The sod house in heaven, and other poems
■ ,'• r'. ', ■ ' , • l£» . , • .■« ' ' . - ■ .. ■■...,- V ' '*^ V -.» --fc - . ;< , *' V i ■,.■ •♦ \i' *.' . \ , -._,-, .. I'V.- . ■.,-. -^ \ .,' '■.7,,, C' 7/ < >.^ -, ^ .' *■ i Jl ■'• . t •V < . , ^:.. i j\ ,• •> ■s^ ,.«. V'. J , ,1) '.i^ -J ■' .•■ ^ 1 \. t -» , f *■ ■" ■■■'■ 1* -s-.r. *'" <v ^ v^ :'. .'- \' .- H • , > - ", , ' • '\ .}' ■ * ». k s 1 h ^V v."*." .. I i^ (^('-■l( '■' ^ / ) n 1 i^ / 1 ^ THE SOD HOUSE  By HARRY E. NIILLS. \.f/ /V\ TOPEKA, KANSAS: GEO.  * 2* • * * \ 0* * • •• I CopVVfefet,* 1**^2; -by KAsiiil Y *fi. 'Mills DEDICATORY. TO MY FATHER AND MOTHER, WHOSE WISDOM IN THB OUIUANCE OF THEIR CHILDREN HAS BEEN EQUALED ONLY BY THEIR WILLING SELF-SACRIFICES FOR THEM, THIS VOLUME IS WITH GRATEFUL AFFECTION DEDICATED. 921 841 1 &• I EXPLANATION. It is customary to preface a volume like this with the statement that its contents are published at the earnest so- « licitation of many friends. However true this might be of the present work, the author will say nothing about the matter, but will frankly acknowledge that the incentives which have led to the production of many a similar volume have probably in- fluenced him. Neither will he give any hint as to how great or other- wise are his expectations. He believes that every writer in the long run is treated justly by the reading public, and he hopes for his book only that measure of favor which it really merits. H. E. M. Washburn College, ToPEKA, Kansas, December, 1892. CONTENTS. DIALECT POEMS. PAQB. The Sod House in Heaven, * ii The Haypield Family : Hezekiah Hayfield, Sr., 18 Hezekiah Hayfield, Jr., 22 Ezra Long's Serenade, 26 Mr. Hayfield's Favorite Music, 30 Prairie Cradle Song, 31 Twicet ez Tight 34 PUNKIN Pie, 37 Making it Rain, 39 Little Jim Agin, 44 How Little Neb Made Peace, 46 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. That New Boy, 57 A Picture op Lipe, 62 Woolly Bill, 66 A Dbeam within a Dbeam, 74 Kansas, 79 The Cowboy Poet, 82 The Resubmissionist's Story, 88 Massa's Convebsion, 96 SUNBISE, • 106 I 1 IL DIALECT POEMS. y •••••••• « - " THE SOD HOUSE IN HEAVEN. Well, yes, it 's sometimes pretty lonesome here, Particularly 'bout this time of year. When harvestin' is done. An' hay in' hez begun, An' early corn is hard'nin' in the ear. You 'd like to hev me tell you 'bout my past, An' why I 'm sick an' all alone at last ? Why, yes, I 'd kind of like To tell you 'bout it, Ike, Since you 've been kind enough to stop an' ast. It 's twenty year since me an' Liza came An' settled down here on this timber claim. The land was wild an' new. An' neighbors mighty few. An' all around here there  there ever was a king That felt ez big ez I did 'long the spring That this sod house was done, An' Liza hed begun To fix it up with things she 'd thought to bring. O' course we made a pretty modest start, For wealth an' us was mighty fur apart. But still we did n't mind Ef we was some behind The latest styles, fer we was rich at heart. There 's allers lots o' work when you begin To make a farm where grass hez allers been. But everything looked bright With sort o' rainbow light ; So I pulled off my coat an' waded in. One day a chap, that could n't spell ner add. Come round to see what sort o' board we had. We see he 'd come to stay, An' would n't go away, Fer Liza was his ma and me his dad. THE SOD HOUSE IN HEAVE IV. 13 I never see so peert a chap ez him, An' full o' mischief clean up to the brim ; An' allers in fer fun, 'Fore he could walk er run : An' so we called him Little Frisky Jim. An' when his mother made him his first pants. You ort to seen that little feller prance. I half believed the child Was really goin' wild The way he 'd run around an' jump an' dance. One day the wind got on a sort o' swirl. An' fetched around to us a baby girl. She hed a pretty smile Staid with her all the while ; An' so we called her Little Laughing Pearl. An' them two little ones, so pure an' bright. They filled this old sod house plum full o' light. I made 'em lots o' toys An' helped 'em with their noise. An' used to like to watch 'em sleep at night. 14 DIALECT POEMS. An' Liza, every special pleasant day, Would send 'em out around the place to play. I allers liked to see 'Em come to bother me An' ast me things, an' git round in the way. On rainy days when they was kep' inside, 'Fore any other sort o' game was tried. They 'd say, " Please, daddy, please Git on your hands an' knees." An' so I 'd be a ho^s fer them to ride. An' that 's the way things went about five year; We hed a little branch o' Heaven here ; It want no gold-paved floor Nor pearly gate fer door That made it so ; but it was love and cheer. I somehow kind o' thought 'twould allers be The same sunshiny place fer them an' me ; Till, sudden like one day, Jim run away to play Up yonder, jest beyond where we could see. THE SOD HOUSE IN HEAVE ISf. 15 Poor little Pearl ! she wasn't yit quite four, An' still she grieved fer Jim ez much er more Than Liza did, er me ; An' it was hard to see Her lonesome like a-playin' round the door. An' by an' by, one still an' starry night. Her little face seemed more than common bright ; An' ez she quiet lay, " Oh, Jim ! " we beard her say. An' then she went forever from our sight. An' there was Liza now an' me, heart-sore. Jest left again the way we was before The little ones bed come To share our sod-house home, Exceptin' that we loved each other more. It seemed to me thet Liza was my share Ef part o' them I loved I bed to spare ; But jest fer Pearl an' Jim God called her up to him ; An' maybe she was needed over there. 