A Child World

J >> James Whitcomb Riley >> A Child World

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A scrap of paper with a rhyme
Scrawled upon it of summertime:
A pencil-sketch of a dairy-maid,
Under a farmhouse porch's shade,
Working merrily; and was blent
With her glad features such sweet content,
That a song she sung in the lines below
Seemed delightfully _apropos_:--

SONG

"Why do I sing--Tra-la-la-la-la!
Glad as a King?--Tra-la-la-la-la!
Well, since you ask,--
I have such a pleasant task,
I can not help but sing!

"Why do I smile--Tra-la-la-la-la!
Working the while?--Tra-la-la-la-la!
Work like this is play,--
So I'm playing all the day--
I can not help but smile!

"So, If you please--Tra-la-la-la-la!
Live at your ease!--Tra-la-la-la-la!
You've only got to turn,
And, you see, its bound to churn--
I can not help but please!"

The farmer pondered and scratched his head,
Reading over each mystic word.--
"Some o' the Dreamer's work!" he said--
"Ah, here's more--and name and date
In his hand-write'!"--And the good man read,--
"'Patent applied for, July third,
Eighteen hundred and forty-eight'!"
The fragment fell from his nerveless grasp--
His awed lips thrilled with the joyous gasp:
"I see the p'int to the whole concern,--
He's studied out a patent churn!"

FLORETTY'S MUSICAL CONTRIBUTION

All seemed delighted, though the elders more,
Of course, than were the children.--Thus, before
Much interchange of mirthful compliment,
The story-teller said _his_ stories "went"
(Like a bad candle) _best_ when they went _out_,--
And that some sprightly music, dashed about,
Would _wholly_ quench his "glimmer," and inspire
Far brighter lights.

And, answering this desire,
The flutist opened, in a rapturous strain
Of rippling notes--a perfect April-rain
Of melody that drenched the senses through;--
Then--gentler--gentler--as the dusk sheds dew,
It fell, by velvety, staccatoed halts,
Swooning away in old "Von Weber's Waltz."
Then the young ladies sang "Isle of the Sea"--
In ebb and flow and wave so billowy,--
Only with quavering breath and folded eyes
The listeners heard, buoyed on the fall and rise
Of its insistent and exceeding stress
Of sweetness and ecstatic tenderness ...
With lifted finger _yet_, Remembrance--List!--
"_Beautiful isle of the sea!_" wells in a mist
Of tremulous ...

... After much whispering
Among the children, Alex came to bring
Some kind of _letter_--as it seemed to be--
To Cousin Rufus. This he carelessly
Unfolded--reading to himself alone,--
But, since its contents became, later, known,
And no one "_plagued_ so _awful_ bad," the same
May here be given--of course without full name,
Fac-simile, or written kink or curl
Or clue. It read:--

"Wild Roved an indian Girl
Brite al Floretty"
deer freind
I now take
*this* These means to send that _Song_ to you & make
my Promus good to you in the Regards
Of doing What i Promust afterwards,
the _notes_ & _Words_ is both here _Printed_ SOS
you *kin* can git _uncle Mart_ to read you *them* those
& cousin Rufus you can git to _Play_
the _notes_ fur you on eny Plezunt day
His Legul Work aint *Pressin* Pressing.
Ever thine
As shore as the Vine
doth the Stump intwine
thou art my Lump of Sackkerrine
Rinaldo Rinaldine
the Pirut in Captivity.

