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A CHILD-WORLD, Part 1 A CHILD-WORLD, yet a wondrous world no less,
To those who knew its boundless happiness.
A simple old frame house-eight rooms in all-
Set just one side the center of a small
But very hopeful Indiana town,-
The upper-story looking squarely down
Upon the main street, and the main highway
From East to West,-historic in its day,
Known as The National Road-old-timers, all
Who linger yet, will happily recall
It as the scheme and handiwork, as well
As property, of "Uncle Sam," and tell
Of its importance, "long and long afore
Railroads wuz ever dreamp' of!"-Furthermore,
The reminiscent first inhabitants
-Will make that old road blossom with romance
Of snowy caravans, in long parade
Of covered vehicles, of every grade
From ox-cart of most primitive design,
To Conestoga wagons, with their fine
Deep-chested six-horse teams, in heavy gear,
High hames and chiming bells-to childish ear
And eye entrancing as the glittering train
Of some sun-mitten pageant of old Spain.
And, in like spirit, haply they will tell
You of the roadside forests, and the yell
Of "wolfs" and "painters," in the long night-ride,
And "screechin' catamounts" on every side.-
Of stagecoach-days, highwaymen, and strange crimes,
And yet unriddled mysteries of the times
Called "Good Old." "And why 'Good Old'?" once a rare
Old chronicler was asked, who brushed the hair
Out of his twinkling eyes and said,-"Well John,
They're `good old times' because they're dead and gone!"
The old home site was portioned into three
Distinctive lots. The front one-natively
Facing to southward, broad and gaudy-fine
With lilac, dahlia, rose, and flowering vine-
The dwelling stood in; and behind that, and
Upon the alley north and south, left hand,
The old wood-house,- half, trimly stacked with wood,
And half, a work-shop, where a workbench stood
Steadfastly through all seasons.- Over it,
Along the wall, hung compass, brace-and-bit,
And square, and drawing-knife, and smoothing-plane-
And little jack-plane, too-the children's vain
Possession by pretense-in fancy they
Manipulating it in endless play,
Turning out countless curls and loops of bright,
Fine satin shavings-Rapture infinite!
Shelved quilting-frames; the toolchest; the old box
Of refuse nails and screws; a rough gun-stock's
Outline in "curly maple"; and a pair
Of clamps and old krout-cutter hanging there.
Some "patterns," in thin wood, of shield and scroll,
Hung higher, with a neat "cane-fishing-pole"
And careful tackle-all securely out
Of reach of children, rummaging about.
Beside the wood-house, with broad branches free
Yet close above the roof, an apple-tree
Known as "The Prince's Harvest"-Magic phrase!
That was a boy's own tree, in many ways!-
Its girth and height meet both for the caress
Of his bare legs and his ambitiousness:
And then its apples, humoring his whim,
Seemed just to fairly hurry ripe for him-
Even in June, impetuous as he,
They dropped to meet him, halfway up the tree.
And O their bruised sweet faces where they feel!-
And ho! the lips that feigned to "kiss them well"!
"The Old Sweet-Apple-Tree," a stalwart, stood
In fairly sympathetic neighborhood
Of this wild princeling with his early gold
To toss about so lavishly nor hold
In bounteous hoard to overbrim at once
All Nature's lap when came the Autumn months.
Under the spacious shade of this the eyes
Of swinging children saw swift-changing skies
Of blue and green, with sunshine shot between,
And "when the old cat died" they saw but green.
And, then, there was a cherry-tree.-We all
And severally will yet recall
From our lost youth, in gentlest memory,
The blessed fact-THere was a cherry-tree.
"There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows
Cool even now the fevered sight that knows
No more its airy visions of pure joy-
As when you were a boy
There was a cherry-tree. THe bluejay set
His blue against its white-O blue as jet
He seemed there then! But now-Whoever knew
He was so pale as blue!
There was a cherry-tree-Our child-eyes saw
The miracle:-Its pure white snows did thaw
Into a crimson fruitagee, far too sweet
But for a boy to eat.
There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy!-
There was a bloom of snow-There was a boy-
There was a Bluejay of the realest blue-
And fruit for both of you.