16 DIALECT. POEMS. But after she was gone I couldn't see Ez it was much odds how things went with me ; An' so, year after year, I 've jest been stay in' here, Half-way betwixt what 's been an' what 's to be. An' ever since the first o' this sick spell I 've half been hopin' that I 'd not git well. I don't keer much to stay. With them all gone away ; The place is lonesomer than I can tell. Yes, thank you, Ike ; I b'lieve I 'd like a drink ; I aint no worse, ^est kind o' weak, I think. How bright 'tis everywhere ! What soft, warm, dreamy air ; An' great big flowers, red an' white an' pink. Jest listen, Ike, I hear 'em sing somewhere ! An' there 's a shinin' river over there. An' near the glitterin' sands A great big city stands. An' there 's a flock of angels in the air. THE SOD HOUSE IN HEAVEN. 17 Outside the place a piece, yit middlin' nigh, I see a little sod house 'bout ez high Ez this, but lots more trim ; There 's Liza, Pearl an' Jim A-beck'nin' me to come. Dear Ike, good-bye. -2 18 DIALECT POEMS. THE HATFIELD FAMILY. [The Hayfields moved to Kansas in early days, and settled on a claim near the center of the State. Here Mr. Hayfield built a two-roomed sod house, and here the family have passed many days of industrious content. Early and late they have wrestled with the rich soil until they have com- pelled it to yield them a very fair competence. Mr. Hayfield loves his homestead, enjoys his unpretentious dwelling, and does not care to be Governor. Mrs. Hayfield is equally content with their simple lot, her greatest pride being in her gilt-edged butter, which has been praised and premiumed at every county fair for years. Simple, old-fashioned piety regulates the household, and frugality is its watchword. The family is a numerous one, blessed with perfect health and a good degree of every- day intelligence. Its prime characteristic is thrift. ] HEZEKIAH HAYFIELD, SR. [One spring, just before time to plow for corn, Mr. Hayfield went over into an adjoining county to visit a brother-in-law. He and his host had a lively discussion as to the relative desirableness of city and country life. The brother-in-law said that as soon as possible he should sell his farm and move to town. Mr. Hayfield delivered himself as follows : ] My neighbors, Peter Tompkins an' Ebenezer Brown, Hev sold their farms an' fixin's, an' are movin' off to town. THE BAYFIELD FAMILY. 19 They 're gittin' tired o' farinin', an' they want to rest, I guess ; 1 'II bet you they git sick o' town in thirty days er less. Ef they can stan' it, I can, but I swan it 's hard to see How the}^ can live, shut up in town the way they '11 hev to be. There 's houses on both sides of 'era, an' neighbors all around ; •Can't hardly raise no garden truck, they '11 hev so little ground ; Can't keep no pigs ner chickens er their neighbors '11 com- plain ; Won't hev no eggs to sell, ner cheese er butter, stock er grain. They '11 hev to git some office, er fall back on Providence, An' do a sight o' mowin' in their meader of expense. It 's allers been a puzzle what so many town folks do. To make a livin' ; yit somehow they seem to worry through. 20 DIALECT POEMS. But there 's nothin' like the country ef it 's comfort thet you want, Where the prairie chickens muster an' the rabbits hev their liaunt. Where the larks is up an' singin' in the mornin' 'fore it 's light, An' the katydids is drummin' at their orchestra all night. An' the choir at the fish-pond run a sort o' music race, With whatever else is singin', bringin' in their bull-frog bass. An' the moonlight 's sort o' mellow, an' the evenin' wind is soft, An' the barn is full o' perfume from the new hay in the§ loft. An' the apples in the orchard throwin' kisses at the sun, •- Git to blushin' an' explainin' thet they meant it all in fup., THE HAYFIELD FAMILY. 21 An' the watermelons chuckle, an' the yeller pumpkins grin. An' the sweet potaters giggle while the hollyhocks chime in. An' the turkeys strut an' gobble, an' the guineas run an' screech ; An' the roosters pitch their crowin' jest ez high ez they can reach. An' you see the hogs a-fat'nin', an' the cattle lookin' sleek ; An' the geese a-growin' feathers ez they waddle up the creek. An' the prairie dogs a-barkin' ez they lay round in the sun ; An' a blue streak 'cross the meader — some jack-rabbit on the run. An' you live on home-made cookin'; hev old-fashioned buttermilk. Succotash an' apple dumplin', roastin' ears jest in the silk. 22 DIALECT POEMS. Pancakes wallerin' in molasses with an awful temptin' look ; Ham an' eggs an' baked potaters like yer mother used to- cook. Oh, there's nothin' like the country, an' the health the meaders give. An' there 's nothin' like a sod house ef you really want to- live. An' there 's nothin' like the prairies, where the air is pure- an' free. One good Kansas quarter-section — them is jest the stuflf f er me ! HEZEKIAH HAYFIELD. JR. [YouDg Hayfield is twenty years of age — an intelligent lad, in whont ambition and awkwardness are evenly balanced. Ue has always beeu kept on very familiar terms with the plow, but has twice attended the State Fair at Topeka, and has become infatuated with what he has seen of city life. He takes issue with his father in the following language : ] They say thet the farmer is king of the soil. An' lives like a lord on the fruit of his toil ; THE HAYFIELD FAMILY. 