... There dropped
Another square scrap.--But the hand was stopped
That reached for it--Floretty suddenly
Had set a firm foot on her property--
Thinking it was the _letter_, not the _song_,--
But blushing to discover she was wrong,
When, with all gravity of face and air,
Her precious letter _handed_ to her there
By Cousin Rufus left her even more
In apprehension than she was before.
But, testing his unwavering, kindly eye,
She seemed to put her last suspicion by,
And, in exchange, handed the song to him.--

A page torn from a song-book: Small and dim
Both notes and words were--but as plain as day
They seemed to him, as he began to play--
And plain to _all_ the singers,--as he ran
An airy, warbling prelude, then began
Singing and swinging in so blithe a strain,
That every voice rang in the old refrain:
From the beginning of the song, clean through,
Floretty's features were a study to
The flutist who "read _notes_" so readily,
Yet read so little of the mystery
Of that face of the girl's.--Indeed _one_ thing
Bewildered him quite into worrying,
And that was, noticing, throughout it all,
The Hired Man shrinking closer to the wall,
She ever backing toward him through the throng
Of barricading children--till the song
Was ended, and at last he saw her near
Enough to reach and take him by the ear
And pinch it just a pang's worth of her ire
And leave it burning like a coal of fire.
He noticed, too, in subtle pantomime
She seemed to dust him off, from time to time;
And when somebody, later, asked if she
Had never heard the song before--"What! _me?_"
She said--then blushed again and smiled,--
"I've knowed that song sence _Adam_ was a child!--
It's jes a joke o' this-here man's.--He's learned
To _read_ and _write_ a little, and its turned
His fool-head some--That's all!"

And then some one
Of the loud-wrangling boys said--"_Course_ they's none
No more, _these_ days!--They's Fairies _ust_ to be,
But they're all dead, a hunderd years!" said he.

"Well, there's where you're _mustakened_!"--in reply
They heard Bud's voice, pitched sharp and thin and high.--

"An' how you goin' to _prove_ it!"

"Well, I _kin_!"
Said Bud, with emphasis,--"They's one lives in
Our garden--and I _see_ 'im wunst, wiv my
Own eyes--_one_ time I did."

"_Oh, what a lie_!"
--"'_Sh!_'"

"Well, nen," said the skeptic--seeing there
The older folks attracted--"Tell us _where_
You saw him, an' all _'bout_ him!'

"Yes, my son.--
If you tell 'stories,' you may tell us one,"
The smiling father said, while Uncle Mart,
Behind him, winked at Bud, and pulled apart
His nose and chin with comical grimace--
Then sighed aloud, with sanctimonious face,--
"'_How good and comely it is to see
Children and parents in friendship agree!_'--
You fire away, Bud, on your Fairy-tale--
Your _Uncle's_ here to back you!"

Somewhat pale,
And breathless as to speech, the little man
Gathered himself. And thus his story ran.

BUD'S FAIRY-TALE

Some peoples thinks they ain't no Fairies _now_
No more yet!--But they _is_, I bet! 'Cause ef
They _wuzn't_ Fairies, nen I' like to know
Who'd w'ite 'bout Fairies in the books, an' tell
What Fairies _does_, an' how their _picture_ looks,
An' all an' ever'thing! W'y, ef they don't
Be Fairies anymore, nen little boys
'U'd ist _sleep_ when they go to sleep an' wont
Have ist no dweams at all,--'Cause Fairies--_good_
Fairies--they're a-purpose to make dweams!
But they _is_ Fairies--an' I _know_ they is!
'Cause one time wunst, when its all Summertime,
An' don't haf to be no fires in the stove
Er fireplace to keep warm wiv--ner don't haf
To wear old scwatchy flannen shirts at all,
An' aint no fweeze--ner cold--ner snow!--An'--an'
Old skweeky twees got all the gween leaves on
An' ist keeps noddin', noddin' all the time,
Like they 'uz lazy an' a-twyin' to go
To sleep an' couldn't, 'cause the wind won't quit
A-blowin' in 'em, an' the birds won't stop
A-singin' so's they _kin_.--But twees _don't_ sleep,
I guess! But _little boys_ sleeps--an' _dweams_, too.--
An' that's a sign they's Fairies.

