        Page 41
        Page 42
        Page 43
        Page 44
        Page 45
        Page 46
        Page 47
        Page 48
        Page 49
    Almon Keefer
        Page 50
        Page 51
        Page 52
        Page 53
        Page 54
        Page 55
    Noey Bixler
        Page 56
        Page 57
        Page 58
        Page 59
        Page 60
        Page 61
        Page 62
        Page 63
        Page 64
        Page 65
        Poem 11
    "A noted traveler"
        Page 66
        Page 67
        Page 68
    A prospective visit
        Page 69
        Page 70
    At Noey's house
        Page 71
        Page 72
        Page 73
        Page 74
        Page 75
    "That little dog"
        Page 76
        Page 77
        Page 78
        Page 79
        Page 80
    The Loehrs and the Hammonds
        Page 81
        Page 82
        Page 83
        Page 84
        Page 85
        Page 86
        Page 87
    The hired man and Floretty
        Page 88
        Page 89
        Page 90
        Page 91
        Page 92
        Page 93
        Page 94
        Page 95
        Page 96
        Page 97
        Page 98
    The evening company
        Page 99
        Page 100
        Page 101
        Page 102
        Page 103
    Maymie's story of Red Riding Hood
        Page 104
        Page 105
        Page 106
        Page 107
        Page 108
        Page 109
        Page 110
        Page 111
        Page 112
        Page 113
    Limitations of genius
        Page 114
        Page 115
    Mr. Hammond's parable: The dreamer
        Page 116
        Page 117
        Page 118
        Page 119
        Page 120
        Page 121
        Page 122
    Floretty's musical contribution
        Page 123
        Page 124
        Page 125
        Page 126
        Page 126a
        Page 127
        Page 128
        Page 129
    Bud's fairy-tale
        Page 130
        Page 131
        Page 132
        Page 133
        Page 134
        Page 135
        Page 136
        Page 137
        Page 138
        Page 139
        Page 140
        Page 141
        Page 142
    A delicious interruption
        Page 143
        Page 144
    Noey's night-piece
        Page 145
        Page 146
        Page 147
        Page 148
        Page 149
        Page 150
    Cousin Rufus' story
        Page 151
        Page 152
        Page 153
        Page 154
        Page 155
        Page 156
        Page 157
        Page 158
        Page 159
        Page 160
    Bewildering emotions
        Page 161
        Page 162
    The bear story: That Alex "ist maked up his-own-se'f"
        Page 163
        Page 164
        Page 165
        Page 166
        Page 167
        Page 168
        Page 169
        Page 170
        Page 171
    The pathos of applause
        Page 172
        Page 173
        Page 174
    Told by "the noted traveler"
        Page 175
        Page 176
        Page 177
        Page 178
        Page 179
        Page 180
        Page 181
        Page 182
        Page 183
        Page 184
        Page 185
        Page 186
    Heat lightning
        Page 187
        Page 188
        Page 189
        Page 190
    Uncle Mart's poem: The old snow-man
        Page 191
        Page 192
        Page 193
        Page 194
        Page 195
        Page 196
        Page 197
        Page 198
    "Little Jack janitor"
        Page 199
        Page 200
        Page 201
        Page 202
        Page 203
        Page 204
        Page 205
        Page 206
        Page 207
        Page 208
        Page 209
        Page 210
        Page 211
        Page 212
        Page 213
        Page 214
        Page 215
        Page 216
        Page 217
        Page 218
        Page 219
        Page 220
        Page 221
        Page 222
        Page 223
    Back Cover
        Page 224
        Page 225
        Page 226
Full Text


The Baldwin Library

//?? 7
?*t^/ / /A .


FARM LIFE-Including the Old Swimmin'-Hole"
SKETCHES IN PROSE-With occasional Poems.
AFTERWHILES-Serious and Dialect Verse.
PIPES O' PAN-Five Sketches and Fifty Poems.
RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD-Child-Dialect and other
Drama in Verse.
Serious Poems.
ARMAZINDY-Hoosier Harvest Airs, Feigned Forms
and Child Rhymes.
A CHILD-WORLD-A Continuous Chronicle in Verse
of Child Life, Old Home Tales and Episodes.
Any of above, post-paid, for $1.25.
otint Plates, 8x zo flat quarto, post-paid, $2.50.
POEMS HERE AT HOME-Dialect and other Poems,
post-paid, $1.50.
OLD FASHIONED ROSES (English Edition)-Poems,
Dialect and various, post-paid. $1.75.

The Bowen-Merrill Co., Indianapolis

-~:T b~k~:
--- ~ r.: '
a i'



~I1~~j ~







Copyright 1896
James Whitcomb Riley


THE CHILD-WORLD-long and long since lost to view--
A Fairy Paradise!-
How always fair it was and fresh and new-
How every affluent hour heaped heart and eyes
With treasures of surprise !

Enchantments tangible: The under-brink
Of dawns that launched the sight
Up seas of gold: The dewdrop on the pink,
With all the green earth in it and blue height
Of heavens infinite:

The liquid, dripping songs of orchard-birds-
The wee bass of the bees,-
With lucent deeps of silence afterwards;
The gay, clandestine whisperings of the breeze
And glad leaves of the trees.

O Child-World: After this world-just as when
I found you first sufficed
My soulmost need-if I found you again,
With all my childish dream so realized,
I should not be surprised.










* 15

* 26






























.. 151

6 1

. 163

S. 172

S 175

. 187

S. Ig




A CHILD-WORLD, yet a wondrous world no less,
To those who knew its boundless happiness.
A simple old frame house-eight rooms in all-
Set just one side the center of a small
But very hopeful Indiana town,-
The upper-story looking squarely down
Upon the main street, and the main highway
From East to West,-historic in its day,
Known as The National Road-old-timers, all
Who linger yet, will happily recall
It as the scheme and handiwork, as well
As property, of "Uncle Sam," and tell
Of its importance, "long and long afore
Railroads wuz ever dream' of! "-Furthermore,
2 17


The reminiscent first inhabitants
Will make that old road blossom with romance
Of snowy caravans, in long parade
Of covered vehicles, of every grade
From ox-cart of most primitive design,
To Conestoga wagons, with their fine
Deep-chested six-horse teams, in heavy gear,
High hames and chiming bells-to childish ear
And eye entrancing as the glittering train
Of some sun-smitten pageant of old Spain.
And, in like spirit, haply they will tell
You of the roadside forests, and the yell
Of "wolfs" and "painters," in the long night-ride,
And "screechin' catamounts" on every side.-
Of stagecoach-days, highwaymen, and strange crimes,
And yet unriddled mysteries of the times
Called "Good Old." "And why 'Good Old'?" once a rare
Old chronicler was asked, who brushed the hair



Out of his twinkling eyes and said,-"Well John,
They're 'good old times' because they're dead and gone!"

The old home site was portioned into three
Distinctive lots. The front one-natively
Facing to southward, broad and gaudy-fine
With lilac, dahlia, rose, and flowering vine-
The dwelling stood in; and behind that, and
Upon the alley north and south, left hand,
The old wood-house,-half, trimly stacked with wood,
And half, a work-shop, where a workbench stood
Steadfastly through all seasons.-Over it,
Along the wall, hung compass, brace-and-bit,
And square, and drawing-knife, and smoothing-plane-
And little jack-plane, too-the children's vain
Possession by pretense-in fancy they
Manipulating it in endless play,


Turning out countless curls and loops of bright,
Fine satin shavings-Rapture infinite!
Shelved quilting-frames; the toolchest; the old box
Of refuse nails and screws; a rough gun-stock's
Outline in "curly maple"; and a pair
Of clamps and old krout-cutter hanging there.
Some "patterns," in thin wood, of shield and scroll,
Hung higher, with a neat "cane-fishing-pole"
And careful tackle-all securely out
Of reach of children, rummaging about.

