FARM LEGENDS.

"THEY STOOD IN THE SHADE OF THE WESTERN DOOR." Page 32.

FARM LEGENDS

By WILL CARLETON
AUTHOR OF "FARM BALLADS"

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS
FRANKLIN SQUARE

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.

Copyright, 1887, by HARPER & BROTHERS.

TO
THE MEMORY OF A NOBLEMAN,
MY
FARMER FATHER.

[PREFACE.]

The "Farm Ballads" have met with so kind and general a reception as to encourage the publishing of a companion volume.

In this book, also, the author has aimed to give expression to the truth, that with every person, even if humble or debased, there may be some good, worth lifting up and saving; that in each human being, though revered and seemingly immaculate, are some faults which deserve pointing out and correcting; and that all circumstances of life, however trivial they appear, may possess those alternations of the comic and pathetic, the good and bad, the joyful and sorrowful, upon which walk the days and nights, the summers and winters, the lives and deaths, of this strange world.

He would take this occasion to give a word of thanks to those who have staid with him through evil and good report; who have overlooked his literary faults for the sake of the truths he was struggling to tell; and who have believed—what he knows—that he is honest.

With these few words of introduction, the author launches this second bark upon the sea of popular opinion; grinds his axe, and enters once more the great forest of Human Nature, for timber to go on with his boat-building.

W.C.

CONTENTS.

ILLUSTRATIONS.

Farm Legends.

FARM LEGENDS.

[THE SCHOOL-MASTER'S GUESTS.]

I.

The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden desk,

Close-watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and grotesque.

As whisper the half-leafless branches, when Autumn's brisk breezes have come,

His little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smothered hum;

Like the frequent sharp bang of a wagon, when treading a forest path o'er,

Resounded the feet of his pupils, whenever their heels struck the floor.

There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face was withstanding a drouth;

And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a mouth;

There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they bore names that could bloom:

And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in the room:

With a countenance grave as a horse's, and his honest eyes fixed on a pin,

Queer-bent on a deeply laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins's skin.

There were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-books into the brain,

Loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting a train.

There was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the sums on his slate,

And leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate,

And set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin lips a short twist,

As to say, "I could whip you, confound you! if sums could be done with my fist!"

There were two pretty girls in the corner, each one with some cunning possessed,

In a whisper discussing a problem: which one the young master liked best!

A class in the front, with their readers, were telling, with difficult pains,

How perished brave Marco Bozzaris while bleeding at all of his veins;

And a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness stood,

Making faces at all of the others, and enjoying the task all he could.

II.

Around were the walls, gray and dingy, which every old school-sanctum hath,

With many a break on their surface, where grinned a wood-grating of lath;

A patch of thick plaster, just over the school-master's rickety chair,

Seemed threat'ningly o'er him suspended, like Damocles' sword, by a hair;

There were tracks on the desks where the knife-blades had wandered in search of their prey;

Their tops were as duskily spattered as if they drank ink every day;

"A CLASS IN THE FRONT, WITH THEIR READERS,
WERE TELLING, WITH DIFFICULT PAINS,
HOW PERISHED BRAVE MARCO BOZZARIS
WHILE BLEEDING AT ALL OF HIS VEINS."

The square stove it puffed and it thundered, and broke out in red-flaming sores,

Till the great iron quadruped trembled like a dog fierce to rush out-o'-doors;

White snow-flakes looked in at the windows; the gale pressed its lips to the cracks;

And the children's hot faces were streaming, the while they were freezing their backs.

III.

Now Marco Bozzaris had fallen, and all of his suff'rings were o'er,

And the class to their seats were retreating, when footsteps were heard at the door;

And five of the good district fathers marched into the room in a row,

And stood themselves up by the hot fire, and shook off their white cloaks of snow;

And the spokesman, a grave squire of sixty, with countenance solemnly sad,

Spoke thus, while the children all listened, with all of the ears that they had:

"We've come here, school-master, intendin' to cast an inquirin' eye 'round,

Concarnin' complaints that's been entered, an' fault that has lately been found;

To pace off the width of your doin's, an' witness what you've been about;

An' see if it's payin' to keep you, or whether we'd best turn ye out.

"The first thing I'm bid for to mention is, when the class gets up to read:

You give 'em too tight of a reinin', an' touch 'em up more than they need;

You're nicer than wise in the matter of holdin' the book in one han',

An' you turn a stray g in their doin's, an' tack an odd d on theiran'.

There ain't no great good comes of speakin' the words so polite, as I see,

Providin' you know what the facts is, an' tell 'em off jest as they be.

An' then there's that readin' in corncert, is censured from first unto last;

It kicks up a heap of a racket, when folks is a-travelin' past.

Whatever is done as to readin', providin' things goes to my say,

Sha'n't hang on no new-fangled hinges, but swing in the old-fashioned way."

And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,

And nodded obliquely, and muttered, "Them 'ere is my sentiments tew."