THE GARDEN AND THE MARTIN-BOX
Then the old garden, with the apple-trees
Grouped 'round the margin, and "a stand of bees"
By the "white-winter-pearmin"; and a row
Of currant-bushes; and a quince or so.
The old grape-arbor in the center, by
The pathway to the stable, with the sty
Behind it, and upon it, cootering flocks
Of pigeons,-and the cutest "martin-box"!-
Made like a sure-enough house-with the roof,and doors
And windows in it, and veranda-floors
And balusters all 'round it-yes, and at
Each end a chimney-painted red at that
And penciled white, to look like little bricks;
And, to cap all the builder's cunning tricks,
Two tiny little lightning-rods were run
Straight up their sides, and twinkled in the sun.
Who built it? Nay, no answer but a smile.-
It may be you can quess who, afterwhile.
Home in his stall "Old Sorrel" munched his hay
And oats and corn, and switched the flies away,
In a repose of patience good to see,
And earnst of the gentlest pedigree.
With half pathetic eye sometimes he gazed
Upon the gambols of a colt that grazed
Around the edges of the lot outside,
And kicked at nothing suddenly, and tried
To act grown-up and graceful and high-bred,
But dropped, k'whop! and scraped the buggy-shed,
Leaving a tuft of woolly, foxy hair
Under the sharp-end of a gate-hinge there.
Then, all ignobly scrambling to his feet
And whinneying a whinney like a bleat,
He would pursue himself around the lot
And-do the whole thing over, like as not!. . .
Ah! what a life of constant fear and dread
And flop and squawk and flight the chickens led!
THE LOVELY NEIGHBORHOOD
Above the fences, either side, were seen
The neighbor-houses, set in plots of green
Dooryards and greener gardens, tree and wall
Alike whitewashed, and order in it all:
The scythe hooked in the tree-fork; and the spade
And hoe and rake and shovel all, when laid
Aside, were in their places, ready for
The hand of either the possessor or
Of any neighbor, welcome to the loan
Of any tool he might not chance to own.
THE OLD HOME FOLKS
SUCH was the Child-World of the long-ago-
The little world these children used to know:-
Johnty, the oldest, and the best, perhaps,
Of the five happy little Hoosier chaps
Inhabiting this wee world all thier own.-
Johnty, the leader, with his native tone
Of grave command-a general on parade
Whose each punctilious order was obeyed
By his proud followers.
But Johnty yet-
After serious duties-could forget
The gravity of life to the extent,
At times, of kindling much astonishment
About him: With a quick, observant eye,
And mind and memory, he could supply
The tamest incident with liveliest mirth;
And at the most unlooked-for times on eath
Was wont to break into some travesty
On those around him-feats of mimicry
Of this one's trick of gesture-that one's walk-
Or this one's laugh-or that one's funny talk,-
The way "the watermelon-man" would try
His humor on town-folks that wouldn't buy;-
How he drove into town at morning-then
At dusk (alas!) how he drove out again.
Though these divertisements of Johnty's were
Hailed with a hearty glee and relish, there
Appeared a sense, on his part, of regret-
A spirit of remorse that would not let
Him rest for days thereafter.-Such times he,
As some boy said,"jist got too overly
Blame good fer common boys like us, you know,
To 'sociate with-less'n we 'ud go
And jine his church!"
BUD AND THE SUPERLATIVE
Next after Johnty came
His little tow-head brother, Bud by name.-
And O how white his hair was - and how thick
His face with freckles, - and his ears, how quick
And curious and intrusive! - And how pale
The blue of his big eyes; - and how a tale
Of Giants, Trolls or Fairies, bulged them still
Bigger and bigger! - And when "Jack: would kill
The old "Four-headed Giant," Bud's big eye
Were swollen truly into giant-size.
And Bud was apt in make-believes- wuld hear
His Grandma talk or read, with such an ear
And memory of both subject and big words,
That he would take the book up afterwards
And feign to "read aloud," with such success
As caused his truthful elders real distress.
But he must have big words - they seemed to give
Extremer range to the superlative --
That was his passion. "My Gran'ma," he said,
One evening, after listening as she read
Some heavy old historical review--
With copious explanations thereunto
Drawn out by his inquiring turn of mind,--
"My Gran'ma she's read all books-ever'kind
They is, 'at tells all 'bout the land an' sea
An' Natons of the Earth! - An' she is the
Historicul-est woman ever wuz!"