So, one time,
When I ben playin' "Store" wunst over in
The shed of their old stable, an' Ed Howard
He maked me quit a-bein' pardners, 'cause
I dwinked the 'tend-like sody-water up
An' et the shore-nuff cwackers.--W'y, nen I
Clumbed over in our garden where the gwapes
Wuz purt'-nigh ripe: An' I wuz ist a-layin'
There on th' old cwooked seat 'at Pa maked in
Our arber,--an' so I 'uz layin' there
A-whittlin' beets wiv my new dog-knife, an'
A-lookin' wite up through the twimbly leaves--
An' wuzn't 'sleep at all!--An'-sir!--first thing
You know, a little _Fairy_ hopped out there!
A _leetle-teenty Fairy!--hope-may-die!_
An' he look' down at me, he did--An' he
Ain't bigger'n a _yellerbird!_--an' he
Say "Howdy-do!" he did--an' I could _hear_
Him--ist as _plain!_

Nen _I_ say "Howdy-do!"
An' he say "_I'm_ all hunkey, Nibsey; how
Is _your_ folks comin' on?"

An' nen I say
"My name ain't '_Nibsey_,' neever--my name's _Bud_.
An' what's _your_ name?" I says to him.

An'he
Ist laugh an' say "'_Bud's_' awful _funny_ name!"
An' he ist laid back on a big bunch o' gwapes
An' laugh' an' laugh', he did--like somebody
'Uz tick-el-un his feet!

An' nen I say--
"What's _your_ name," nen I say, "afore you bust
Yo'-se'f a-laughin' 'bout _my_ name?" I says.
An' nen he dwy up laughin'--kindo' mad--
An' say "W'y, _my_ name's _Squidjicum_," he says.
An' nen _I_ laugh an' say--"_Gee!_ what a name!"
An' when I make fun of his name, like that,
He ist git awful mad an' spunky, an'
'Fore you know, he ist gwabbed holt of a vine--
A big long vine 'at's danglin' up there, an'
He ist helt on wite tight to that, an' down
He swung quick past my face, he did, an' ist
Kicked at me hard's he could!

But I'm too quick
Fer _Mr. Squidjicum!_ I ist weached out
An' ketched him, in my hand--an' helt him, too,
An' _squeezed_ him, ist like little wobins when
They can't fly yet an' git flopped out their nest.
An' nen I turn him all wound over, an'
Look at him clos't, you know--wite clos't,--'cause ef
He _is_ a Fairy, w'y, I want to see
The _wings_ he's got--But he's dwessed up so fine
'At I can't _see_ no wings.--An' all the time
He's twyin' to kick me yet: An' so I take
F'esh holts an' _squeeze_ agin--an' harder, too;
An' I says, "_Hold up, Mr. Squidjicum!_--
You're kickin' the w'ong man!" I says; an' nen
I ist _squeeze' him_, purt'-nigh my _best_, I did--
An' I heerd somepin' bust!--An' nen he cwied
An' says, "You better look out what you're doin'!--
You' bust' my spiderweb-suspen'ners, an'
You' got my woseleaf-coat all cwinkled up
So's I can't go to old Miss Hoodjicum's
Tea-party, 's'afternoon!"

An' nen I says--
"Who's 'old Miss Hoodjicum'?" I says

An'he
Says "Ef you lemme loose I'll tell you."

So
I helt the little skeezics 'way fur out
In one hand--so's he can't jump down t' th' ground
Wivout a-gittin' all stove up: an' nen
I says, "You're loose now.--Go ahead an' tell
'Bout the 'tea-party' where you're goin' at
So awful fast!" I says.

An' nen he say,--
"No use to _tell_ you 'bout it, 'cause you won't
Believe it, 'less you go there your own se'f
An' see it wiv your own two eyes!" he says.
An' _he_ says: "Ef you lemme _shore-nuff_ loose,
An' p'omise 'at you'll keep wite still, an' won't
Tetch nothin' 'at you see--an' never tell
Nobody in the world--an' lemme loose--
W'y, nen I'll _take_ you there!"