"Then, as to your spellin': I've heern tell, by them as has looked into this,

That you turn the u out o' your labour, an' make the word shorter than 'tis;

An' clip the k off o' yer musick, which makes my son Ephraim perplexed,

An' when he spells out as he used ter, you pass the word on to the next.

They say there's some new-grafted books here that don't take them letters

But if it is so, just depend on't, them new-grafted books is made wrong.

You might just as well say that Jackson didn't know all there was about war,

As to say that the old-fashioned teachers didn't know what them letters was for!"

And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,

And scratched their heads slyly and softly, and said, "Them's my sentiments tew."

"Then, also, your 'rithmetic doin's, as they are reported to me,

Is that you have left Tare an' Tret out, an' also the old Rule o' Three;

An' likewise brought in a new study, some high-steppin' scholars to please,

With saw-bucks an' crosses and pot-hooks, an' w's, x, y's, and z's.

We ain't got no time for such foolin'; there ain't no great good to be reached

By tiptoein' childr'n up higher than ever their fathers was teached."

And the other four good district fathers gave quick the consent that was due,

And cocked one eye up to the ceiling, and said, "Them's my sentiments tew."

"AND NODDED OBLIQUELY, AND MUTTERED,
'THEM 'ERE IS MY SENTIMENTS TEW.'"

"Another thing, I must here mention, comes into the question to-day:

Concernin' some words in the grammar you're teachin' our gals for to say.

My gals is as steady as clock-work, an' never give cause for much fear,

But they come home from school t'other evenin' a-talkin' such stuff as this here:

'I love,' an' 'Thou lovest,' an' 'He loves,' an' 'Ye love,' an' 'You love,' an' 'They—'

An' they answered my questions, 'It's grammar'—'twas all I could get 'em to say.

Now if, 'stead of doin' your duty, you're carryin' matters on so

As to make the gals say that they love you, it's just all that I want to know;—"

IV.

Now Jim, the young heaven-built mechanic, in the dusk of the evening before,

Had well-nigh unjointed the stove-pipe, to make it come down on the floor;

And the squire bringing smartly his foot down, as a clincher to what he had said,

A joint of the pipe fell upon him, and larruped him square on the head.

The soot flew in clouds all about him, and blotted with black all the place,

And the squire and the other four fathers were peppered with black in the face.

The school, ever sharp for amusement, laid down all their cumbersome books,

And, spite of the teacher's endeavors, laughed loud at their visitors' looks;

And the squire, as he stalked to the doorway, swore oaths of a violet hue;

And the four district fathers, who followed, seemed to say, "Them's my sentiments tew."

[THREE LINKS OF A LIFE.]

I.

A word went over the hills and plains

Of the scarce-hewn fields that the Tiffin drains,

Through dens of swamps and jungles of trees,

As if it were borne by the buzzing bees

As something sweet for the sons of men;

Or as if the blackbird and the wren

Had lounged about each ragged clearing

To gossip it in the settlers' hearing;

Or the partridge drum-corps of the wood

Had made the word by mortals heard,

And Diana made it understood;

Or the loud-billed hawk of giant sweep

Were told it as something he must keep;

As now, in the half-built city of Lane,

Where the sons of the settlers strive for gain,

Where the Indian trail is graded well,

And the anxious ring of the engine-bell

And the Samson Steam's deep, stuttering word

And the factory's dinner-horn are heard;

Where burghers fight, in friendly guise,

With spears of bargains and shields of lies;

Where the sun-smoked farmer, early a-road,

Rides into the town his high-built load

Of wood or wool, or corn or wheat,

And stables his horses in the street;—

It seems as to each and every one

A deed were known ere it well be done,

As if, in spite of roads or weather,

All minds were whispering together;

So over the glens and rough hill-sides

Of the fruitful land where the Tiffin glides,

Went the startling whisper, clear and plain,

"There's a new-born baby over at Lane!"

"WHEN GRAVE BAW BEESE, THE INDIAN CHIEF,
HAD BEADED THE NECK OF THE PALE-FACE MISS."

Now any time, from night till morn,

Or morn till night, for a long time-flight,

Had the patient squaws their children borne;

And many a callow, coppery wight

Had oped his eyes to the tree-flecked light,

And grown to the depths of the woodland dell

And the hunt of the toilsome hills as well

As though at his soul a bow were slung,

And a war-whoop tattooed on his tongue;

But never before, in the Tiffin's sight,

Had a travail bloomed with a blossom of white.

And the fire-tanned logger no longer pressed

His yoke-bound steeds and his furnace fire;

And the gray-linked log-chain drooped to rest,

And a hard face softened with sweet desire;

And the settler-housewife, rudely wise,

With the forest's shrewdness in her eyes,

Yearned, with tenderly wondering brain,

For the new-born baby over at Lane.