(Forgive the verse's chuckling as it does
In its erratic current. -- Oftentimes
The little willowy waterbrook of rhymes
Must falter in its music, listening to
The children laughing as they used to do.)
"Who shall sing a simple ditty all about the Willow,
Dainty-fine and delicate as any bending spray
That dandles high the happy bird that flutters there to trill
a
Tremulously tender song of greeting to the May.
Ah, my lovely Willow!- Let the Waters lilt your graces,-
They alone with limpid kisses lave your leaves above,
Flashing back your sylvan beauty, and in shady places
Peering up with glimmering pebbles, like the eyes of love."
MAYMIE AND ALEX
Next, Maymie, with her hazy cloud of hair,
And the blue skies of eyes beneath it there.
Her dignified and "little lady" airs
Of never either romping up the stairs
Or falling down them; thoughtful everyway
Of others first - The kind of child at play
That "gave up," for the rest, the ripest pear
Or peach or apple in the garden there
Beneath the trees where wooped the airy swing--
She pushing it, too glad for anything!
Or, in the character of hostess, she
Would entertain her friends delightfully
In her play-house, - with strips of carpet laid
Along the garden-fence within the shade
Of the old apple-trees - where from next yard
Came the two dearest friends in her regard,
The little Crawford girls, Ella and Lu -
As shy and lovely as the lilies grew
In their idyllic home, - yet sometimes they
Admitted Bud and Alex to their play,
Who did their heavier work and helped them fix
To have a "Festibul" - and brought the bricks
And built the "stove," with a real fire and all,
And stovepipe-joint for chimney, looming tall
And wonderfully smoky -- evento
Their childish aspirations, as it blew
And swooped and swirled about them till their sight
Was feverish even as their high delight.
Then Alex, with his freckles, and his freaks
Of temper, and the peach-bloom of his cheeks,
And "amber-colored hair" - his mother said
'Twas that, when others laughed and called it "red"
And Alex threw things at them - till they'd call
A truce, agreeing "'t'uz n't red ut-tall!"
But Alex was affectionate beyond
The average child, and was extremely fond
Of the paternal relatives of his
Of whom he once made estimate like this:-
"I'm only got two brothers, - but my Pa
He's got most brothers'n you ever saw!-
He's got seben brothers! - Yes, an' they're all my
Seben Uncles! - Uncle John, an' Jim,-an' I'
Got Uncle George, an' Uncle Andy, too,
An' Uncle Frank, an' Uncle Joe. - An' you
Know Uncle Mart.- An', all but him, they're great
Big mens! - An' nen's Aunt Sara - she makes eight! -
I'm got eight uncles! - 'cept Aunt Sarah can't
Be ist my uncle 'cause she's ist my aunt!"
LITTLE LIZZIE AND THE PARENTS
Then, next to Alex - and the last indeed
Of these five little ones of whom you read--
Was baby Lizzie, with her velvet lisp, -
As though her Alfin lips had caught some wisp
Of floss betwen them as they strove with speech,
Which ever seemed just in yet out of reach --
Though what her lips missed, her dark eyes could say
With looks that made her meaning clear as day.
And, knowing now the children, you must know
The father and the mother they loved so: --
The father was a swarthy man, black-eyed,
Black-haired, and high of forehead; and, beside
The slender little mother, seemed in truth
A very king of men - since, from his youth,
To his hale manhood now - (worthy as then,-
A lawyer and a leading citizen
Of the proud little town and county-seat -
His hopes his neighbors', and their fealty sweet)-
He had known outdoor labor - rain and shine-
Bleak Winter, and bland Summer -foul and fine.
So Nature had ennobled him and set
Her symbol on him like a coronet:
His lifted brow, and frank, reliant face.--
Superior of stature as of grace,
Even the children by the spell were wrought
Up to heroics of their simple thought,
And say him, trim of build, and lithe and straight
And tall, almost, as at the pasture-gate
The towering ironweed the scythe had spared
For their sakes, when The Hired Man declared
It would grow on till it became a tree,
With cocoanuts and monkeys in - maybe!
THE GENTLE MOTHER
Yet, though the children, in their pride and awe
And admiration of the father, saw
A being so exalted -- even more
Like adoration was the love they bore
The gentle mother. - Her mild, plaintive face
Was purely fair, and haloed with a grace
And sweetness luminous when joy made glad
Her features with a smile; or saintly sad
As twilight, fell the sympathetic gloom
Of any childish grief, or as a room
Were darkened suddenly, the curtain drawn
Across the window and the sunshine gone.
Her brow. below her fair hair's glimmering strands,
Seemed meetest resting-place for blessing hands
Or holiest touches of soft finger-tips
And little roseleaf-cheeks and dewy lips.
Though heavy household tasks were pitiless,
No little waist or coat or checkered dress
But knew her needle's deftness; and no skill
Matched hers in shaping pleat or flounce or frill;
Or fashioning, in complicate design,
All rich embroideries of leaf and vine,
With tiniest twining tendril, - bud and bloom
And fruit, so like, one's fancy caught perfume
And dainty touch and taste of them, to see
Their semblance wrought in such rare verity.
Shrined in her sanctity of home and love,
And love's fond service and reward thereof,
Restore her thus, O blessed Memory! --
Throned in her rocking-chair, and on her knee
Her sewing - her workbasket on the floor
Beside her, - Springtime through the open door
Balmily stealing in and all about
The room; the bees' dim hum, and the far shout
And laughter of the children at their play,
And neighbor-children from across the way
Calling in gleeful challenge - save alone
One boy whose voice sends back no answering tone -
The boy, prone on the floor, above a book
Of pictures, with a rapt, ecstatic look -
Even as the mother's, by the selfsame spell,
Is lifted, with a light ineffable --
As though her senses caught no mortal cry,
But heard, instead, some poem going by.
THE SILENT POEM
The Child-heart is so strange a little thing -
So mild - so timorously shy and small, -
When grown-up hearts throb, it goes scampering
Behind the wall, nor dares peer out at all! -
It is the veriest mouse
That hides in any house -
So wild a little thing is any Child-heart!
Child-heart! - mild heart! -
Ho, my little wild heart! -
Come up here to me out o' the dark,
Or let me come to you!
So lorn at times the Child-heart needs must be,
With never one maturer heart for friend
And comrade, whose tear-ripened sympathy
And love might lend it comfort to the end,-
Whose yearning, aches and stings,
Over poor little things
Were pitiful as ever any Child-heart.
Child-heart! - mild heart! -
Ho, my little wild heart! -
Come up here to me out o' the dark,
Or let me come to you!
Times, too, the little Child-heart must be glad -
Being so young, nor knowing, as we know,
The fact from fantasy, the good from bad,
The joy from woe, the - all that hurts us so!
What wonder then that thus
It hides away from us? -
So weak a little thing is any Child-heart!
Child-heart! - mild heart! -
Ho, my little wild heart! -
Come up here to me out o' the dark,
Or let me come to you!
Nay, little Child-heart, you have never need
To fear us, - we are weaker far than you -
Tis we who should be fearful - we indeed
Should hide us, too, as darkly as you do,-
Safe, as yourself, withdrawn,
Hearing the World roar on
Too willful, woful, awful for the Child-heart!
Child-heart! - mild heart! -
Ho, my little wild heart!-
Come up here to me out o' the dark,
Or let me come to you!
OLD SCENES AND SOUNDS
The clock chats on confidingly; a rose
Taps at the window, as the sunlight throws
A brilliant, jostling checkerwork of shine
And shadow, like a Persian-loom design,
Across the homemade carpet - fades, -and then
The dear old colors are themselves again.
Sounds drop in visiting from everywhere -
The bluebird's and the robin's trill are there,
Their sweet liquidity diluted some
By dewy orchard spaces they have come:
Sounds of the town, too, and the great highway -
The Mover-wagons' rumble, and the neigh
Of overtraveled horses, and the bleat
Of sheep and low of cattle through the street -
A Nation's thoroughfare of hopes and fears,
First blazed by the heroic pioneers
Who gave up old-home idols and set face
Toward the unbroken West, to found a race
And tame a wilderness now mightier than
All peoples and all tracts American. |