23 Has nothin' to worry him, nothin' to fear, But jest keeps a-prosperin' year after year. He has fer his partners the wind an' the rain, The sun scatters gold on his acres of grain. An' keeps 'em a-growin' while he is asleep, An' loads 'em with wealth when they 're ready to reap ; That the farmer is only jest playin' at work. Not half so hard pressed ez the merchant er clerk. This sounds awful nice ; but I jest want to say Thet when yer a-farmin' it do n't work that way. There 's lots o' things worse than the farm, seems to me ; But yit it aint half what it 's cracked up to be. There's drought an' there's chinch -bugs, there's floods an' there 's rust ; There 's grasshoppers hatchin' right out o' the dust. Yer sheep are a picnic fer coyotes an' dogs. An' cholera claims half yer chickens an' hogs. 24 DIALECT POEMS, Yer windmills an' fences hev lots o' mean tricks, An' lay awake nights jest to git out o' fix. An' you are forever a-tinkerin' away At things thet don't bring you a nickel o' pay. There 's lots o' hard sweatin' fer all thet you git, An' sometimes you sweat without gittin' a bit. These folks that think farmers are on the top shelves. The most of 'em never tried farmin' themselves. In thinkin' the country lots nicer than town. They hev my opinions jest turned upside down. In town you aint tied with yer stock an' yer grain, You never hev hay lyin' out in the rain. You sit in yer office er stand in yer store. Jest watchin' the money roll in at the door. They fetch you yer mail an' bring 'round what you buy. They sprinkle the streets when the dust tries to fly ; THE HAYFIELD FAMILY. 25 An' if yer front yard gits to pantin' fer rain You open tlie gear to a big water-main. There 's somethin' to go to about every night ; There 's sidewalks an' pavements an' plenty o' light. There 's street ears, an' parks, an' its handy to stores ; They allers hev screens to their windows an' doors. An' ef you aint nothin' to do fer awhile But talk to somebody off two or three mile, You jest turn a crank thet is hitched to a bell, An' ring up the feller an' 'phone him a spell. Last week they was tellin' at old Peter Jones Thet they can see folks through them there telephones ; An' somebody said thet they think pretty soon They'll talk with the man thet is runnin' the moon. Now, out in the country you do n't see such things ; You jest hear about 'em, an' wish you hed wings. 26 DIALECT POEMS. But people in town always hev 'em close by. An' life is a sort of a Fourth o' July. An' I hev concluded, from all I can see, That life in the city is jest right fer me. EZRA LONG'S SERENADE. [ Ezra Long Is Mr. Hayfield's hired man. He is a promising youth, in his own peculiar way, and possesses the faculty of not being able to take a hint — a quality which is distantly related to perseverance. He has al- ready recognized in himself a fine singer, though he has not yet been able to convince anyone else of his discovery. He telis his own stoiy, which is as follows : ] You 're a-wonderin' what 's tlie matter with my eye on the off side? Well, I '11 tell you, if you '11 keep it mighty still ; You see there came a family from the city to reside In that summer house near ourn on the hill. THE HAYFIELD FAMILY. 27 The people hed the money, and a lot o' city airs, An' an awful pretty girl about sixteen ; An' I see her out one morn in' readin' on the porch up- stairs, When I drove a lot o' calves away to wean. Aint no idee what ailed me, but ez quick ez I see her My senses 'peared to be took off their feet ; I stopped an' stood a-gazin', fer I could n't seem to stir ; She looked so sort o' heavenly an' sweet. I vowed I 'd git acquainted with this angel-beatin' miss,. An' so I writ some verses fer a song, An' thought I 'd sing 'em to her ; I was sure that after this She 'd say, " Come in and see us, Mr. Long." I knew that city fellers when they go to serenade Hev play in' on a harp er violin ; I 'd allers made my music with a hoe er rake er spade^ But I could drum on somethin' made o' tin. I i 28 DIALECT POEMS, I almost knew Old Hundred, jest from hearin' Liza Ann, An' though the words an' music wouldn't fit, I played awhile 'fore singin' on the Hay fields' old dish- pan. Then into this sweet serenade I lit : [To be sung to the tune of Old Hundred.] "Betsy Ann, divinest Betsy, Now the sun has gone to bed, An' I 've milked old Roan and Brindle, An' the ball-faced calf is fed. "An' I 've give the hogs their supper. Fed the pup and watched him smile. An' fer fear yon might be lonesome, I hev come to sing awhile. "Betsy dear, I've been a-thinkin' Ef you 'd hitch yourself with me. We could haul life 's lumber wagon, Jest ez slick ez slick could be." THE HAYFJELD FAMILY. 