Beside the wood-house, with broad branches free
Yet close above the roof, an apple-tree
Known as "The Prince's Harvest "-Magic phrase!
That was a boy's own iret, in many ways!-
Its girth and height meet both for the caress
Of his bare legs and his ambitiousness:


And then its apples, humoring his whim,
Seemed just to fairly hurry ripe for him-
Even in June, impetuous as he,
They dropped to meet him, halfway up the tree.
And 0 their bruised sweet faces where they fell!-
And ho! the lips that feigned to "kiss them well"!

"The Old Sweet-Apple-Tree," a stalwart, stood
In fairly sympathetic neighborhood
Of this wild princeling with his early gold
To toss about so lavishly nor hold
In bounteous hoard to overbrim at once
All Nature's lap when came the Autumn months.
Under the spacious shade of this the eyes
Of swinging children saw swift-changing skies
Of blue and green, with sunshine shot between,
And "when the old cat died they saw but green.


And, then, there was a cherry-tree.-We all

And severally will yet recall

From our lost youth, in gentlest memory,

The blessed fact-There was a cherry-tree.

There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows
Cool even now the fevered sight that knows
No moral its airy visions of pure joy-
As when you were a boy.

There was a cherry-tree. The Bluejay set
His blue against its white-O blue as jet
He seemed there then I-But now-Whoever knew
He was so pale a blue

There was a cherry-tree-Our child-eyes saw
The miracle:-Its pure white snows did thaw
Into a crimson fruitage, far too sweet
But for a boy to eat.

Theie was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joyl-
There was a bloom of snow-There was a boy-
There was a Bluejay of the realest blue-
And fruit for both of you.



Then the old garden, with the apple-trees
Grouped 'round the margin, and "a stand of bees"
By the "white-winter-pearmain"; and a row
Of currant-bushes; and a quince or so.
The old grape-arbor in the center, by
The pathway to the stable, with the sty
Behind it, and upon it, cootering flocks
Of pigeons,-and the cutest "martin-box"!-
Made like a sure-enough house-with roof, and doors
And windows in it, and veranda-floors
And balusters all 'round it-yes, and at
Each end a chimney-painted red at that
And penciled white, to look like little bricks;
And, to cap all the builder's cunning tricks,
Two tiny little lightning-rods were run
Straight up their sides, and twinkled in the sun.
Who built it? Nay, no answer but a smile.-
It may be you can guess who, afterwhile.


Home in his stall, "Old Sorrel" munched his hay
And oats and corn, and switched the flies away,
In a repose of patience good to see,
And earnest of the gentlest pedigree.
With half pathetic eye sometimes he gazed
Upon the gambols of a colt that grazed
Around the edges of the lot outside,
And kicked at nothing suddenly, and tried

To act grown-up and graceful and high-bred,
But dropped, k'whop! and scraped the buggy-shed,

Leaving a tuft of woolly, foxy hair
Under the sharp-end of a gate-hinge there.
Then, all ignobly scrambling to his feet
And whinneying a whinney like a bleat,
He would pursue himself around the lot
And-do the whole thing over, like as not! .
Ah! what a life of constant fear and dread
And flop and squawk and flight the chickens led!



Above the fences, either side, were seen
The neighbor-houses, set in plots of green
Dooryards and greener gardens, tree and wall
Alike whitewashed, and order in it all:
The scythe hooked in the tree-fork; and the spade
And hoe and rake and shovel all, when laid
Aside, were in their places, ready for
The hand of either the possessor or
Of any neighbor, welcome to the loan
Of any tool he might not chance to own.


SUCH was the Child-World of the long-ago-
The little world these children used to know:-
Johnty, the oldest, and the best, perhaps,
Of the five happy little Hoosier chaps
Inhabiting this wee world all their own.-
Johnty, the leader, with his native tone
Of grave command-a general on parade
Whose each punctilious order was obeyed
By his proud followers.
But Johnty yet-
After all serious duties-could forget
The gravity of life to the extent,
At times, of kindling much astonishment
About him: With a quick, observant eye,
And mind and memory, he could supply


The tamest incident with liveliest mirth;
And at the most unlooked-for times on earth
Was wont to break into some travesty
On those around him-feats of mimicry
Of this one's trick of gesture-that one's walk-
Or this one's laugh-or that one's funny talk,-
The way "the watermelon-man" would try
His humor on town-folks that wouldn't buy;-
How he drove into town at morning-then
At dusk (alas!) how he drove out again.

Though these divertisements of Johnty's were
Hailed with a hearty glee and relish, there
Appeared a sense, on his part, of regret-
A spirit of remorse that would not let
Him rest for days thereafter.-Such times he,
As some boy said, "jist got too overly


Blame good fer common boys like us, you know,
To 'sociate with-less'n we 'ud go
And jine his church! "

Next after Johnty came
His little tow-head brother, Bud by name.-
And O how white his hair was-and how thick
His face with freckles,-and his ears, how quick
And curious and intrusive!-And how pale
The blue of his big eyes;-and how a tale
Of Giants, Trolls or Fairies, bulged them still
Bigger and bigger!-And when "Jack" would kill
The old "Four-headed Giant," Bud's big eyes
Were swollen truly into giant-size.
And Bud was apt in make-believes-would hear
His Grandma talk or read, with such an ear
And memory of both subject and big words,
That he would take the book up afterwards


And feign to "read aloud," with such success
As caused his truthful elders real distress.
But he must have big words-they seemed to give
Extremer range to the superlative-
That was his passion. My Gran'ma," he said,
One evening, after listening as she read
Some heavy old historical review-
With copious explanations thereunto
Drawn out by his inquiring turn of mind,-
" My Gran'ma she's read all books-ever' kind
They is, 'at tells all 'bout the land an' sea
An' Nations of the Earth!-An' she is the
Historicul-est woman ever wuz "
(Forgive the verse's chuckling as it does
In its erratic current.-Oftentimes
The little willowy waterbrook of rhymes
Must falter in its music, listening to
The children laughing as they used to do.)


Who shall sing a simple ditty all about the Willow,
Dainty-fine and delicate as any bending spray
That dandles high the happy bird that flutters there to trill a
Tremulously tender song of greeting to the May.

Ah, my lovely Willow l-Let the Waters lilt your graces,-
They alone with limpid kisses lave your leaves above,
Flashing back your sylvan beauty, and in shady places
Peering up with glimmering pebbles, like the eyes of love.

Next, Maymie, with her hazy cloud of hair,

And the blue skies of eyes beneath it there.

Her dignified and little lady" airs

Of never either, romping up the stairs

Or falling down them; thoughtful everyway

Of others first-The kind of child at play

That "gave up," for the rest, the ripest pear

Or peach or apple in the garden there

Beneath the trees where swooped the airy swing-

She pushing it, too glad for anything


Or, in the character of hostess, she
Would entertain her friends delightfully
In her play-house,-with strips of carpet laid
Along the garden-fence within the shade
Of the old apple-trees-where from next yard
Came the two dearest friends in her regard,
The little Crawford girls, Ella and Lu-
As shy and lovely as the lilies grew
In their idyllic home,-yet sometimes they
Admitted Bud and Alex to their play,
Who did their heavier work and helped them fix
To have a "Festibul "-and brought the bricks
And built the "stove," with a real fire and all,
And stovepipe-joint for chimney, looming tall
And wonderfully smoky-even to
Their childish aspirations, as it blew
And swooped and swirled about them till their sight
Was feverish even as their high delight,


Then Alex, with his freckles, and his freaks
Of temper, and the peach-bloom of his cheeks,
And "amber-colored hair"-his mother said
'Twas that, when others laughed and called it "red"
And Alex threw things at them-till they'd call
A truce, agreeing "'t'uz n't red ut-tall!"