And the mother lay in her languid bed,

When the flock of visitors had fled—

When the crowd of settlers all had gone,

And left the young lioness alone

With the tiny cub they had come to see

In the rude-built log menagerie;

When grave Baw Beese, the Indian chief,

As courtly as ever prince in his prime,

Or cavalier of the olden time,

Making his visit kind as brief,

Had beaded the neck of the pale-face miss,

And dimpled her cheek with a farewell kiss;

When the rough-clad room was still as sleek,

Save the deaf old nurse's needle-click,

The beat of the grave clock in its place,

With its ball-tipped tail and owl-like face,

And the iron tea-kettle's droning song

Through its Roman nose so black and long,

The mother lifted her baby's head,

And gave it a clinging kiss, and said:

Why did thou come so straight to me,

Thou queer one?

Thou might have gone where riches be,

Thou dear one!

For when 'twas talked about in heaven,

To whom the sweet soul should be given,

If thou had raised thy pretty voice,

God sure had given to thee a choice,

My dear one, my queer one!

"Babe in the wood" thou surely art,

My lone one:

But thou shalt never play the part,

My own one!

Thou ne'er shalt wander up and down,

With none to claim thee as their own;

Nor shall the Redbreast, as she grieves,

Make up for thee a bed of leaves,

My own one, my lone one!

Although thou be not Riches' flower,

Thou neat one,

Yet thou hast come from Beauty's bower,

Thou sweet one!

Thy every smile's as warm and bright

As if a diamond mocked its light;

Thy every tear's as pure a pearl

As if thy father was an earl,

Thou neat one, thou sweet one!

And thou shalt have a queenly name,

Thou grand one:

A lassie's christening's half her fame,

Thou bland one!

And may thou live so good and true,

The honor will but be thy due;

And friends shall never be ashamed,

Or when or where they hear thee named,

Thou bland one, thou grand one!

E'en like the air—our rule and sport—

Thou meek one,

Thou art my burden and support,

Thou weak one!

Like manna in the wilderness,

A joy hath come to soothe and bless:

But 'tis a sorrow unto me,

To love as I am loving thee,

Thou weak one, thou meek one!

The scarlet-coated child-thief waits,

Thou bright one,

To bear thee through the sky-blue gates,

Thou light one!

His feverish touch thy brow may pain,

And while I to my sad lips strain

The sheath of these bright-beaming eyes,

The blade may flash back to the skies,

Thou light one, thou bright one!

And if thou breast the morning storm,

Thou fair one,

And gird a woman's thrilling form,

Thou rare one:

Sly hounds of sin thy path will trace,

And on thy unsuspecting face

Hot lust will rest its tarnished eyes,

And thou wilt need be worldly-wise,

Thou rare one, thou fair one!

O that the heaven that smiles to-day,

My blest one,

May give thee light to see thy way,

My best one!

That when around thee creeps The Gloom,

The gracious God will call thee home,

And then, increased a hundredfold,

Thou proudly hand Him back His gold,

My best one, my blest one!

II.

A word went over the many miles

Of the well-tilled land where the Tiffin smiles,

And sought no youthful ear in vain:

"There's a wedding a-coming off at Lane!"

They stood in the shade of the western door—

Father, mother, and daughter one—

And gazed, as they oft had gazed before,

At the downward glide of the western sun.

The rays of his never-jealous light

Made even the cloud that dimmed him bright;

And lower he bent, and kissed, as he stood,

The lips of the distant blue-eyed wood.

And just as the tired sun bowed his head,

The sun-browned farmer sighed, and said:

And so you'll soon be goin' away,

My darling little Bess;

And you ha' been to the store to-day,

To buy your weddin'-dress;

And so your dear good mother an' I,

Whose love you long have known,

Must lay the light o' your presence by,

And walk the road alone.

So come to-night, with mother and me,

To the porch for an hour or two,

And sit on your old father's knee,

And talk, as we used to do;

For we, who ha' loved you many a year,

And clung to you, strong and true,

Since we've had the young Professor here,

Have not had much of you!

But lovers be lovers, while earth endures;

And once on a time, be it known,

I helped a girl with eyes like yours

Construct a world of our own;

And we laid it out in a garden spot,

And dwelt in the midst of flowers;

Till we found that the world was a good-sized lot,

And most of it wasn't ours!

You're heavier, girl, than when you come

To us one cloudy day,

And seemed to feel so little at home,

We feared you wouldn't stay;

Till I knew the danger was passed, because

You'd struck so mortal a track,

And got so independent an' cross,

God never would let you back!

But who would ever ha' had the whim,

When you lay in my arms an' cried,

You'd some day sit here, pretty an' prim,

A-waitin' to be a bride!

But lovers be lovers, while earth goes on,

And marry, as they ought;

And if you would keep the love you've won,

Remember what you've been taught:

Look first that your wedded lives be true,

With naught from the other apart;

For the flowers of true love never grew

In the soil of a faithless heart.

Look next that the buds of health shall rest

Their blossoms upon your cheek;

For life and love are a burden at best,

If the body be sick and weak.

Look next that your kitchen fire be bright,

And your hands be neat and skilled;

For the love of man oft takes its flight,

If his stomach be not well filled!

Look next that your money is fairly earned,

Ere ever it be spent;

For comfort and love, however turned,

Will ne'er pay six per cent.