But I says, "Yes
An' ef I let you loose, you'll _run!_" I says.
An' he says "No, I won't!--I hope may die!"
Nen I says, "Cwoss your heart you won't!"

An'he
Ist cwoss his heart; an' nen I weach an' set
The little feller up on a long vine--
An' he 'uz so tickled to git loose agin,
He gwab' the vine wiv boff his little hands
An' ist take an' turn in, he did, an' skin
'Bout forty-'leven cats!

Nen when he git
Through whirlin' wound the vine, an' set on top
Of it agin, w'y nen his "woseleaf-coat"
He bwag so much about, it's ist all tored
Up, an' ist hangin' strips an' rags--so he
Look like his Pa's a dwunkard. An' so nen
When he see what he's done--a-actin' up
So smart,--he's awful mad, I guess; an' ist
Pout out his lips an' twis' his little face
Ist ugly as he kin, an' set an' tear
His whole coat off--an' sleeves an' all.--An' nen
He wad it all togevver an' ist _throw_
It at me ist as hard as he kin dwive!

An' when I weach to ketch him, an' 'uz goin'
To give him 'nuvver squeezin', _he ist flewed
Clean up on top the arber!_--'Cause, you know,
They _wuz_ wings on him--when he tored his _coat_
Clean off--they _wuz_ wings _under there_. But they
Wuz purty wobbly-like an' wouldn't work
Hardly at all--'Cause purty soon, when I
Throwed clods at him, an' sticks, an' got him shooed
Down off o' there, he come a-floppin' down
An' lit k-bang! on our old chicken-coop,
An' ist laid there a-whimper'n' like a child!
An' I tiptoed up wite clos't, an' I says "What's
The matter wiv ye, Squidjicum?"

An'he
Says: "Dog-gone! when my wings gits stwaight agin,
Where you all _cwumpled_ 'em," he says, "I bet
I'll ist fly clean away an' won't take you
To old Miss Hoodjicum's at all!" he says.
An' nen I ist weach out wite quick, I did,
An' gwab the sassy little snipe agin--
Nen tooked my topstwing an' tie down his wings
So's he _can't_ fly, 'less'n I want him to!
An' nen I says: "Now, Mr. Squidjicum,
You better ist light out," I says, "to old
Miss Hoodjicum's, an' show _me_ how to git
There, too," I says; "er ef you don't," I says,
"I'll climb up wiv you on our buggy-shed
An' push you off!" I says.

An nen he say
All wight, he'll show me there; an' tell me nen
To set him down wite easy on his feet,
An' loosen up the stwing a little where
It cut him under th' arms. An' nen he says,
"Come on!" he says; an' went a-limpin' 'long
The garden-path--an' limpin' 'long an' 'long
Tel--purty soon he come on 'long to where's
A grea'-big cabbage-leaf. An' he stoop down
An' say "Come on inunder here wiv me!"
So _I_ stoop down an' crawl inunder there,
Like he say.