But Alex was affectionate beyond
The average child, and was extremely fond
Of the paternal relatives of his
Of whom he once made estimate like this:-
"I'm only got two brothers,-but my Pa
He's got most brothers'n you ever saw!-
He's got seben brothers!--Yes, an' they're all my
Seben Uncles !-Uncle John, an' Jim,-an' I'
Got Uncle George, an' Uncle Andy, too,
An' Uncle Frank, an' Uncle Joe.-An' you


Know Uncle Mart.-An', all but him, they're great
Big mens !-An' nen's Aunt Sarah-she makes eight!-
I'm got eight uncles!-'cept Aunt Sarah can't
Be ist my uncle 'cause she's ist my aunt!"

Then, next to Alex-and the last indeed
Of these five little ones of whom you read-
Was baby Lizzie, with her velvet lisp,-
As though her Elfin lips had caught some wisp
Of floss between them as they strove with speech,
Which ever seemed just in yet out of reach-
Though what her lips missed, her dark eyes could say
With looks that made her meaning clear as day.

And, knowing now the children, you must know
The father and the mother they loved so:-
The father was a swarthy man, black-eyed,
Black-haired, and high of forehead; and, beside


The slender little mother, seemed in truth
A very king of men-since, from his youth,
To his hale manhood now-(worthy as then,-
A lawyer and a leading citizen
Of the proud little town and county-seat-
His hopes his neighbors', and their fealty sweet)-
He had known outdoor labor-rain and shine-
Bleak Winter, and bland Summer-foul and fine.
So Nature had ennobled him and set
Her symbol on him like a coronet:
His lifted brow, and frank, reliant face.-
Superior of stature as of grace,
Even the children by the spell were wrought
Up to heroics of their simple thought,
And saw him, trim of build, and lithe and straight
And tall, almost, as at the pasture-gate
The towering ironweed the scythe had spared
For their sakes, when The Hired Man declared



It would grow on till it became a tree,
With cocoanuts and monkeys in-maybe!

Yet, though the children, in their pride and awe
And admiration of the father, saw
A being so exalted-even more
Like adoration was the love they bore
The gentle mother.-Her mild, plaintive face
Was purely fair, and haloed with a grace
And sweetness luminous when joy made glad
Her features with a smile; or saintly sad
As twilight, fell the sympathetic gloom
Of any childish grief, or as a room
Were darkened suddenly, the curtain drawn
Across the window and the sunshine gone.
Her brow, below her fair hair's glimmering strands,
Seemed meetest resting-place for blessing hands


Or holiest touches of soft finger-tips
And little roseleaf-cheeks and dewy lips.

Though heavy household tasks were pitiless,
No little waist or coat or checkered dress
But knew her needle's deftness; and no skill
Matched hers in shaping pleat or flounce or frill;
Or fashioning, in complicate design,
All rich embroideries of leaf and vine,
With tiniest twining tendril,-bud and bloom
And fruit, so like, one's fancy caught perfume
And dainty touch and taste of them, to see
Their semblance wrought in such rare verity.

Shrined in her sanctity of home and love,
And love's fond service and reward thereof,
Restore her thus, O blessed Memory!-
Throned in her rocking-chair, and on her knee



Her sewing-her workbasket on the floor

Beside her,-Springtime through the open door
Balmily stealing in and all about

The room; the bees' dim hum, and the far shout

And laughter of the children at their play,
And neighbor-children from across the way

Calling in gleeful challenge-save alone

One boy whose voice sends back no answering tone-

The boy, prone on the floor, above a book

Of pictures, with a rapt, ecstatic look-

Even as the mother's, by the selfsame spell,

Is lifted, with a light ineffable-

As though her senses caught no mortal cry,

But heard, instead, some poem going by.

The Child-heart is so strange a little thing-
So mild-so timorously shy and small,-
When grown-up hearts throb, it goes scampering
Behind the wall, nor dares peer out at all I-


It is the veriest mouse
That hides in any house-
So wild a little thing is any Child-heartl

Child-hcart 1-mild heart!-
Ho, my little wild heart l-
Come up here to me out o' the dark,
Or let me come to you!

So lorn at times the Child-heart needs must be,
With 'never one maturer heart for friend
And comrade, whose tear-ripened sympathy
And love might lend it comfort to the end,-
Whose yearnings, aches and stings,
Over poor little things
Were pitiful as ever any Child-heart.

Child-heart I-mild heart!-
Ho, my little wild heart!-
Come up here to me out o' the dark,
Or let me come to you !

Times, too, the little Child-heart must be glad-
Being so young, nor knowing, as we know,
The fact from fantasy, the good from bad,
The joy from woe, the-all that hurts us sol


What wonder then that thus
It hides away from us?-
So weak a little thing is any Child-heart

Child-heart i-mild heart!-
Ho, my little wild heart!-
Come up here to me out o' the dark,
Or let me come to you

Nay, little Child-heart, you have never need
To fear us;-we are weaker far than you-
'Tis we who should be fearful-we indeed
Should hide us, too, as darkly as you do,-
Safe, as yourself, withdrawn,
Hearing the World roar on
Too willful, woful, awful for the Child-heartl

Child-heart!-mild heart!-
Ho, my little wild heart!-
Come up here to me out o' the dark,
Or let me come to you I

The clock chats on confidingly; a rose

Taps at the window, as the sunlight throws



A brilliant, jostling checkerwork of shine
And shadow, like a Persian-loom design,
Across the homemade carpet-fades,-and then
The dear old colors are themselves again.
Sounds drop in visiting from everywhere-
The bluebird's and the robin's trill are there,
Their sweet liquidity diluted some
By dewy orchard spaces they have come:
Sounds of the town, too, and the great highway-
The Mover-wagons' rumble, and the neigh
Of overtraveled horses, and the bleat
Of sheep and low of cattle through the street-
A Nation's thoroughfare of hopes and fears,
First blazed by the heroic pioneers
Who gave up old-home idols and set face
Toward the unbroken West, to found a race
And tame a wilderness now mightier than
All peoples and all tracts American.


Blent with all outer sounds, the sounds within:-
In mild remoteness falls the household din
Of porch and kitchen: the dull jar and thump
Of churning; and the "glung-glung" of the pump,
With sudden pad and skurry of bare feet
Of little outlaws, in from field or street:
The clang of kettle,-rasp of damper-ring
And bang of cookstove-door-and everything
That jingles in a busy kitchen lifts
Its individual wrangling voice and drifts
In sweetest tinny, coppery, pewtery tone
Of music hungry ear has ever known
In wildest famished yearning and conceit
Of youth, to just cut loose and eat and eat!-
The zest of hunger still incited on
To childish desperation by long-drawn
Breaths of hot, steaming, wholesome things that stew
And blubber, and up-tilt the pot-lids, too,



Filling the sense with zestful rumors of
The dear old-fashioned dinners children love:
Redolent savorings of home-cured meats,
Potatoes, beans, and cabbage; turnips, beets
And parsnips-rarest composite entire
That ever pushed a mortal child's desire
To madness by new-grated fresh, keen, sharp
Horseradish-tang that sets the lips awarp
And watery, anticipating all
The cloyed sweets of the glorious festival.-
Still add the cinnamon, spicy scents
Of clove, nutmeg, and myriad condiments
In like-alluring whiffs that prophesy
Of sweltering pudding, cake, and custard pie-
The swooning-sweet aroma haunting all
The house-upstairs and down-porch, parlor, hall
And sitting-room-invading even where
The Hired Man sniffs it in the orchard-air,


And pauses in his pruning of the trees
To note the sun minutely and to-sneeze.