And, next, due care and diligence keep

That the mind be trained and fed;

For blessings ever look shabby and cheap,

That light on an empty head.

And if it shall please the gracious God

That children to you belong,

Remember, my child, and spare the rod

Till you've taught them right and wrong;

And show 'em, that though this life's a start

For the better world, no doubt,

Yet earth an' heaven ain't so far apart

As many good folks make out!

III.

A word went over the broad hill-sweeps

Of the listening land where the Tiffin creeps:

"She married, holding on high her head;

But the groom was false as the vows he said;

With lies and crimes his days are checked;

The girl is alone, and her life is wrecked."

The midnight rested its heavy arm

Upon the grief-encumbered farm;

And hoarse-voiced Sorrow wandered at will,

Like a moan when the summer's night is still;

And the spotted cows, with bellies of white,

And well-filled teats all crowded awry,

Stood in the black stalls of the night,

Nor herded nor milked, and wondered why.

And the house was gloomy, still, and cold;

And the hard-palmed farmer, newly old,

Sat in an unfrequented place,

Hiding e'en from the dark his face;

And a solemn silence rested long

On all, save the cricket's dismal song.

"HIDING E'EN FROM THE DARK HIS FACE."

But the mother drew the girl to her breast,

And gave to her spirit words of rest:

Come to my lap, my wee-grown baby; rest you upon my knee;

You have been traveling toward the light, and drawing away from me;

You turned your face from my dark path to catch the light o' the sun,

And 'tis no more nor less, my child, than children ever have done.

So you joined hands with one you loved, when we to the cross-road came,

And went your way, as Heaven did say, and who but Heaven to blame?

You must not weep that he you chose was all the time untrue,

Or stab with hate the man whose heart you thought was made for you.

The love God holds for your bright soul is more to get and give

Than all the love of all of the men while He may bid them live.

So let your innocence stanch the wound made by another's guilt;

For Vengeance' blade was ever made with neither guard nor hilt!

Who will avenge you, darling? The sun that shines on high.

He will paint the picture of your wrongs before the great world's eye.

He will look upon your sweet soul, in its pure mantle of white,

Till it shine upon your enemies, and dazzle all their sight.

He'll come each day to point his finger at him who played the knave;

And 'tis denied from him to hide, excepting in the grave.

Who will avenge you, darling? Your sister, the sky above.

Each cloud she floats above you shall be a token of love;

She will bend o'er you at night-fall her pure broad breast of blue,

And every gem that glitters there shall flash a smile to you.

And all her great wide distances to your good name belong;

'Tis not so far from star to star as 'twixt the right and wrong!

Who will avenge you, darling? All the breezes that blow.

They will whisper to each other your tale of guiltless woe;

The perfumes that do load them your innocence shall bless,

And they will soothe your aching brow with pitying, kind caress.

They will sweep away the black veil that hangs about your fame:

There is no cloud that long can shroud a virtuous woman's name.

"E'EN IN YOUR DESOLATION YOU ARE NOT QUITE UNBLEST:
NOT ALL WHO CHOOSE MAY COUNT THEIR WOES
UPON A MOTHER'S BREAST."

Who will avenge you, darling? The one who proved untrue.

His memory must undo him, whate'er his will may do;

The pitch-black night will come when he must meet Remorse alone;

He will rush at your avenging as if it were his own.

His every sin is but a knot that yet shall hold him fast;

For guilty hands but twine the strands that fetter them at last.

Lay thee aside thy grief, darling!—lay thee aside thy grief!

And Happiness will cheer thee beyond all thy belief!

As oft as winter comes summer, as sure as night comes day,

And as swift as sorrow cometh, so swift it goeth away!

E'en in your desolation you are not quite unblest:

Not all who choose may count their woes upon a mother's breast.

[ROB, THE PAUPER.]

I.

Rob, the Pauper, is loose again.

Through the fields and woods he races.

He shuns the women, he beats the men,

He kisses the children's frightened faces.

There is no mother he hath not fretted;

There is no child he hath not petted;

There is no house, by road or lane,

He did not tap at the window-pane,

And make more dark the dismal night,

And set the faces within with white.

Rob, the Pauper, is wild of eye,

Wild of speech, and wild of thinking;

Over his forehead broad and high,

Each with each wild locks are linking.

Yet, there is something in his bearing

Not quite what a pauper should be wearing:

In every step is a shadow of grace;

The ghost of a beauty haunts his face;

The rags half-sheltering him to-day,

Hang not on him in a beggarly way.

Rob, the Pauper, is crazed of brain:

The world is a lie to his shattered seeming.

No woman is true unless insane;

No man but is full of lecherous scheming.

Woe to the wretch, of whate'er calling,

That crouches beneath his cudgel's falling!

Pity the wife, howe'er high-born,

Who wilts beneath his words of scorn!

But youngsters, he caresses as wild

As a mother would kiss a rescued child.

"HIMSELF ON THE DOOR-STONE IDLY SITTING,
A BLONDE-HAIRED WOMAN ABOUT HIM FLITTING."