29 Here I let up on the singin' but went on a-drunimin' still, Jest to give 'em what they call an interloud ; It commenced a-rainin' stovewood, bricks an' bootjacks, fit to kill, Like cannon-balls a-hailin' from a cloud. But I aint a bit discouraged, an' ez soon ez I can walk, An' see a little more with this off eye, I 'm goin' to go an' see that girl an' hev a right good talk, An' tell her what I hope fer by an' by. O' course she may upset me, but I hardly think she will. When she has really heard me sing a song ; But if she tries to bounce me I will jest freeze to her still. Until I change her name to Mrs. Long. ^0 DIALECT POEMS. MR. HATFIELD'S FAVORITE MUSliC. When I was to Chicago I thought I'd jest drop in An' hear that Remininy Saw on his violin. He must 'a' nnade fine music, Fer they would cheer' an cheer, But there is other play in' That better fits mv ear. I'd ruther lie an' listen. Some sunny summer da}', To miles o' mower music Thet fioods the fields o' hav. To hear the windmill playing Old Hundred on the pump ; The hayrake's ''hallelujah!" That comes with every dump. THE BAYFIELD FAMILY. 31 There ain't no grand planner, Thet I hev ever seen, Can make such strains o' sweetness Ez my old thresh machine. I like to hear the grindstone A-tunin' up the scythe To play fer blackbird choirs Thet sing so gay an' blithe. I'm allers in fer music, I hanker fer its charm ; But not that city janglin'. I want mine off the farm. PRAIRIE CRADLE-SONG. [It is evening. Within the Ilayfield home they are enacting the clos- ing scenes of the day. Supper is over, and Amandy Hayfield is putting the dishes to order. By the table sits Mr. Hayfield, absorbed in the iast number of The Alliance Boomerang, while Hezekiah Hayfield, jr., is stretched before the fire toasting himself into drowsiness. Afthe fur- 32 DIALECT POEMS. ther end of the room Mrs. Hayfield is lulling to sleep little Jerry Simpson Hayfield, so named because he has always raised a doleful protest against the extravagant and barbarous custom of wearing hose. The home-made cradle plays a soothing accompaniment as the mother croons the following : ] Hush thee, my baby, tlie dayhght is dying, Night wings her course toward the lessening west, Over the prairie tlie zephyrs are sighing, Slumberland welcomes the weary to rest. Chorus : Sleep, sleep, the angels keep Their vigils above thy head, For Whip-poor-will himself is still. And Bunny has gone to bed. Kude tho' tlie crib that received thee, a stranger. Humble the home that rejoiced at thy birth, Lowlier yet was the Bethlehem manger Where first reposed the Redeemer of earth. Chorus, THE HAYFIELD FAMILY, 33 Sweet be the dreams that the messengers wing thee, Fresh from the throne in the palace of God. Joy they have brought us in deigning to bring thee Heavenly joy to a cottage of sod. Chxyi*u%, \ k r —3 r 34 DIALECT POEMS, TWICET EZ TIGHT. What made me marry Susie? Why, 'twas cause I loved her so. What made me love her ? I '11 declare I aint right sure I know, Except that she had allers been so good an' kind to me, I sort o' had to fall in love to even up, you see. I went to workin' fer her dad when I was just eighteen, The awkwardest young country jake that you have ever seen. She must 'a' felt like laughin' when I spilt my cup o' tea, An' dumped the gravy in my lap, an' launched some bread at sea. Down in the water pitcher ; but she acted awful kind, An' helped me straighten up the mess an' told me not to mind. TWICET EZ TIGHT. 85 An' next day when I stopped her horse that tried to run away, She thanked me till I wished he 'd run a dozen times a day. An' she an' me was always pretty friendly after that ; Till sittin' by the spring one night where we had often sat, I stole a kiss real quiet ez our talk was gittin' slack, Then felt so bad about it that I had to give it back. Well, next thing we was married an' was on a rented farm, An' I 'd a swore 'twas fairy land ef 'twas n't that my arm Would git to feelin' tired jest the way it used to do Along toward sunset just before some hard day's work was through. An' tlien she'd cheer me up, you know, till it would almost seem Ez ef I must be livin' in the palace of a dream. But one by one the racin' years hev chased each other by. While trouble an' mistakes hev sometimes clouded up the sky. 36 DIALECT POEMS, But Susie 's allers been the same no matter what hez come, An' when it's been most dark outside it's been most briglit at home. An' since she 's allers been so good an' kind in every way, I guess I 've fell in love with her a little more each day. They tied the knot that binds us fifty year ago to-niglit ; So, Parson, tie it over, only make it twicet ez tight. t. PUNKIN PIE. 37 PUNKIN PIE. Say, Billy, when yer fixin' fer to fish er take a ride, An' know yer goin' to git to feelin' holler like inside, An' see yer mother piittin' up a lunch fer by-an-by, Why is it nothin' strikes you like the piece o' punkin pie? An' while yer busy waitin' fer the fish to come an' bite. An' wonderin' why the skeeters can 't let up till after night, What makes the bugs an' crickets an' the birds an' squir- rels try To chirp an' sing an' chatter all the time 'bout punkin pie? An' when it comes to eatin' ef you do the way you ort, An' tackle bread an' butter first an' things along that sort, What makes you jest ez hungry yit an' pretty near ez dry Until you git to workin' on yer piece o' punkin pie ? •^ 38 DIALECT POEMS. An' when the basket's empty an' the cheese an' cake is done, An' you can 't help a-wishin' that you had n't yit begun, Oh, aint it nice to lick yer lips, to scare away a fly, An' find a lot remainin' from that piece o' pnnkin pie ? Say, Billy, I 've been thinkin' when I git to be a man, I '11 have 'bout forty acres jest fer puukins ef I can. An' may be I '11 git married, but the girl that takes my eye Must be a bird at bakin' when it comes to punkin pie. MAKING IT RAIN. 39 MAKING IT EAIN. Dear Zekiel: I sit down