Then Cousin Rufus comes-the children hear
His hale voice in the old hall, ringing clear
As any bell. Always he came with song
Upon his lips and all the happy throng
Of echoes following him, even as the crowd
Of his admiring little kinsmen-proud
To have a cousin grown-and yet as young
Of soul and cheery as the songs he sung.

He was a student of the law-intent
Soundly to win success, with all it meant;
And so he studied-even as he played,-
With all his heart: And so it was he made
His gallant fight for fortune-through all stress
Of battle bearing him with cheeriness
And wholesome valor.


And the children had
Another relative who kept them glad
And joyous by his very merry ways-
As blithe and sunny as the summer days,-
Their father's youngest brother-Uncle Mart.
The old "Arabian Nights" he knew by heart-
"Baron Munchausen," too; and likewise "The
Swiss Family Robinson."-And when these three

Gave out, as he rehearsed them, he could go
Straight on in the same line-a steady flow
Of arabesque invention that his good
-Old mother never clearly understood.
He was to be a printer-wanted, though,
To be an actor.-But the world was "show"
Enough for him,-theatric, airy, gay,-
Each day to him was jolly as a play.
And some poetic symptoms, too, in sooth,
Were certain.-And, from his apprentice youth,


He joyed in verse-quotations-which he took
Out of the old "Type Foundry Specimen Book."
He craved and courted most the favor of
The children.-They were foremost in his love;
And pleasing them, he pleased his own boy-heart
And kept it young and fresh in every part.
So was it he devised for them and wrought
To life his quaintest, most romantic thought:-
Like some lone castaway in alien seas,
He built a house up in the apple-trees,
Out in the corner of the garden, where
No man-devouring native, prowling there,
Might pounce upon them in the dead o' night-
For lo, their little ladder, slim and light,
They drew up after them. And it was known
That Uncle Mart slipped up sometimes alone
And drew the ladder in, to lie and moon
Over some novel all the afternoon.



And one time Johnty, from the crowd below,-
Outraged to find themselves deserted so-
Threw bodily their old black cat up in
The airy fastness, with much yowl and din
Resulting, while a wild periphery
Of cat went circling to another tree,
And, in impassioned outburst, Uncle Mart
Loomed up, and thus relieved his tragic heart:

"' Hence, long-tailed, ebon-eyed, nocturnal ranger!

What led thee hither 'mongst the types and cases?
Didst thou not know that running midnight races
O'er standing types was fraught with imminent danger?
Did hunger lead thee-didst thou think to find
Some rich old cheese to fill thy hungry maw?
Vain hope! for none but literary jaw
Can masticate our cookery for the mind!'


So likewise when, with lordly air and grace,
He strode to dinner, with a tragic face
With ink-spots on it from the office, he
Would aptly quote more "Specimen-poetry-"
Perchance like "'Labor's bread is sweet to eat,
(Ahem!) And toothsome is the toiler's meat.'"

Ah, could you see them all, at lull of noon!-
A sort of boisterous lull, with clink of spoon
And clatter of deflecting knife, and plate
Dropped saggingly, with its all-bounteous weight,
And dragged in place voraciously; and then
Pent exclamations, and the lull again.-
The garland of glad faces 'round the board-
Each member of the family restored
To his or her place, with an extra chair
Or two for the chance guests so often there.-


The father's farmer-client, brought home from
The courtroom, though he "didn't want to come
Tel he jist saw he hat to!" he'd explain,
Invariably, time and time again,
To the pleased wife and hostess, as she pressed
Another cup of coffee on the guest.-
Or there was Johnty's special chum, perchance,
Or Bud's, or both-each childish countenance
Lit with a higher glow of youthful glee,
To be together thus unbrokenly,-
Jim Offutt, or Eck Skinner, or George Carr--
The very nearest chums of Bud's these are,-
So, very probably, one of the three,
At least, is there with Bud, or ought to be.
Like interchange the town-boys each had known-
His playmate's dinner better than his own-
Yet blest that he was ever made to stay
At Almon Keefer's, any blessed day,


For any meal! Visions of biscuits, hot
And flaky-perfect, with the golden blot
Of molten butter for the center, clear,
Through pools of clover-honey-dear-o-dear!-
With creamy milk for its divine "farewell":
And then, if any one delectable
Might yet exceed in sweetness, O restore
The cherry-cobbler of the days of yore
Made only by Al Keefer's mother!-Why,
The very thought of it ignites the eye
Of memory with rapture-cloys the lip
Of longing, till it seems to ooze and drip
With veriest juice and stain and overwaste
Of that most sweet delirium of taste
That ever visited the childish tongue,
Or proved, as now, the sweetest thing unsung.


AH, ALMON KEEFER! what a boy you were,
With your back-tilted hat and careless hair,
And open, honest, fresh, fair face and eyes
With their all-varying looks of pleased surprise
And joyous interest in flower and tree,
And poising humming-bird, and maundering bee.

The fields and woods he knew; the tireless tramp
With gun and dog; and the night-fisher's camp-
No other boy, save Bee Lineback, had won
Such brilliant mastery of rod and gun.
Even in his earliest childhood had he shown
These traits that marked him as his father's own.
Dogs all paid Almon honor and bow-wowed
Allegiance, let him come in any crowd
Of rabbit-hunting town-boys, even though
His own dog "Sleuth" rebuked their acting so
With jealous snarls and growlings.


But the best
Of Almon's virtues-leading all the rest-
Was his great love of books, and skill as well
In reading them aloud, and by the spell
Thereof enthralling his mute listeners, as
They grouped about him in the orchard grass,
Hinging their bare shins in the mottled shine
And shade, as they lay prone, or stretched supine
Beneath their favorite tree, with dreamy eyes
And Argo-fancies voyaging the skies.
"Tales of the Ocean" was the name of one
Old dog's-eared book that was surpassed by none
Of all the glorious list.-Its back was gone,
But its vitality went bravely on
In such delicious tales of land and sea
As may not ever perish utterly.
Of still more dubious caste, "Jack Sheppard" drew
Full admiration; and "Dick Turpin," too,



And, painful as the fact is to convey,
In certain lurid tales of their own day,
These boys found thieving heroes and outlaws
They hailed with equal fervor of applause:
"The League of the Miami"-why, the name
Alone was fascinating-is the same,
In memory, this venerable hour
Of moral wisdom shorn of all its power,
As it unblushingly reverts to when
The old barn was "the Cave," and hears again
The signal blown, outside the buggy-shed-
The drowsy guard within uplifts his head,
And "'Who goes there?' is called, in bated breath-
The challenge answered in a hush of death,-
"Sh !-'Barney Gray!'" And then 'What do you seek?' "
" 'Stables of The League!' the voice comes spent and weak,
For, ha! the Law Is on the "Chieftain's" trail-
Tracked to his very lair!-Well, what avail?



The "secret entrance" opens-closes.-So
The "Robber-Captain" thus outwits his foe;
And, safe once more within his "cavern-halls,"
He shakes his clenched fist at the warped plank-walls
And mutters his defiance through the cracks
At the balked Enemy's retreating backs
As the loud horde flees pell-mell down the lane,
And-Almon Keefer is himself again!