He hath broke him loose from his poor-house cell;

He hath dragged him clear from rope and fetter.

They might have thought; for they know full well

They could keep a half-caged panther better.

Few are the knots so strategy-shunning

That they can escape his maniac cunning;

Many a stout bolt strives in vain

To bar his brawny shoulders' strain;

The strongest men in town agree

That the Pauper is good for any three.

He hath crossed the fields, the woods, the street:

He hides in the swamp his wasted feature;

The frog leaps over his bleeding feet;

The turtle crawls from the frightful creature.

The loud mosquito, hungry-flying,

For his impoverished blood is crying;

The scornful hawk's loud screaming sneer

Falls painfully upon his ear;

And close to his unstartled eye,

The rattlesnake creeps noisily by.

He hath fallen into a slough of sleep;

A haze of the past bends softly o'er him;

His restless spirit a watch doth keep,

As Memory's canvas glides before him.

Through slumber's distances he travels;

The tangled skein of his mind unravels;

The bright past dawns through a cloud of dreams,

And once again in his prime he seems;

For over his heart's lips, as a kiss,

Sweepeth a vision like to this:

A cozy kitchen, a smooth-cut lawn,

A zephyr of flowers in the bright air straying;

A graceful child, as fresh as dawn,

Upon the greensward blithely playing;

Himself on the door-stone idly sitting,

A blonde-haired woman about him flitting.

She dreamily stands beside him there,

And deftly toys with his coal-black hair,

And hovers about him with her eyes,

And whispers to him, pleading-wise:

O Rob, why will you plague my heart? why will you try me so?

Is she so fair, is she so sweet, that you must need desert me?

I saw you kiss her twice and thrice behind the maple row,

And each caress you gave to her did like a dagger hurt me.

Why should for her and for her smiles your heart a moment hunger?

What though her shape be trim as mine, her face a trifle younger?

She does not look so young to you as I when we were wed;

She can not speak more sweet to you than words that I have said;

She can not love you half so well as I, when all is done;

And she is not your wedded wife—the mother of your son.

O Rob, you smile and toss your head; you mock me in your soul;

You say I would be overwise—that I am jealous of you;

And what if my tight-bended heart should spring beyond control?

My jealous tongue but tells the more the zeal with which I love you.

Oh, we might be so peaceful here, with nothing of reproving

Oh, we might be so happy here, with none to spoil our loving!

Why should a joy be more a joy because, forsooth, 'tis hid?

How can a kiss be more a kiss because it is forbid?

Why should the love you get from her be counted so much gain,

When every smile you give to her but adds unto my pain?

O Rob, you say there is no guilt betwixt the girl and you:

Do you not know how slack of vows may break the bond that's dearest?

You twirl a plaything in your hand, not minding what you do,

And first you know it flies from you, and strikes the one that's nearest.

So do not spoil so hopelessly you ne'er may cease your ruing;

The finger-post of weakened vows points only to undoing.

Remember there are years to come, and there are thorns of woe

That you may grasp if once you let the flowers of true love go;

Remember the increasing bliss of marriage undefiled;

Remember all the pride or shame that waits for yonder child!

"HE RUNS AND STUMBLES, LEAPS AND CLAMBERS,
THROUGH THE DENSE THICKET'S BREATHLESS CHAMBERS."

II.

Rob, the Pauper, awakes and runs;

A clamor cometh clear and clearer.

They are hunting him with dogs and guns;

They are every moment pressing nearer.

Through pits of stagnant pools he pushes,

Through the thick sumac's poison-bushes;

He runs and stumbles, leaps and clambers,

Through the dense thicket's breathless chambers.

The swamp-slime stains at his bloody tread;

The tamarack branches rasp his head;

From bog to bog, and from slough to slough,

He flees, but his foes come yelling nearer;

And ever unto his senses now,

The long-drawn bay of the hounds is clearer.

He is worn and worried, hot and panting;

He staggers at every footstep's planting;

The hot blood races through his brain;

His every breath is a twinge of pain;

Black shadows dance before his eyes;

The echoes mock his agony-cries.

They have hunted him to the open field;

He is falling upon their worn-out mercies.

They loudly call to him to yield;

He hoarsely pays them back in curses.

His blood-shot eye is wildly roaming;

His firm-set mouth with rage is foaming;

He waves his cudgel, with war-cry loud,

And dares the bravest of the crowd.

There springs at his throat a hungry hound;

He dashes its brains into the ground.

Rob, the Pauper, is sorely pressed;

The men are crowding all around him.

He crushes one to a bloody rest,

And breaks again from the crowd that bound him.

The crash of a pistol comes unto him—

A well-sped ball goes crushing through him;

But still he rushes on—yet on—

Until, at last, some distance won,

He mounts a fence with a madman's ease,

And this is something of what he sees:

A lonely cottage, some tangled grass,

Thickets of thistles, dock, and mullein;

A forest of weeds he scarce can pass,

A broken chimney, cold and sullen;

Trim housewife-ants, with rush uncertain,

The spider hanging her gauzy curtain.