to-night, an' take my pen in han', To tell you 'bout the stock an' crops, an' 'bout Mirandy Ann. But first I '11 scratch a line er two, fer fear I might fergit. About our weather, an' the way we 've took to makin' it. A sleek Chicago feller made a lot of us believe That we wan't gittin' half the rain we 're 'titled to receive. He had a sort o' fish-pole thet he said he 'd shoot aroun', An' pretty soon the heavens would be pourin' water down. We needed rain like sixty, fer the corn was pretty dry, An' I thought, "Well, 't won't hurt nothin', anyhow, to let him try." 40 DIALECT POEMS. So I talked with Smith an' Billins, an' the other neighbors round, An' we 'greed on fifty dollars ef he 'd come an' soak the ground. So he fetched his queer contrivance, but he would n't let. us see How the thing was worked er loaded; an' he hed a lock an' key That he allers kep' on duty, like a pair o' sentinels, Keepin' guard above a satchel of new-fashioned chemicals. He got stationed in my barn-loft, an' he made a little hole In the roof, an' here he stuck out that peculiar piece o' pole; An' he kep' a-shootin' with it somethin' like a half a day. While we watched fer clouds to gather, an' he spiled a sight o' hay With them chemicals o' hisn. But, ez sure ez I am born, By an' by there come a shower thet jest saved my crop o' corn. MAKING IT RAIN. 41 Did n't rain much fer my neighbors, though it give my place a soak ; But it looked to Smith an' Billins like a Yankee weather joke. Still they thought they 'd try the feller, so they hed him come an' stay Till he 'd brought a shower on them, an' had spiled a lot o' hay. Well, the neighbors got excited, jest ez I 'd a done, er All' that chap hed all the business fer a while thet he could do. 'Long this spring we thought we 'd git him 'fore there was too much demand 'Round the State, where they would pay him any price to soak their land. So he come the first of April, an' he made it rain aroun'. Till we wanted him to quit it, fer 'twas wet ten inches down. 42 DIALECT POEMS, "Ef you '11 raise five hundred dollars I '11 let up," he finally said, Ez he went on makin' moisture under foot an' overhead. Smith an' Billins growled a good deal, an' I said we never would, While he chuckled ez he told us he could stan' it ef we could. So we raised the chap his money, an' I see him on the train ; But the weather didn't know it; it went on to rain an'" rain. Till the creeks was overflowin', an' the mud was mighty deep. An' the heavens felt so sorry they could only weep an^ weep. Could n't git our spring crops planted; couldn't hardly git to town ; Couldn't git the cash we'd wasted; hed to grin an' take it down. MAKING IT RAIN. 43; Me an' Smith an' Billins figured on the way the thing' turned out, An' fer us 't would be lots better ef he 'd never come about^ So we 're goin' to stick to farmin', ez you hev to in the West, An' the Lord can run the weather jest about ez He thinks- best. 44 DIALECT POEMS. LITTLE JIM AGIN. Jest wait a minute, Husband ; tears are things I had n't planned. I must n't let Jim see 'em, er he might not understand. He 's waitin' to be married ; but it aint that moves me so, It 's pictures of his childhood flockin' back from long ago. I seem to see him marchin' now the way he used to come, Across the meaders, poundin' on his little home-made drum. I see his eyes a-dancin' ez they spy the doughnut dish, Er lookin' sort o' wistful when tliey try to tell some wish Thet 's brimmin' full o' meanin', but is sort o' shy o' words, Half hopin' mother '11 read it in the music of the birds. I see him now a-speakin', an' it 's Decoration Day, An' everybody 's cheerin' him, he 's such a takin' way. LITTLE JIM AGIN. 45 An' now he must be ailin', fer he 's lyin'.on a bed : Oh, yes, don't you remember when he fell an' hurt his head? He wasn't only seven, an' we didn't think he 'd live, But still through all his suff'rin' he hed only cheer to give. I see his kite an' fish-pole, an' his little rake an' hoe; A tent of my rag carpet, where he held his Barnum's show. An' there 's hia sled an' wagon, but I won't tell all I see, Fer you 're a-cryin'. Husband, pretty near ez much ez me. Our heads are gettin' silvered, an' we know the years hev flown, But this ain't half so tellin' ez to see thet Jim is grown. An' now we 're at his weddin', an' he 's takin' fer his wife Ez sweet a girl ez ever went to bless a good man's life. He 's runnin' of a paper, an' I guess he 's doin' well ; He talks at public meetin's, an' I 've heard a number tell That he must run fer Congress: ef he does I know he'll win ; But still I can't help wishin' he was little Jim agin. 46 DIALECT POEMS. HOW LITTLE NEB MADE PEACE. 'Twas sometime along in the fifties That Silas an' me was wed, An' it almost seems like magic When I think how the years hev sped We both was young an' thrifty, An' our sky was bright and clear. An' we did n't hev no family jar For somethin' past a year. An' when I think it over It seems so foolish now, That we let a trifle grow until It bordered on a row. HOW LITTLE NEB MADE PEACE. 