Excepting few, they were not books indeed
Of deep import that Almon chose to read;-
Less fact than fiction.-Much he favored those-
If not in poetry, in hectic prose-
That made our native Indian a wild,
Feathered and fine-preened hero that a child
Could recommend as just about the thing
To make a god of, or at least a king.


Aside from Almon's own books-two or three-
His store of lore The Township Library
Supplied him weekly: All the books with "or"s-
Sub-titled-lured him-after "Indian Wars,"
And "Life of Daniel Boone,"-not to include
Some few books spiced with humor,-" Robin Hood"
And rare "Don Quixote."-And one time he took
"Dadd's Cattle Doctor." How he hugged the book
And hurried homeward, with internal glee
And humorous spasms of expectancy!-
All this confession-as he promptly made
It, the day later, writhing in the shade
Of the old apple-tree with Johnty and
Bud, Noey Bixler, and The Hired Hand-
Was quite as funny as the book was not ..
O Wonderland of wayward Childhood! what
An easy, breezy realm of summer calm
And dreamy gleam and gloom and bloom and balm


Thou art!--The Lotus-Land the poet sung,

It is the Child-World while the heart beats young .. .

While the heart beats young!-O the splendor of the Spring,
With all her dewy jewels on, is not so fair a thing!
The fairest, rarest morning of the blossom-time of May
Is not so sweet a season as the season of to-day
While Youth's diviner climate folds and holds us, close caressed,
As we feel our mothers with us by the touch of face and breast;-
Our bare feet in the meadows, and our fancies up among
The airy clouds of morning-while the heart beats young.

While the heart beats young and our pulses leap and dance,
With every day a holiday and life a glad romance,-
We hear the birds with wonder, and with wonder watch their flight-
Standing still the more enchanted, both of hearing and of sight,
When they have vanished wholly,-for, in fancy, wing-to-wing
We fly to Heaven with them; and, returning, still we sing
The praises of this lower Heaven with tireless voice and tongue,
Even as the Master sanctions-while the heart beats young.

While the heart beats youngl--While the heart beats young
O green and gold old Earth of ours, with azure overhung
And looped with rainbowsl-grant us yet this grassy lap of thine-
We would be still thy children, through the shower and the shine



So pray we, lisping, whispering, in childish love and trust,
With our beseeching hands and faces lifted from the dust
By fervor of the poem, all unwritten and unsung,
Thou givest us in answer, while the heart beats young.

ANOTHER hero of those youthful years

Returns, as Noey Bix!er's name appears.

And Noey-if in any special way-

Was notably good-natured.-Work or play

He entered into with selfsame delight-

A wholesome interest that made him quite

As many friends among the old as young,-

So everywhere were Noey's praises sung.

And he was awkward, fat and overgrown,

With a round full-moon face, that fairly shone

As though to meet the simile's demand.

And, cumbrous though he seemed, both eye and hand


Were dowered with the discernment and deft skill
Of the true artisan: He shaped at will,
In his old father's shop, on rainy days,
Little toy-wagons, and curved-runner sleighs;
The trimmest bows and arrows-fashioned, too,
Of "seasoned timber," such as Noey knew
How to select, prepare, and then complete,
And call his little friends in from the street.
"The very best bow," Noey used to say,
"Haint made o' ash ner hick'ry thataway!-
But you git mulberry-the bearin'-tree,
Now mind ye! and you fetch the piece to me,
And lem me git it seasoned; then, i gum!
I'll make a bow 'at you kin brag on some!
Er-ef you can't git mulberry,-you bring
Me a' old locus' hitch-post, and i jing!
I'll make a bow o' that 'at common bows
Won't dast to pick on ner turn up their nose!"



And Noey knew the woods, and all the trees,
An d thickets, plants and myriad mysteries
Of swamp and bottom-land. And he knew where
The ground-hog hid, and why located there.-
He knew all animals that burrowed, swam,
Or lived in tree-tops: And, by race and dam,
He knew the choicest, safest deeps wherein
Fish-traps might flourish nor provoke the sin
Of theft in some chance peeking, prying sneak,
Or town-boy, prowling up and down the creek.
All four-pawed creatures tamable-he knew
Their outer and their inner natures too;
While they, in turn, were drawn to him as by
Some subtle recognition of a tie
Of love, as true as truth from end to end,
Between themselves and this strange human friend.
The same with birds-he knew them every one,
And he could "name them, too, without a gun."



No wonder Johnty loved him, even to
The verge of worship.-Noey led him through
The art of trapping redbirds-yes, and taught
Him how to keep them when he had them caught-
What food they needed, and just where to swing
The cage, if he expected them to sing.

And Bud loved Noey, for the little pair
Of stilts he made him; or the stout old hair
Trunk Noey put on wheels, and laid a track
Of scantling-railroad for it in the back
Part of the barn-lot; or the cross-bow, made
Just like a gun, which deadly weapon laid
Against his shoulder as he aimed, and-"Sping!"
He'd hear the rusty old nail zoon and sing-
And Tip! your Mr. Bluejay's wing would drop
A farewell-feather from the old tree-top!


And Maymie loved him, for the very small
But perfect carriage for her favorite doll-
A lady's carriage-not a baby-cab,-
But oilcloth top, and two seats, lined with drab
And trimmed with white lace-paper from a case
Of shaving-soap his uncle bought some place
At auction once.
And Alex loved him yet
The best, when Noey brought him, for a pet,
A little flying-squirrel, with great eyes-
Big as a child's: And, childlike otherwise,
It was at first a timid, tremulous, coy,
Retiring little thing that dodged the boy
And tried to keep in Noey's pocket;--till,
In time, responsive to his patient will,
It became wholly docile, and content
With its new master, as he came and went,-


The squirrel clinging flatly to his breast,
Or sometimes scampering its craziest
Around his body spirally, and then
Down to his very heels and up again.

And Little Lifie loved him, as a bee
Loves a great ripe red apple-utterly.
For Noey's ruddy morning-face she drew
The window-blind, and tapped the window, too;
Afar she hailed his coming, as she heard
His tuneless whistling-sweet as any bird
It seemed to her, the one lame bar or so
Of old "Wait for the Wagon "-hoarse and low
The sound was,-so that, all about the place,
Folks joked and said that Noey "whistled bass"-
The light remark originally made
By Cousin Rufus, who knew notes, and played


The flute with nimble skill, and taste as well,
And, critical as he was musical,
Regarded Noey's constant whistling thus
"Phenominally unmelodious."
Likewise when Uncle Mart, who shared the love
Of jest with Cousin Rufus hand-in-glove,
Said "Noey couldn't whistle 'Bonny Doon'
Even! and, he'd bet, couldn't carry a tune
If it had handles to it!"
-But forgive
The deviations here so fugitive,
And turn again to Little Lizzie, whose
High estimate of Noey we shall choose
Above all others.-And to her he was
Particularly lovable because
He laid the woodland's harvest at her feet.-
He brought her wild strawberries, honey-sweet


And dewy-cool, in mats of greenest moss
And leaves, all woven over and across
With tender, biting "tongue-grass," and "sheep-sour,"
And twin-leaved beach-mast, prankt with bud and flower
Of every gypsy-blossom of the wild,
Dark, tangled forest, dear to any child.-
All these in season. Nor could barren, drear,
White and stark-featured Winter interfere
With Noey's rare resources: Still the same
He blithely whistled through the snow and came
Beneath the window with a Fairy sled;
And Little Lizzie, bundled heels-and-head,
He took on such excursions of delight
As even "Old Santy" with his reindeer might
Have envied her! And, later, when the snow
Was softening toward Springtime and the glow
Of steady sunshine smote upon it,-then
Came the magician Noey yet again-


While all the children were away a day
Or two at Grandma's!-and behold when they
Got home once more;-there, towering taller than
The doorway-stood a mighty, old Snow-Man!