An' inunder there's a grea'
Big clod, they is--a awful grea' big clod!
An' nen he says, "_Roll this-here clod away!_"
An' so I roll' the clod away. An' nen
It's all wet, where the dew'z inunder where
The old clod wuz,--an' nen the Fairy he
Git on the wet-place: Nen he say to me
"Git on the wet-place, too!" An' nen he say,
"Now hold yer breff an' shet yer eyes!" he says,
"Tel I say _Squinchy-winchy!_" Nen he say--
Somepin _in Dutch_, I guess.--An' nen I felt
Like we 'uz sinkin' down--an' sinkin' down!--
Tel purty soon the little Fairy weach
An' pinch my nose an' yell at me an' say,
"_Squinchy-winchy! Look wherever you please!_"
Nen when I looked--Oh! they 'uz purtyest place
Down there you ever saw in all the World!--
They 'uz ist _flowers_ an' _woses_--yes, an' _twees_
Wiv _blossoms_ on an' _big ripe apples_ boff!
An' butterflies, they wuz--an' hummin'-birds--
An' _yellow_birds an' _blue_birds--yes, an' _red!_--
An' ever'wheres an' all awound 'uz vines
Wiv ripe p'serve-pears on 'em!--Yes, an' all
An' ever'thing 'at's ever gwowin' in
A garden--er canned up--all ripe at wunst!--
It wuz ist like a garden--only it
'Uz _little_ tit o' garden--'bout big wound
As ist our twun'el-bed is.--An' all wound
An' wound the little garden's a gold fence--
An' little gold gate, too--an' ash-hopper
'At's all gold, too--an' ist full o' gold ashes!
An' wite in th' middle o' the garden wuz
A little gold house, 'at's ist 'bout as big
As ist a bird-cage is: An' _in_ the house
They 'uz whole-lots _more_ Fairies there--'cause I
Picked up the little house, an 'peeked in at
The winders, an' I see 'em all in there
Ist _buggin_' wound! An' Mr. Squidjicum
He twy to make me quit, but I gwab _him_,
An' poke him down the chimbly, too, I did!--
An' y'ort to see _him_ hop out 'mongst 'em there!
Ist like he 'uz the boss an' ist got back!--
_"Hain't ye got on them-air dew-dumplin's yet?"_
He says.

An' they says no.

An' nen he says
"_Better git at 'em nen!_" he says, "_wite quick--
'Cause old Miss Hoodjicum's a-comin'!_"

Nen
They all set wound a little gold tub--an'
All 'menced a-peelin' dewdwops, ist like they
'Uz _peaches_.--An', it looked so funny, I
Ist laugh' out loud, an' _dwopped_ the little house,--
An' 't busted like a soap-bubble!--An't skeered
Me so, I--I--I--I,--it skeered me so,
I--ist _waked_ up.--No! I _ain't_ ben _asleep_
An' _dream_ it all, like _you_ think,--but it's shore
Fer-certain _fact_ an' cwoss my heart it is!

A DELICIOUS INTERRUPTION

All were quite gracious in their plaudits of
Bud's Fairy; but another stir above
That murmur was occasioned by a sweet
Young lady-caller, from a neighboring street,
Who rose reluctantly to say good-night
To all the pleasant friends and the delight
Experienced,--as she had promised sure
To be back home by nine. Then paused, demure,
And wondered was it _very_ dark.--Oh, _no!_--
She had _come_ by herself and she could go
Without an _escort_. Ah, you sweet girls all!
What young gallant but comes at such a call,
Your most abject of slaves! Why, there were three
Young men, and several men of family,
Contesting for the honor--which at last
Was given to Cousin Rufus; and he cast
A kingly look behind him, as the pair
Vanished with laughter in the darkness there.

As order was restored, with everything
Suggestive, in its way, of "romancing,"
Some one observed that _now_ would be the chance
For _Noey_ to relate a circumstance
That _he_--the very specious rumor went--
Had been eye-witness of, by accident.
Noey turned pippin-crimson; then turned pale
As death; then turned to flee, without avail.--
"_There!_ head him off! _Now!_ hold him in his chair!--
Tell us the Serenade-tale, now, Noey.--_There!_"

NOEY'S NIGHT-PIECE

"They ain't much 'tale' about it!" Noey said.--
"K'tawby grapes wuz gittin' good-n-red
I rickollect; and Tubb Kingry and me
'Ud kindo' browse round town, daytime, to see
What neighbers 'peared to have the most to spare
'At wuz git-at-able and no dog there
When we come round to git 'em, say 'bout ten
O'clock at night when mostly old folks then
Wuz snorin' at each other like they yit
Helt some old grudge 'at never slep' a bit.
Well, at the _Pars'nige_--ef ye'll call to mind,--
They's 'bout the biggest grape-arber you'll find
'Most anywheres.--And mostly there, we knowed
They wuz _k'tawbies_ thick as ever growed--
And more'n they'd _p'serve_.--Besides I've heerd
Ma say k'tawby-grape-p'serves jes 'peared
A waste o' sugar, anyhow!--And so
My conscience stayed outside and lem me go
With Tubb, one night, the back-way, clean up through
That long black arber to the end next to
The house, where the k'tawbies, don't you know,
Wuz thickest. And t'uz lucky we went _slow_,--
Fer jest as we wuz cropin' tords the gray-
End, like, of the old arber--heerd Tubb say
In a skeered whisper, 'Hold up! They's some one
Jes slippin' in here!--and _looks like a gun_
He's carryin'!' I _golly!_ we both spread
Out flat aginst the ground!

"'What's that?' Tubb said.--
And jest then--'_plink! plunk! plink!_' we heerd something
Under the back-porch-winder.--Then, i jing!
Of course we rickollected 'bout the young
School-mam 'at wuz a-boardin' there, and sung,
And played on the melodium in the choir.--
And she 'uz 'bout as purty to admire
As any girl in town!--the fac's is, she
Jest _wuz_, them times, to a dead certainty,
The belle o' this-here bailywick!--But--Well,--
I'd best git back to what I'm tryin' to tell:--
It wuz some feller come to serenade
Miss Wetherell: And there he plunked and played
His old guitar, and sung, and kep' his eye
Set on her winder, blacker'n the sky!--
And black it _stayed_.--But mayby she wuz 'way
From home, er wore out--bein' _Saturday!_

"It _seemed_ a good-'eal _longer_, but I _know_
He sung and plunked there half a' hour er so
Afore, it 'peared like, he could ever git
His own free qualified consents to quit
And go off 'bout his business. When he went
I bet you could a-bought him fer a cent!

"And now, behold ye all!--as Tubb and me
Wuz 'bout to raise up,--right in front we see
A feller slippin' out the arber, square
Smack under that-air little winder where
The _other_ feller had been standin'.--And
The thing he wuz a-carryin' in his hand
Wuzn't no _gun_ at all!--It wuz a _flute_,--
And _whoop-ee!_ how it did git up and toot
And chirp and warble, tel a mockin'-bird
'Ud dast to never let hisse'f be heerd
Ferever, after sich miracalous, high
Jim-cracks and grand skyrootics played there by
Yer Cousin Rufus!--Yes-sir; it wuz him!--
And what's more,--all a-suddent that-air dim
Dark winder o' Miss Wetherell's wuz lit
Up like a' oyshture-sign, and under it
We see him sort o' wet his lips and smile
Down 'long his row o' dancin' fingers, while
He kindo' stiffened up and kinked his breath
And everlastin'ly jest blowed the peth
Out o' that-air old one-keyed flute o' his.
And, bless their hearts, that's all the 'tale' they is!"

And even as Noey closed, all radiantly
The unconscious hero of the history,
Returning, met a perfect driving storm
Of welcome--a reception strangely warm
And _unaccountable_, to _him_, although
Most _gratifying_,--and he told them so.
"I only urge," he said, "my right to be
Enlightened." And a voice said: "_Certainly:_--
During your absence we agreed that you
Should tell us all a story, old or new,
Just in the immediate happy frame of mind
We knew you would return in."

So, resigned,
The ready flutist tossed his hat aside--
Glanced at the children, smiled, and thus complied.

COUSIN RUFUS' STORY

My little story, Cousin Rufus said,
Is not so much a story as a fact.
It is about a certain willful boy--
An aggrieved, unappreciated boy,
Grown to dislike his own home very much,
By reason of his parents being not
At all up to his rigid standard and
Requirements and exactions as a son
And disciplinarian.

So, sullenly
He brooded over his disheartening
Environments and limitations, till,
At last, well knowing that the outside world
Would yield him favors never found at home,
He rose determinedly one July dawn--
Even before the call for breakfast--and,
Climbing the alley-fence, and bitterly
Shaking his clenched fist at the woodpile, he
Evanished down the turnpike.--Yes: he had,
Once and for all, put into execution
His long low-muttered threatenings--He had
_Run off!_--He had--had run away from home!