47 But Silas was slow an' easy, An' sometimes pretty late A gettin' in to dinner, An' of course my work must wait. One day he threw my washin' An hour or more behind, An' I wouldn't hev no explainin' But give him a piece of my mind. He happened to hev a good reason That time fer stayin' out. But I jest Jjep' on a-scoldin' An hour or tliereabout. An' Silas, mad an' huify, Called me a contrary shrew ; I could n't tell jest wliat he meant, But 'twas somethin' mean, I knew. 48 DIALECT POEMS. Things didn't look much like improvin' When we 'd fretted an' fussed fer a week, An' I was too cross to talk reason, An' Silas too surly to speak. Neither one would give in or speak civil — I reckon we both was too proud — Till the Lord quickly shut oflE our sunshine By sendin' an awful black cloud. Our dear little Nebuchadnezer, Our baby with eyes like the sky, One mornin' grew sick, an' by evenin' The doctor was sure he must die. Both Silas an' me was distracted, Fer he was our treasure an' pride, An' home would be awfully lonesome When dear little Nebby had died. HOW LITTLE NEB MADE PEACE. 49 But yet in the face of our sorrow That beast showed its hideous life, That bitter and proud-headed quarrel, That peace-breakin', home-wreckin' strife. An' while we watched baby together Each hoped, feared an' wrestled alone ; An' heaven seemed a big brass inclosure, An' earth a cold, comfortless stone. If we could jest sorrow together. It would bring such a flood of relief ; But neither knew how to get at it. So we sat each alone in our grief. An' so baby kep' growin' weaker An' Silas an' me staid apart. Till the angels come down an' took Nebby Where strife never troubles the heart. —4 50 DIALECT POEMS. Dear Silas ! that blow was so heavy ! He broke down when Nebby was dead, An' sat in his arm-chair a-moanin', With his hands up a-holdin' his head. I went an' sat down close beside him, He knew what I wanted to say But could n't, an' so he jest answered, In a broken an' choked sort of way : "Dear Beckie, fergive me for stayin' — " An' my voice was so husky an' weak. That I could n't answer him neither, Except with a kiss on his cheek. Tho' neither one had proposed it, We somehow both on us rose, An' went where dear Nebby was lyin' Asleep in his last long repose. HO IV LITTLE NEB MADE PEACE, 51 TVe kn^t by tlie cradle together, Our tears were abundant an' free, An' Silas was sobbin' an' prayin' : "O Lord, fergive Beckie an' me. ^t We 've both ben to blame f er this trouble. We 've both held our notions too high ; But, Lord, when we fussed an' disputed We did n't know Nebby would die. ^' We orten to ben so onyieldin'; This awful affliction 's desarved, But may we forever hereafter From quarrels an' sich be presarved." Then Silas an' me kissed each other, An' the edge was removed from our grief, An' with our great burden of sorrow There came a great sense of relief. 52 DIALECT POEMS. An' never since then hev we quarreled, But each one has earnestly tried To do as we promised each other The day that our dear Nebby died. An' so we 've been livin' an' learnin', An' somehow we 've both come to think That God took our baby to save us From eternally breakin' love's link. An' while the swift years hev been passin'. New faces hev now and then come, To give us their Babyland sunshine, An' prattle all gloom from our home. An' Silas an' me hev been thinkin' How many a family has had A quarrelin' father an' mother An' children jest built fer the bad ; HOW LITTLE NEB MADE PEACE. 53 How we might hev kep' on disptitin', An' hed a tumultuous home, From which all our peace-lovin' children Would early be wantin' to roam. But our house has been full of sunshine, Our children are turnin' out well. An' them that 's away come real often To visit the old folks a spell. So Silas an' me hev decided That the one whose earth toil shall first cease, Will tell little Neb up in heaven That he turned our dissension to peace. il MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. w THAT NEW BOY. Well, John, your telegram 's received, A brimming draught of joy. The news can hardly be believed. That you have got a boy. It seems but yesterday, indeed, You sat in Mother's lap. Or rode a prancing broomstick steed, A white-haired little chap. I can't forget the load of great Responsibility With which, two years your senior. Fate Had seemed to burden me. (57) 58 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, Nor be nnmindfol that wherein Lay my authority, And right to practice discipline, Was more than you could see. But did n't we have worlds of fun, Those watermelon days. When life for us had just begun. And new were all its ways ? How good green apples tasted then — Until we went to bed, And heard from that same fruit again^ And wished that we were dead ! And Saturdays, when out of school, What more could youngsters wish, Than hook and line and limpid pool And half a day to fish ? THAT NEW BOY. 5^ And if, perchance, we caught a few — A dozen, say, or so — None longer than an inch or two. How proudly home we 'd go ! How mother loved to cook those fish ! How good they always were ! How appetizing every dish Prepared for us by her ! Do you recall that after school One day when wells were dry. You rode Old Jack, our pious mule, To try the creek near by ? His thirst more quickly to appease. Or saintlier to seem. He dropped devoutly on his knees, And dumped you in the stream. 