A thing of peerless art-a masterpiece
Doubtless unmatched by even classic Greece
In heyday of Praxiteles.-Alone
It loomed in lordly grandeur all its own.
And steadfast, too, for weeks and weeks it stood,
The admiration of the neighborhood
As well as of the children Noey sought
Only to honor in the work he wrought.
The traveler paid it tribute, as he passed
Along the highway-paused and, turning, cast
A lingering, last look-as though to take
A vivid print of it, for memory's sake,


To lighten all the empty, aching miles
Beyond with brighter fancies, hopes and smiles.
The cynic put aside his biting wit
And tacitly declared in praise of it;
And even the apprentice-poet of the town
Rose to impassioned heights, and then sat down
And penned a panegyric scroll of rhyme
That made the Snow-Man famous for all time.

And though, as now, the ever warmer sun
Of summer had so melted and undone
The perishable figure that-alas !-
Not even in dwindled white against the grass
Was left its latest and minutest ghost,
The children yet-materially, almost-
Beheld it-circled 'round it hand-in-hand-
(Or rather 'round the place it used to stand)-


With "Ring-a-round-a-rosy! Bottle full
0' posey!" and, with shriek and laugh, would pull
From seeming contact with it-just as when
it was the real-est of old Snow-Men.

EVEN in such a scene of senseless play
The children were surprised one summer-day
By a strange man who called across the fence,
Inquiring for their father's residence;
And, being answered that this was the place,
Opened the gate, and with a radiant face,
Came in and sat down with them in the shade
And waited-till the absent father made
His noon appearance, with a warmth and zest
That told he had no ordinary guest
In this man whose low-spoken name he knew
At once, demurring as the stranger drew


A stuffy notebook out and turned and set
A big fat finger on a page and let
The writing thereon testify instead
Of further speech. And as the father read
All silently, the curious children took
Exacting inventory both of book
And man:-He wore a long-napped white fur hat
Pulled firmly on his head, and under that
Rather long silvery hair, or iron-gray-
For he was not an old man,-anyway,
Not beyond sixty. And he wore a pair
Of square-framed spectacles-or rather there
Were two more than a pair,-the extra two
Flared at the corners, at the eyes' side-view,
In as redundant vision as the eyes
Of grasshoppers or bees or dragonflies.
Later the children heard the father say
He was "A Noted Traveler," and would stay


Some days with them-In which time host and guest
Discussed, alone, in deepest interest,
Some vague, mysterious matter that defied
The wistful children, loitering outside
The spare-room door. There Bud acquired a quite
New list of big words-such as "Disunite,"
And "Shibboleth," and "Aristocracy,"
And "Juggernaut," and "Squatter Sovereignty,"
And "Anti-slavery," Emancipate,"
"Irrepressible conflict," and "The Great
Battle of Armageddon "-obviously
A pamphlet brought from Washington, D. C.,
And spread among such friends as might occur
Of like views with "The Noted Traveler."


W HILE any day was notable and dear
That gave the children Noey, history here
Records his advent emphasized indeed
With sharp italics, as he came to feed
The stock one special morning, fair and bright,
When Johnty and Bud met him, with delight
Unusual even as their extra dress-
Garbed as for holiday, with much excess
Of proud self-consciousness and vain conceit
In their new finery.-Far up the street
They called to Noey, as he came, that they,
As promised, both were going back that day
To his house with him!
And by time that each
Had one of Noey's hands-ceasing their speech
And coyly anxious, in their new attire,
To wake the comment of their mute desire,-


Noey seemed rendered voiceless. Quite a while
They watched him furtively.-He seemed to smile
As though he would conceal it; and they saw
Him look away, and his lips purse and draw
In curious, twitching spasms, as though he might
Be whispering,-while in his eye the white
Predominated strangely.-Then the spell
Gave way, and his pent speech burst audible:
"They wuz two stylish little boys,
and they wuz mighty bold ones,
Had two new pairs o' britches made
out o' their daddy's old ones!"
And at the inspirational outbreak,
Both joker and his victims seemed to take
An equal share of laughter,-and all through
Their morning visit kept recurring to
The funny words and jingle of the rhyme
That just kept getting funnier all the time.


AT NOEY'S house-when they arrived with him-
How snug seemed everything, and neat and trim:
The little picket-fence, and little gate-
It's little pulley, and its little weight,-
All glib as clock-work, as it clicked behind
Them, on the little red brick pathway, lined
With little paint-keg-vases and teapots
Of wee moss-blossoms and forgetmenots:
And in the windows, either side the door,
Were ranged as many little boxes more
Of like old-fashioned larkspurs, pinks and moss
And fern and phlox; while up and down across
Them rioted the morning-glory-vines
On taut-set cotton-strings, whose snowy lines


Whipt in and out and under the bright green
Like basting-threads; and, here and there between,
A showy, shiny hollyhock would flare
Its pink among the white and purple there.-
And still behind the vines, the children saw
A strange, bleached, wistful face that seemed to draw
A vague, indefinite sympathy. A face
It was of some newcomer to the place.-
In explanation, Noey, briefly, said
That it was "Jason," as he turned and led
The little fellows 'round the house to show
Them his menagerie of pets. And so
For quite a time the face of the strange guest
Was partially forgotten, as they pressed
About the squirrel-cage and rousted both
The lazy inmates out, though wholly loath
To whirl the wheel for them.-And then with awe
They walked 'round Noey's big pet owl, and saw


Him film his great, clear, liquid eyes and stare
And turn and turn and turn his head 'round there
The same way they kept circling-as though he
Could turn it one way thus eternally.

Behind the kitchen, then, with special pride
Noey stirred up a terrapin inside
The rain-barrel where he lived, with three or four
Little mud-turtles of a size not more
In neat circumference than the tiny toy
Dumb-watches worn by every little boy.

Then, back of the old shop, beneath the tree
Of "rusty-coats," as Noey called them, he
Next took the boys, to show his favorite new
Pet 'coon-pulled rather coyly into view
Up through a square hole in the bottom of
An old inverted tub he bent above,



Yanking a little chain, with "Hey! you, sir!
Here's company come to see you, Bolivur!"
Explanatory, he went on to say,
"I named him 'Bolivur' jes thisaway,-
He looks so round and ovalish and fat,
' Peared like no other name 'ud fit but that."

Here Noey's father called and sent him on
Some errand. "Wait," he said-" I won't be gone
A half a' hour.-Take Bud, and go on in
Where Jason is, tel I git back agin."

Whoever Jason was, they found him there
Still at the front-room window.-By his chair
Leaned a new pair of crutches; and from one
Knee down, a leg was bandaged.-" Jason done
That-air with one o' these-'ere tools we call
A 'shin-hoe '-but a foot-ady mostly all



Hardware-store-keepers calls 'em."-(Noey made
This explanation later.)
Jason paid
But little notice to the boys as they
Came in the room:-An idle volume lay
Upon his lap-the only book in sight-
And Johnty read the title,-" Light, More Light,
There's Danger in the Dark,"-though first and best-
In fact, the whole of Jason's interest
Seemed centered on a little dog-one pet
Of Noey's all uncelebrated yet-
Though Jason, certainly, avowed his worth,
And niched him over all the pets on earth-
As the observant Johnty would relate
The Jason-episode, and imitate
The all-enthusiastic speech and air
Of Noey's kinsman and his tribute there:-


"THAT little dog 'ud scratch at that door
And go on a-whinin' two hours before
He'd ever let up! There!-Jane: Let him in.-
(Hah, there, you little rat!) Look at him grin!
Come down off o' that!-
W'y, look at him! (Drat
You! you-rascal-you !)-bring me that hat!
Look out!-He'll snap you!--He wouldn't let
You take it away from him, now you kin bet!
That little rascal's jist natchurly mean.-
I tell you, I never (Git out!!) never seen
A spunkier little rip! (Scratch to git in,
And now yer a-scratchin' to git out agin!
Jane: Let him out!) Now, watch him from here
Out through the winder !-You notice one ear
Kindo' inside-out, like he holds it?-Well,
He's got a tick in it-I kin tell!