The Pauper falls on the dusty floor,

And there rings in his failing ear once more

A voice as it might be from the dead,

And says, as it long ago hath said:

O Rob, I have a word to say—a cruel word—to you:

I can not longer live a lie—the truth for air is calling!

I can not keep the secret locked that long has been your due,

Not if you strike me to the ground, and spurn me in my falling!

He came to me when first a cloud across your smile was creeping—

He came to me—he brought to me a slighted heart for keeping;

He would not see my angry frown; he sought me, day by day;

I flung at him hot words of scorn, I turned my face away.

I bade him dread my husband's rage when once his words were known:

He smiled at me, and said I had no husband of my own!

O Rob, his words were overtrue! they burned into my brain!

I could not rub them out again, were I awake or sleeping!

I saw you kiss her twice and thrice—my chidings were in vain—

And well I knew your wayward heart had wandered from my keeping.

I counted all that was at stake—I bribed my pride with duty;

I knelt before your manly face, in worship of its beauty;

I painted pictures for your eyes you were too blind to see;

I worked at all the trades of love, to earn you back to me;

I threw myself upon your heart; I pleaded long to stay;

I held my hands to you for help—you pushed them both away!

He came to me again; he held his eager love to me—

To me, whose weak and hungry heart deep desolation dreaded!

And I had learned to pity him; but still my will was free,

And once again I threatened him, and warned him I was wedded.

He bade me follow him, and see my erring fancy righted:

We crept along a garden glade by moonbeams dimly lighted;

She silent sat 'mid clustering vines, though much her eyes did speak,

And your black hair was tightly pressed unto her glowing cheek....

It crazed me, but he soothed me sweet with love's unnumbered charms;

I, desolate, turned and threw myself into his desolate arms!

O Rob, you know how little worth, when once a woman slips,

May be the striking down a hand to save herself from falling!

Once more my heart groped for your heart, my tired lips sought your lips:

But 'twas too late—'twas after dark—and you were past recalling.

'Tis hard to claim what once is given; my foe was unrelenting;

Vain were the tempests of my rage, the mists of my repenting.

The night was dark, the storm had come, the fancy-stars of youth

Were covered over by the thick unfading cloud of truth;

So one by one my hopes went back, each hid its pale white face,

Till all was dark, and all was drear, and all was black disgrace.

O Rob, good-by; a solemn one!—'tis till the Judgment-day.

You look about you for the boy? You never more shall see him.

He's crying for his father now full many miles away;

For he is mine—you need not rage—you can not find or free him.

We might have been so peaceful here, with nothing of reproving—

We might have been so happy here, with none to spoil our loving—

As I, a guilty one, might kiss a corpse's waiting brow,

I bend to you where you have fallen, and calmly kiss you now;

As I, a wronged and injured one, might seek escape's glad door,

I wander forth into the world, to enter here no more.

III.

Rob, the Pauper, is lying in state.

In a box of rough-planed boards, unpainted,

He waits at the poor-house graveyard gate,

For a home by human lust untainted.

They are crowding round and closely peering

At the face of the foe who is past their fearing;

The men lift children up to see

The arms of the man who was good for three;

The women gaze and hold their breath,

For the man looks kingly even in death.

They have gone to their homes anear and far—

Their joys and griefs, their loves and hating:

Some to sunder the ties that are,

And some to cooing and wooing and mating.

They will pet and strike, they will strive and blunder,

And leer at their woes with innocent wonder;

They will swiftly sail love's delicate bark,

With never a helm, in the dangerous dark;

They will ne'er quite get it understood

That the Pauper's woes were for their good.

[THE THREE LOVERS.]

Here's a precept, young man, you should follow with care:

If you're courting a girl, court her honest and square.

Mr. 'Liakim Smith was a hard-fisted farmer,

Of moderate wealth,

And immoderate health,

Who fifty-odd years, in a stub-and-twist armor

Of callus and tan,

Had fought like a man

His own dogged progress, through trials and cares,

And log-heaps and brush-heaps and wild-cats and bears,

And agues and fevers and thistles and briers,

Poor kinsmen, rich foemen, false saints, and true liars;

Who oft, like the "man in our town," overwise,

Through the brambles of error had scratched out his eyes,

And when the unwelcome result he had seen,

Had altered his notion,

Reversing the motion,

And scratched them both in again, perfect and clean;

Who had weathered some storms, as a sailor might say,

And tacked to the left and the right of his way,

Till he found himself anchored, past tempests and breakers,

Upon a good farm of a hundred-odd acres.

As for 'Liakim's wife, in four words may be told

Her whole standing in life:

She was 'Liakim's wife.

Whereas she'd been young, she was now growing old,

But did, she considered, as well as one could,

When HE looked on her hard work, and saw that 'twas good.

The family record showed only a daughter;

But she had a face,

As if each fabled Grace

In a burst of delight to her bosom had caught her,

Or as if all the flowers in each Smith generation

Had blossomed at last in one grand culmination.