60 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. I even have to laugh to-day, At how your vengeance, cruel, Portrayed the fierce and ghastly way You planned to kill that mule ! But by-and-by your wrath was stilled With dry attire for wet. And if Old Jack has not been killed I s'pose he 's living yet. And now the scroll of memory brings. From out that golden past. Bright days which flew on eagles' wings, And joys too deep to last. And just to think a boy has come, A sort of known surprise. To make headquarters at your home — It 's hard to realize. IHAT NEW BOY, 61 But if the little chap survives, Before he reaches six Just note how deftly he contrives To play his father's tricks. If, like his father, he attain The ideal six-foot plan. May he, like him, in lieart and brain Be every inch a man. ^2 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A PICTURE OF LIFE. The sea was raging ; near the rocks a ship was going down, While helpless groups stood watching from a little fishing town. A man was in the rigging, they could hear his plaintive cry, But no one dared to venture out with such a sea and sky. "Poor fellow !" " It 's top bad !" "Too bad !" was heard on every hand, Till some one cried "Quick, bring a boat! I'll fetch the man to land !" A fearless youth had spoken, one of stalwart heart and arm, Who knew the sea and knew his strength, but did not know alarm. ■ • — - A PICTURE OF LIFE. 63 "Don't go !" a chorus shouted ; "it is certain death to try." "Not certain^'^ smiled the hero, and he turned to say "Good-by" To one, a gray-haired woman, who entreated with the plea That for her widowed sake he 'd not go out on such a sea. ^'Oh, Jimmy, you are all I have; your father's crew were drowned. Your brother George's ship went down and he was never found ; And now don't make me give you up; I've you^ but noth- ing more." "There, mother don't be worried; God will help me back to shore. •" Pray, mother, while I 'm rowing ; can't you hear that poor man's cry? You'd think your boy a coward if I stood and watched him die." A tear, a kiss, the boy sets out — he battles as he starts ; A hundred prayers are rising from a hundred anxious hearts. 64 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS, The village mayor, watching, cries "I guess the lad 's gone down ; No, there he comes, and right side up ; he 's too good stufif to drown. Ah! hold; his boat's capsizing — no! he's righted her; she'll float ! He throws a rope — there — look, the man is safely in the boat." The mother's heart beats wildly, and her prayer can only be, "O God, my George has perished ; bring my Jimmy back to me." The mayor cried, "They 're hugging — must be crazy stop- ping there " ; A shout is heard that rings above the tempest in the air. Four stalwart arms instead of two through walls of billow forge, Till near enough, then Jimmy shouts, "Oh, Mother, it is George !" A PICTURE OF LIFE, 65 The twain are safely landed — the heroic deed is done; The mother, to her bosom, clasps two sons instead of one. The boy who braved the billows, dared the ocean's raging track. Went out to save a stranger, but he brought a brother back. Oh, picture of life's drama : some are sailing o'er the main, And some are safely landed, where the storm fiends rage in vain ; Some struggling 'mid the breakers, going down in sight of land, With now and then a hero holding out a helping hand. But know, O fearful boatman, if you fling alarms to air And reach yon sinking stranger, you will find a brother there. — 5 ee MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. "WOOLLY BILL." Do you remember, Mary, fifty years ago to-day. How back in Massachusetts we were packed to come away? And how our friends surprised us just before we made the start. And loaded us with tokens of their kindliness of heart? Both born and raised among them, we had known them all for years : What wonder, then, on parting, that a few regretful tears Defied your best endeavors and my strongest wall of pride, Inquisitively asking what was going on outside. How Deacon Williams told us we were foolish not to stay When several gilt-edged pulpits had their offers turned our way. ''fvooLLV bill:' 67 But duty pointed plainly, and those calls we did n't heed, But set our faces westward where the call was just the need. How large we found the prairies, how the sportive zephyrs played Around that little lodging where the first four weeks we stayed ! Do you recall the morning when we heard a trampling sound. As though a hundred armies on the plains were marching round ? The cause was soon apparent, when a cloud of dust, you know, Swept past us, half concealing scores of maddened buffalo. And after, with a warning of its dread approach, there came A wing of Nature's army, an immense stampede of flame. 68 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. We couldn't fly before it, we were squarely in its track; But hurried counter-fires kept its awful ravage back. How biting cold that morning when the Indians came dowD And made a winter sally on our unsuspecting town. They had some ground for grievance, and like bees from troubled hives. They swarmed and sacked and pillaged, scarcely leaving- us our lives. The church, just half completed, we had worked so hard to build. Was left a heap of ashes when their cup of wrath was filled. Of every hope and comforf we were seemingly bereft, Until you said : ''Dear Husband, all the promises are left.'