Yes, and he's cunnin'-
Jist watch him a-runnin',
Sidelin'--see!-like he ain't 'plum'd true'
And legs don't 'track' as they'd ort to do!-
Plowin' his nose through the weeds-I jing!
Ain't he jist cuter'n anything!

"W'y, that little dog's got grown-people's sense!-
See how he gits out under the fence?-
And watch him a-whettin' his hind-legs 'fore
His dead square run of a miled er more-
'Cause Noey's a-comin', and Trip allus knows
When Noey's a-comin'-and off he goes!-
Putts out to meet him and-There they come now!
Well-sir! it's racially singalar how
That dog kin tell,-
But he knows as well


When Noey's a-comin' home!-Reckon his smell
'Ud carry two miled ?-You needn't to smile-
He runs to meet him, ever'-once-n-a-while,
Two miled and over-when he's slipped away
And left him at home here, as he's done to-day-
-'Thout ever known' where Noey wuz goin'-
But that little dog allus hits the right way!
Hear him a-whinin' and scratchin' agin?-
(Little tormentin' fice!) Jane: Let him in.

"-You say he ain't there?-

Well now, I declare!-
Lem me limp out and look! I under where-
Heuh, Trip!--Heuh, Trip!-Heuh, Trip! There-
There he is!-Little sneak !-What-a'-you-'bout?-
There he is-quiled up as meek as a mouse,
His tail turnt up like a teakittle-spout,
A-sunnin' hisse'f at the side o' the house t



Next time you scratch, sir, you'll haf to git in,

My fine little feller, the best way you kin!
-Noey he learns him sich capers!--And they-
Both of 'em's ornrier every day!-
Both tantalizin' and meaner'n sin-

Allus a-(Listen there!)-Jane: Let him in.

"-O yer so innocent! hangin' yer head!-

(Drat ye! you'd better git under the bed!)
-Listen at that!-
He's tackled the cat!-

Hah, there! you little rip I come out o' that!-

Git yer blame little eyes scratched out
'Fore you know what yer talking' about!-

Here! come away from there!-(Let him alone-
He'll snap you, I tell ye, as quick as a bone!)

Hi, Trip !-Hey, here !-What-a'-you-'bout !-
Oo! ouch! 'LI I'll be blamed!-Blast ye! GIT OUT!



... O, it ain't nothin'-jist scratched me, you see.-
Hadn't no idy he'd try to bite me!

Plague take him!-Bet he'll not try that agin!-
Hear him yelp.-(Pore feller!) Jane: Let him in."


4'.HEY, Bud! 0 Bud!" rang out a gleeful call,-
"The Loehrs is come to your house!" And a small
But very much elated little chap,
In snowy linen-suit and tasseled cap,
Leaped from the back-fence just across the street
From Bixlers', and came galloping to meet
His equally delighted little pair
Of playmates, hurrying out to join him there-
The Loehrs is come!-The Loehrs is come!" his glee
Augmented to a pitch of ecstasy
Communicated wildly, till the cry
The Loehrs is come!" in chorus quavered high

And thrilling as some pzean of challenge or
Soul-stirring chant of armied conqueror.



And who this avant courier of "the Loehrs"?-
This happiest of all boys out-o'-doors-
Who but Will Pierson, with his heart's excess
Of summer-warmth and light and breeziness!
"From our front winder I 'uz first to see
'Em all a-drivin' into town !" bragged he-
"An' seen 'em turning' up the alley where
Your folks lives at. An' John an' Jake wuz there
Both in the wagon;-yes, an' Willy, too;
An' Mary-Yes, an' Edith-with bran-new
An' purtiest-trimmed hats 'at ever wuz!-
An' Susan, an' Janey.-An' the Hammonds-uz
In their fine buggy 'at they're ridin' roun'
So much, all over an' around' the town
An' ever'wheres,-them city-people who's
A-visutin' at Loehrs-uz!"
Glorious news !-


Even more glorious when verified
In the boys' welcoming eyes of love and pride,
As one by one they greeted their old friends
And neighbors.-Nor until their earth-life ends
Will that bright memory become less bright
Or dimmed indeed.

Again, at candle-light,

The faces all are gathered. And how glad
The Mother's features, knowing that she had
Her dear, sweet Mary Loehr back again.-
She always was so proud of her; and then
The dear girl, in return, was happy, too,
And with a heart as loving, kind and true
As that maturer one which seemed to blend
As one the love of mother and of friend.
From time to time, as hand-in-hand they sat,
The fair girl whispered something low, whereat


A tender, wistful look would gather in
The mother-eyes; and then there would begin
A sudden cheerier talk, directed to
The stranger guests-the man and woman who,
It was explained, were coming now to make
Their temporary home in town for sake
Of the wife's somewhat failing health. Yes, they
Were city-people, seeking rest this way,
The man said, answering a query made
By some well meaning neighbor-with a shade
Of apprehension in the answer . No,-
They had no children. As he answered so,
The man's arm went about his wife, and she
Leant toward him, with her eyes lit prayerfully:
Then she arose-he following-and bent
Above the little sleeping innocent
Within the cradle at the mother's side--
He patting her, all silent, as she cried.


Though, haply, in the silence that ensued,

His musings made melodious interlude.

In the warm, health-giving weather
My poor pale wife and I
Drive up and down the little town
And the pleasant roads thereby:
Out in the wholesome country
We wind, from the main highway,
In through the wood's green solitudes-
Fair as the Lord's own Day.

We have lived so long together,
And joyed and mourned as one,
That each with each, with a look for speech,
Or a touch, may talk as none
But Love's elect may comprehend-
Why, the touch of her hand on mine
Speaks volume-wise, and the smile of her eyes,
To me, is a song divine.

There are many places that lure us:-
"The Old Wood Bridge" just west
Of town we know-and the creek below,
And the banks the boys love best:


And "Beech Grove," too, on the hill-top;
And The Haunted House" beyond,
With its roof half off, and its old pump-trough
Adrift in the roadside pond.

We find our way to The Marshes"-
At least where they used to be;
And "The Old Camp Grounds"; and "The Indian Mounds,"
And the trunk of "The Council Tree:"
We have crunched and splashed through Flint-bed Ford";
And at "Old Big Bee-gum Spring"
We have stayed the cup, half lifted up,
Hearing the redbird sing.

And then, there is "Wesley Chapel,"
With its little graveyard, lone
At the crossroads there, though the sun sets fair
On wild-rose, mound and stone .
A wee bed under the willows-
My wife's hand on my own-
And our horse stops, too And we hear the coo
Of a dove in undertone.


The dusk, the dew, and the silence I
"Old Charley" turns his head
Homeward then by the pike again,
Though never a word is said-
One more stop, and a lingering one-
After the fields and farms,-
At the old Toll Gate, with the woman await
With a little girl in her arms.

The silence sank-Floretty came to call

The children in the kitchen, where they all

Went helter-skeltering with shout and din

Enough to drown most sanguine silence in,-

For well indeed they knew that summons meant

Taffy and popcorn-so with cheers they went.


T HE Hired Man's supper, which he sat before,
In near reach of the wood-box, the stove-door
And one leaf of the kitchen-table, was
Somewhat belated, and in lifted pause
His dextrous knife was balancing a bit
Of fried mush near the port awaiting it.

At the glad children's advent-gladder still
To find him there-" Jest tickled fit to kill
To see ye all!" he said, with unctious cheer.-
"I'm tryin'-like to he'p Floretty here
To git things cleared away and give ye room
According' to yer strength. But I p'sume
It's a pore boarder, as the poet says,
That quarrels with his victuals, so I guess


I'll take another wedge o' that-air cake,
Florett', that you're a-learnin' how to bake."
He winked and feigned to swallow painfully.-

"Jest 'fore ye all come in, Floretty she

Was boastin' 'bout her biscuits-and they air
As good-sometimes-as you'll find anywhere.-
But, women gits to braggin' on their bread,
I'm s'picious 'bout their pie-as Danty said."

This raillery Floretty strangely seemed
To take as compliment, and fairly beamed

With pleasure at it all.
-" Speakin' o' bread-
When she come here to live," The Hired Man said,-
"Never ben out o' Freeport 'fore she come
Up here,-of course she needed 'sperience some.-
So, one day, when yer Ma was goin' to set
The risin' fer some bread, she sent Florett'


To borry leaven, 'crost at Ryans'-So,
She went and asked fer twelve.-She didn't know,
But thought, whatever 'twuz, that she could keep
One fer herself, she said. O she wuz deep!"

Some little evidence of favor hailed
The Hired Man's humor; but it wholly failed
To touch the serious Susan Loehr, whose air
And thought rebuked them all to listening there
To her brief history of the city-man
And his pale wife-"A sweeter woman than
She ever saw!"-So Susan testified,-
And so attested all the Loehrs beside.-
So entertaining was the history, that
The Hired Man, in the corner where he sat
In quiet sequestration, shelling corn,
Ceased wholly, listening, with a face forlorn


As Sorrow's own, while Susan, John and Jake
Told of these strangers who had come to make
Some weeks' stay in the town, in hopes to gain
Once more the health the wife had sought in vain:
Their doctor, in the city, used to know
The Loehrs-Dan and Rachel-years ago,-
And so had sent a letter and request
For them to take a kindly interest
In favoring the couple all they could-
To find some home-place for them, if they would,
Among their friends in town. He ended by
A dozen further lines, explaining why
His patient must have change of scene and air-
New faces, and the simple friendships there
With them, which might, in time, make her forget
A grief that kept her ever brooding yet
And wholly melancholy and depressed,-
Nor yet could she find sleep by night nor rest



By day, for thinking-thinking-thinking still

Upon a grief beyond the doctor's skill,-

The death of her one little girl.

"Pore thing!"

Floretty sighed, and with the turkey-wing

Brushed off the stove-hearth softly, and peered in

The kettle of molasses, with her thin

Voice wandering into song unconsciously-

In purest, if most witless, sympathy.-

"'Then sleep no more:
Around thy heart
Some ten-der dream may i-dlee play,
But mid-night song,
With mad-jick art,
Will chase that dree muh-wayl'"

"That-air besetment of Floretty's," said

The Hired Man,-"singin'-she inhairited,-

Her father wuz addicted-same as her-

To singin'-yes, and played the dulcimerl



But-gittin' back,-I s'pose yer talking' 'bout
Them Hammondses. Well, Hammond he gits out
Pattents on things-inventions-like, I'm told-
And's got more money'n a house could hold!
And yit he can't git up no pattent-right
To do away with dyin'.-And he might
Be worth a million, but he couldn't find
Nobody selling' health of any kind! .
But they's no thing onhandier fer me
To use than other people's misery.-
Floretty, hand me that-air skillet there
And lem me git 'er het up, so's them-air
Childern kin have their popcorn."

It was good
To hear him now, and so the children stood
Closer about him, waiting.

"Things to eat,"
The Hired Man went on, "'s mighty hard to beat!



Now, when I wuz a boy, we was so pore,
My parurits couldn't 'ford popcorn no more
To pamper me with;-so, I hat to go
Without popcorn-sometimes a year er so !-
And suffer'n' saints! how hungry I would git
Fer jest one other chance-like this-at it!
Many and many a time I've dreamp', at night,
About popcorn,-all busted open white,
And hot, you know-and jest enough o' salt
And butter on it fer to find no fault-
Oomh!-Well! as 1 was goin' on to say,-
After a-dreamin' of it thataway,

Then havin' to wake up and find it's all
A dream, and hain't got no popcorn at-tall,
Ner haint had none-I'd think, Well, where's the use!'
And jest lay back and sob the plaster'n' loose!
And I have prayed, whatever happened, it
'Ud eether be popcorn er death I . And yit


I've noticed-more'n likely so have you-
That things don't happen when you want 'em to."

And thus he ran on artlessly, with speech
And work in equal exercise, till each
Tureen and bowl brimmed white. And then he greased
The saucers ready for the wax, and seized
The fragrant-steaming kettle, at a sign
Made by Floretty; and, each child in line,
He led out to the pump-where, in the dim
New coolness of the night, quite near to him
He felt Floretty's presence, fresh and sweet
As ... .dewy night-air after kitchen-heat.

There, still, with loud delight of laugh and jest,
They plied their subtle alchemy with zest-
Till, sudden, high above their tumult, welled

Out of the sitting-room a song which held



Them stilled in some strange rapture, listening

To the sweet blur of voices chorusing:-

"'When twilight approaches the season
That ever is sacred to song,
Does some one repeat my name over,
And sigh that I tarry so long?
And is there a chord in the music
That's missed when my voice is away?-
And a chord In each heart that awakens
Regret at my wearisome stay-ay-
Regret at my wearisome stay."'

All to himself, The Hired Man thought-"Of course

They'll sing Floretty homesick!"
O strange source

Of ecstasy! O mystery of Song!-

To hear the dear old utterance flow along:-

"'Do they set me a chair near the table
When evening's home-pleasures are nigh?-
When the candles are lit in the parlor,
And the stars in the calm azure sky.'" .


Just then the moonlight sliced the porch slantwise,
And flashed in misty spangles in the eyes
Floretty clenched-while through the dark-" I jing! "
A voice asked, "Where's that song 'you'd learn to sing
Ef I sent you the ballat?'--which I done
Last I was home at Freeport.-S'pose you run
And git it-and we'll all go in to where
They'll know the notes and sing it fer ye there."
And up the darkness of the old stairway
Floretty fled, without a word to say-
Save to herself some whisper muffled by
Her apron, as she wiped her lashes dry.

Returning, with a letter, which she laid
Upon the kitchen-table while she made
A hasty crock of "float,"-poured thence into
A deep glass dish of iridescent hue


And glint and sparkle, with an overflow
Of froth to crown it, foaming white as snow.-
And then-poundcake, and jelly-cake as rare,
For its delicious complement,-with air
Of Hebe mortalized, she led her van
Of votaries, rounded by The Hired Man.


ITHIN the sitting-room, the company
Had been increased in number. Two or three
Young couples had been added: Emma King,
Ella and Mary Mathers-all could sing
Like veritable angels-Lydia Martin, too,
And Nelly Millikan.-What songs they knew!-

'Ever of Thee-wherever I may be,
Fondly I'm drea-m-ing ever of thee I'

And with their gracious voices blend the grace
Of Warsaw Barnett's tenor; and the bass
Unfathomed of Wick Chapman-Fancy still
Can feel, as well as hear it, thrill on thrill,
Vibrating plainly down the backs of chairs
And through the wall and up the old hall-stairs.--

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