Style lingered unconscious in all of her dresses;

She'd starlight for glances, and sunbeams for tresses.

Wherever she went, with her right royal tread,

Each youth, when he'd passed her a bit, turned his head;

And so one might say, though the figure be strained,

She had turned half the heads that the township contained.

Now Bess had a lover—a monstrous young hulk;

A farmer by trade—

Strong, sturdy, and staid;

A man of good parts—if you counted by bulk;

A man of great weight—by the scales; and, indeed,

A man of some depth—as was shown by his feed.

His face was a fat exclamation of wonder;

His voice was not quite unsuggestive of thunder;

His laugh was a cross 'twixt a yell and a chuckle;

He'd a number one foot,

And a number ten boot,

And a knock-down reserved in each separate knuckle.

He'd a heart mad in love with the girl of his choice,

Who made him alternately mope and rejoice,

By dealing him one day discouraging messes,

And soothing him next day with smiles and caresses.

Now Bess had a lover, who hoped her to wed—

A rising young lawyer—more rising than read;

Whose theories all were quite startling; and who,

Like many a chap

In these days of strange hap,

Was living on what he expected to do;

While his landlady thought 'twould have been rather neat

Could he only have learned,

Till some practice was earned,

To subsist upon what he expected to eat.

He was bodily small, howe'er mentally great,

And suggestively less than a hundred in weight.

Now Bess had a lover—young Patrick; a sinner,

And lad of all work,

From the suburbs of Cork,

Who worked for her father, and thought he could win her.

And if Jacob could faithful serve fourteen years through,

And still thrive and rejoice,

For the girl of his choice,

He thought he could play at that game one or two.

Now 'Liakim Smith had a theory hid,

And by egotism fed,

Somewhere up in his head,

That a dutiful daughter should always as bid

Grow old in the service of him who begot her,

Imbibe his beliefs,

Have a care for his griefs,

And faithfully bring him his cider and water.

So, as might be expected, he turned up his nose,

Also a cold shoulder, to Bessie's two beaux;

And finally turned them away from his door,

Forbidding them ever to enter it more;

And detailed young Patrick as kind of a guard,

With orders to keep them both out of the yard.

So Pat took his task, with a treacherous smile,

And bullied the small one,

And dodged the big tall one,

And slyly made love to Miss Bess all the while.

But one evening, when 'Liakim and wife crowned their labors

With praise and entreating

At the village prayer-meeting,

And Patrick had stepped for a while to some neighbor's,

The lawyer had come, in the trimmest of dress,

And, dapper and slim,

And small, e'en for him,

Was holding a session of court with Miss Bess.

And Bess, sly love-athlete, was suited first rate

At a flirtation-mill with this legal light-weight;

And was listening to him, as minutes spun on,

Of pleas he could make,

And of fees he would take,

And of suits that he should, in the future, have won;

When just as the cold, heartless clock counted eight,

Miss Bessie's quick ear caught a step at the gate.

"'Tis mother!" she cried: "oh, go quick, I implore!

But father'll drive 'round and come in the back-door!

You can not escape them, however you turn!

So hide for a while—let me see—in this churn!"

The churn was quite large enough for him to turn in—

Expanded out so,

By machinery to go,

'Twould have done for a dairy-man-Cyclops to churn in.

'Twas fixed for attaching a pitman or lever,

To go by a horse-power—a notion quite clever,

Invented and built by the Irishman, Pat,

Who pleased Mrs. 'Liakim hugely by that.

The lawyer went into the case with much ease,

And hugged the belief

That the cause would be brief,

And settled himself down with hardly a squeeze.

And Bess said, "Keep still, for there's plenty of room,"

And shut down the cover, and left him in gloom.

But scarcely were matters left decently so,

In walked—not her mother,

But—worry and bother!—

The mammoth young farmer, whose first name was Joe.

And he gleefully sung, in a heavy bass tone,

Which came in one note

From the depths of his throat,

"I'm glad I have come, since I've found you alone.

Let's sit here a while, by this kerosene light,

An' spark it a while now with all of our might."

And Bessie was willing; and so they sat down,

The maiden so fair and the farmer so brown.

They talked of things great, and they talked of things small,

Which none could condemn,

And which may have pleased them,

But which did not interest the lawyer at all;

And Bessie seemed giving but little concern

To the feelings of him she had shut in the churn.

"AND BESS SAID, 'KEEP STILL, FOR THERE'S PLENTY OF ROOM,'
AND SHUT DOWN THE COVER, AND LEFT HIM IN GLOOM."

Till Bessie just artlessly mentioned the man,

And Joe with a will to abuse him began,

And called him full many an ignoble name,

Appertaining to "Scrubby,"

And "Shorty," and "Stubby,"

And other descriptions not wide of the same;

And Bessie said naught in the lawyer's behalf,

But seconded Joe, now and then, with a laugh;

And the lawyer said nothing, but winked at his fate,

And, somewhat abashed,

And decidedly dashed,

Accepted Joe's motions sans vote or debate.