^ And so we stayed and labored, and in time rebuilt the churcli, And Iiad that great revival, when so many came to search " WOOLLY BILL.'' 69 The treasures of the kingdom. Oh, 't was worth the hard- ships, Wife, To see a hundred converts finding peace, and joy, and life. Then all the other places where we first proclaimed the Word With waves of Gospel power in those early times were stirred. I often think of Wild Cliff. How inapt I tho't that name, With everything about the town so spiritless and tame. Until one Sunday morning I rode over there to preach. And found a dozen cowboys, with two large revolvers each. The leader of the party, fitly christened "Woolly Bill," A wreck of splendid manhood which betrayed some vestige still, ■Came round before the service in a friendly kind of way, And told rae he was running everything in town that day. 70 • MISCELLANEOUS POEM^. "Now, Parson," said the fellow, "jest light in an' do yer best, An' give us fire an' brimstone, an' remember you 're out West." 'T was rather sudden notice, not ten minutes to prepare, But I was always loaded in those early days for bear. How strange the situation : half confederate with Bill, To stand and show the ruin of his course if followed still. And if I touched some subject less with retribution vexed^ Bill called me from my rovings with, " Stick, Parson, to yer text." He would n't let me swerve an inch, until I chanced to say That mother loves her wayward son, no matter where he stray. That magic word of " mother " seemed to throw a misty vail Before the plainsman's vision, and I saw I had the trail. ''WOOLLY BILL.'' 71 I pictured home and childhood, mother's loving, tender care, The morning kiss of welcome, evening's ''Now I lay me" prayer. Some subtle power led me to portray a scene of death, A boy whose heart was breaking at a mother's waning breath. Her earnest admonitions, and the last words, feebly given, "My darling Willie, promise that you'll meet me up in Heaven." The tears for several minutes had been trickling down Bill's cheek. And now the sobbing fellow rose, and, turning, tried to speak. I never saw contrition till that burly ranger stood. His very grief confessing more than language ever could. 72 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. His comrades were astounded ; they had known the man for years, But none had once suspected he was capable of tears. But even now he swayed them, for the power of his grief But showed them that their leader had been born indeed a chief. And when our friends this evening with their gifts sur- prised us so. My tho'ts were strangely mingled with those scenes of long ago. And Deacon Grey was present, dear old faithful William Grey, Whose hoary locks remind us that he hasn't long to stay. How beautiful his language in presenting us these chairs, His picture of the climbers nearly through their toilsome stairs ! ^ • ^^•* *' WOOLLY bill:' 73 The dear old man lias finished now his fourscore steps and ei^ht ; I almost hear him knocking at the threshold of the Gate. And when we 're all admitted, what a joy we '11 find it still To know this king in Glory once was known as "Woolly Bill"! 74 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM. I had a dream within a dream ; I dreamed that I was dreaming, As mellow light the queen of night Across my room was streaming. I dreamed that where the harvest fair Invited harvest sabres, I swung my blade, until the shade Allured me from my labors. Among the trees a gentle breeze Set all the leaves a-flutter ; While sweet-voiced birds poured forth the words The zephyrs tried to utter. A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM. 75, With every thought of toil forgot, Unconsciousness soon found me ; Fantastic things on dreamy wings Seemed floating all around me. I cannot tell what subtle spell Effected thus my capture ; But sorrow, pain, and all their train Were gone ; and all seemed rapture. And thus, at last, the day was past ; But when the spell unbound me, Lo ! at my side, from far and wide. The reapers stood around me. The Master came and called each name ; Each man in turn replying How long he 'd wrought, what sheaves he 'd brought. How hard the day, or trying. 76 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. In deepest sliame I heard my narae ; I crimsoned fast and faster ; I felt disgrace writ on my face, And thus addressed the Master : "Good Master, be not wroth with me. Nor too severely blame me ; By heat oppressed I stopped to rest. When slumber overcame me. "Thus lying here, sleep's prisoner, The precious time slipped by me ; But I '11 redeem these hours which seem Thus lost, if you '11 but try me." Though kindly sad, his answer had A tone remorse-demanding : " Yon coming rain will spoil the grain Which you to-day leave standing." A DREAM WITHIN A DREAM, 77 Just as he spoke I really woke, Rejoiced to find, though weeping. No wasting grain, no threat'ning rain ; I 'd only dreamed of sleeping. And more and more I 've pondered o'er This strange, impressive vision. And tried to glean what it might mean. Till this is my decision : The world the field, and souls the yield ; The Christian church the reapers ; The ones who play life's hours away, The shade-enchanted sleepers. The evening scene I take to mean That there is surely coming A day wjien we shall clearly see Of life the total summing. 78 MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Though many stand with empty hand, Life's harvest-time all slumbered, I know that some well-sheaved will come : May I with these be numbered. KANSAS. 79 KANSAS.* "Four hundred miles long, eight thousand miles deep, and reaches to the stars." — John A. Anderson. 