His parents, at discovery of his flight,
Bore up first-rate--especially his Pa,--
Quite possibly recalling his own youth,
And therefrom predicating, by high noon,
The absent one was very probably
Disporting his nude self in the delights
Of the old swimmin'-hole, some hundred yards
Below the slaughter-house, just east of town.
The stoic father, too, in his surmise
Was accurate--For, lo! the boy was there!

And there, too, he remained throughout the day--
Save at one starving interval in which
He clad his sunburnt shoulders long enough
To shy across a wheatfield, shadow-like,
And raid a neighboring orchard--bitterly,
And with spasmodic twitchings of the lip,
Bethinking him how all the other boys
Had _homes_ to go to at the dinner-hour--
While _he_--alas!--_he had no home!_--At least
These very words seemed rising mockingly,
Until his every thought smacked raw and sour
And green and bitter as the apples he
In vain essayed to stay his hunger with.
Nor did he join the glad shouts when the boys
Returned rejuvenated for the long
Wet revel of the feverish afternoon.--
Yet, bravely, as his comrades splashed and swam
And spluttered, in their weltering merriment,
He tried to laugh, too,--but his voice was hoarse
And sounded to him like some other boy's.
And then he felt a sudden, poking sort
Of sickness at the heart, as though some cold
And scaly pain were blindly nosing it
Down in the dreggy darkness of his breast.
The tensioned pucker of his purple lips
Grew ever chillier and yet more tense--
The central hurt of it slow spreading till
It did possess the little face entire.
And then there grew to be a knuckled knot--
An aching kind of core within his throat--
An ache, all dry and swallowless, which seemed
To ache on just as bad when he'd pretend
He didn't notice it as when he did.
It was a kind of a conceited pain--
An overbearing, self-assertive and
Barbaric sort of pain that clean outhurt
A boy's capacity for suffering--
So, many times, the little martyr needs
Must turn himself all suddenly and dive
From sight of his hilarious playmates and
Surreptitiously weep under water.

Thus
He wrestled with his awful agony
Till almost dark; and then, at last--then, with
The very latest lingering group of his
Companions, he moved turgidly toward home--
Nay, rather _oozed_ that way, so slow he went,--
With lothful, hesitating, loitering,
Reluctant, late-election-returns air,
Heightened somewhat by the conscience-made resolve
Of chopping a double-armful of wood
As he went in by rear way of the kitchen.
And this resolve he executed;--yet
The hired girl made no comment whatsoever,
But went on washing up the supper-things,
Crooning the unutterably sad song, "_Then think,
Oh, think how lonely this heart must ever be!_"
Still, with affected carelessness, the boy
Ranged through the pantry; but the cupboard-door
Was locked. He sighed then like a wet fore-stick
And went out on the porch.--At least the pump,
He prophesied, would meet him kindly and
Shake hands with him and welcome his return!
And long he held the old tin dipper up--
And oh, how fresh and pure and sweet the draught!
Over the upturned brim, with grateful eyes
He saw the back-yard, in the gathering night,
Vague, dim and lonesome, but it all looked good:
The lightning-bugs, against the grape-vines, blinked
A sort of sallow gladness over his
Home-coming, with this softening of the heart.
He did not leave the dipper carelessly
In the milk-trough.--No: he hung it back upon
Its old nail thoughtfully--even tenderly.
All slowly then he turned and sauntered toward
The rain-barrel at the corner of the house,
And, pausing, peered into it at the few
Faint stars reflected there. Then--moved by some
Strange impulse new to him--he washed his feet.
He then went in the house--straight on into
The very room where sat his parents by
The evening lamp.--The father all intent
Reading his paper, and the mother quite
As intent with her sewing. Neither looked
Up at his entrance--even reproachfully,--
And neither spoke.

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