And several times he, with policy stern,

Repressed a desire to break out of the churn,

Well knowing he thus might get savagely used,

And if not quite eaten,

Would likely be beaten,

And probably injured as well as abused.

But now came another quick step at the door,

And Bessie was fearful, the same as before;

And tumbling Joe over a couple of chairs,

With a general sound

Of thunder all 'round,

She hurried him up a short pair of back-stairs;

And close in the garret condemned him to wait

Till orders from her, be it early or late.

Then tripping her way down the staircase, she said,

"I'll smuggle them off when the folks get to bed."

It was not her parents; 'twas crafty young Pat,

Returned from his visit; and straightway he sat

Beside her, remarking, The chairs were in place,

So he would sit near her, and view her sweet face.

So gayly they talked, as the minutes fast flew,

Discussing such matters as both of them knew,

While often Miss Bessie's sweet laugh answered back,

For Pat, be it known,

Had some wit of his own,

And in irony's efforts was sharp as a tack.

And finally Bessie his dancing tongue led,

By a sly dextrous turn,

To the man in the churn,

And the farmer, who eagerly listened o'erhead;

Whereat the young Irishman volubly gave

A short dissertation,

Whose main information

Was that one was a fool, and the other a knave.

"SEVERAL TIMES HE, WITH POLICY STERN,
REPRESSED A DESIRE TO BREAK OUT OF THE CHURN."

Slim chance there must be for the world e'er to learn

How pleasant this was to the man in the churn;

Though, to borrow a figure lent by his position,

He was doubtless in somewhat a worked-up condition.

It ne'er may be sung, and it ne'er may be said,

How well it was liked by the giant o'erhead.

He lay on a joist—for there wasn't any floor—

And the joists were so few,

And so far apart too,

He could not, in comfort, preempt any more;

And he nearly had knocked through the plastering quite,

And challenged young Pat to a fair and square fight;

But he dared not do elsewise than Bessie had said,

For fear, as a lover, he might lose his head.

But now from the meeting the old folks returned,

And sat by the stove as the fire brightly burned;

And Patrick came in from the care of the team;

And since in the house there was overmuch cream,

He thought that the horses their supper might earn,

And leave him full way

To plow early next day,

By working that night for a while at the churn.

The old folks consented; and Patrick went out,

Half chuckling; for he had a shrewd Irish doubt,

From various slight sounds he had chanced to discern,

That Bess had a fellow shut up in that churn.

The lawyer, meanwhile, in his hiding-place cooped,

Low-grunted and hitched and contorted and stooped,

But hung to the place like a man in a dream;

And when the young Irishman went for the team,

To stay or to fly, he could hardly tell which;

But hoping to get

Neatly out of it yet,

He concluded to hang till the very last hitch.

The churn was one side of the house, recollect,

So rods with the horse-power outside could connect;

And Bess stood so near that she took the lamp's gleam in

While her mother was cheerfully pouring the cream in;

Who, being near-sighted, and minding her cup,

Had no notion of what she was covering up;

But the lawyer, meanwhile, had he dared to have spoke,

Would have owned that he saw the whole cream of the joke.

"AND THERE HIS PLUMP LIMBS THROUGH THE ORIFICE SWUNG."

But just as the voice of young Patrick came strong

And clear through the window, "All ready! go 'long!"

And just as the dasher its motion began,

Stirred up by its knocks,

Like a jack-in-the-box

He jumped from his damp, dripping prison—and ran;

And made a frog-leap o'er the stove and a chair,

With some crisp Bible words not intended as prayer.

All over the kitchen he rampaged and tore,

And ran against everything there but the door;

Tipped over old 'Liakim flat on his back,

And left a long trail of rich cream on his track.

"Ou! ou! 'tis a ghost!" quavered 'Liakim's wife;

"A ghost, if I ever saw one in my life!"

"The devil!" roared 'Liakim, rubbing his shin.

"No! no!" shouted Patrick, who just then came in:

"It's only a lawyer: the devil ne'er runs—

To bring on him a laugh—

In the shape of a calf;

It isn't the devil; it's one of his sons!

If so that the spalpeen had words he could utther.

He'd swear he loved Bessie, an' loved no one butther."

Now Joe lay full length on the scantling o'erhead,

And tried to make out

What it all was about,

By list'ning to all that was done and was said;

But somehow his balance became uncontrolled,

And he on the plastering heavily rolled.

It yielded instanter, came down with a crash,

And fell on the heads of the folks with a smash.

And there his plump limbs through the orifice swung,

And he caught by the arms and disgracefully hung,

His ponderous body, so clumsy and thick,

Wedged into that posture as tight as a brick.

And 'Liakim Smith, by amazement made dumb

At those legs in the air

Hanging motionless there,

Concluded that this time the devil had come;

And seizing a chair, he belabored them well,

While the head pronounced words that no printer would spell.

And there let us leave them, 'mid outcry and clatter,

To come to their wits, and then settle the matter;

And take for the moral this inference fair: