In another letter, evidently suspecting his poem had not appeared inprint because of its dejected tone, he said: "The poetry I herewithsend was wrote off on the finest Autumn day I ever laid eyes on! Inever felt better in my life. The morning air was as invigoratin' asbitters with tanzy in it, and the folks at breakfast said they neversaw such a' appetite on mortal man before. Then I lit out for thebarn, and after feedin', I come back and tuck my pen and ink out onthe porch, and jest cut loose. I writ and writ till my fingers wasthat cramped I couldn't hardly let go of the penholder. And the poem Isend you is the upshot of it all. Ef you don't find it cheerful enoughfer your columns, I'll have to knock under, that's all!" And thatpoem, as I recall it, certainly was cheerful enough for publication,only the "copy" was almost undecipherable, and the ink, too, so paleand vague, it was thought best to reserve the verses, for the time, atleast, and later on revise, copy, punctuate, and then print itsometime, as much for the joke of it as anything. But it was stilldelayed, neglected, and in a week's time almost entirely forgotten.And so it was, upon this chill and sombre afternoon I speak of that anevent occurred which most pleasantly reminded me of both the poem withthe "sad spots" in it, and the "cheerful" one, "writ out on the porch"that glorious autumn day that poured its glory through the old man'sletter to us.
Outside and in the sanctum the gloom was too oppressive to permit anelevated tendency of either thought or spirit. I could do nothing butsit listless and inert. Paper and pencil were before me, but I couldnot write--I could not even think coherently, and was on the point ofrising and rushing out into the streets for a wild walk, when therecame a hesitating knock at the door.
"Come in!" I snarled, grabbing up my pencil and assuming a frightfullyindustrious air: "Come in!" I almost savagely repeated, "Come in! Andshut the door behind you!" and I dropped my lids, bent my gaze fixedlyupon the blank pages before me and began scrawling some disconnectednothings with no head or tail or anything.
"Sir; howdy," said a low and pleasant voice. And at once, in spite ofmy perverse resolve, I looked up. I someway felt rebuked.
The speaker was very slowly, noiselessly closing the door. I couldhardly face him when he turned around. An old man, of sixty-five, atleast, but with a face and an eye of the most cheery and wholesomeexpression I had ever seen in either youth or age. Over his broadbronzed forehead and white hair he wore a low-crowned, wide-brimmedblack felt hat, somewhat rusted now, and with the band grease-crusted,and the binding frayed at intervals, and sagging from the threads thatheld it on. An old-styled frock coat of black, dull brown in streaks,and quite shiny about the collar and lapels. A waistcoat of nodescribable material or pattern, and a clean white shirt and collar ofone piece, with a black string-tie and double bow, which would havebeen entirely concealed beneath the long white beard but for itshaving worked around to one side of the neck. The front outline of theface was cleanly shaven, and the beard, growing simply from the underchin and throat, lent the old pioneer the rather singular appearanceof having hair all over him with this luxurious growth pulled outabove his collar for mere sample.
I arose and asked the old man to sit down, handing him a chairdecorously.
"No--no," he said--"I'm much obleeged. I hain't come in to bother youno more'n I can he'p. All I wanted was to know ef you got my poetryall right. You know I take yer paper," he went on, in an explanatoryway, "and seein' you printed poetry in it once-in-a-while, I sent yousome of mine--neighbors kindo' advised me to," he addedapologetically, "and so I sent you some--two or three times I sent yousome, but I hain't never seed hide-ner-hair of it in your paper, andas I wus in town to-day, anyhow, I jest thought I'd kindo' drap in andgit it back, ef you ain't goin' to print it--'cause I allus save upmost the things I write, aimin' sometime to git 'em all struck off inpamphlet-form, to kindo' distribit round 'mongst the neighbors, don'tyou know."
Already I had begun to suspect my visitor's identity, and wasmechanically opening the drawer of our poetical department.
"How was your poetry signed?" I asked.
"Signed by my own name," he answered proudly,--"signed by my ownname,--Johnson--Benjamin F. Johnson, of Boone County--this state."
"And is this one of them, Mr. Johnson?" I asked, unfolding aclumsily-folded manuscript, and closely scrutinizing the verse.
"How does she read?" said the old man eagerly, and searching in themeantime for his spectacles. "How does she read?--Then I can tellyou!"
"It reads," said I, studiously conning the old man's bold but badchirography, and tilting my chair back indolently,--"it reads likethis--the first verse does,"--and I very gravely read:--
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole!"
"Stop! Stop!" said the old man excitedly--"Stop right there! That's mypoetry, but that's not the way to read it by a long shot! Give it tome!" and he almost snatched it from my hand. "Poetry like this ain'tno poetry at all, 'less you read it _natchurl_ and _in jes the samesperit 'at it's writ in_, don't you understand. It's a' old mana-talkin', rickollect, and a-feelin' kindo' sad, and yit kindo' sorto'good, too, and I opine he wouldn't got that off with a face on himlike a' undertaker, and a voice as solemn as a cow-bell after dark!He'd say it more like this."--And the old man adjusted his spectaclesand read:--
"THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE"
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep, And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know Before we could remember anything but the eyes Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise; But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle, And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole."
I clapped my hands in genuine applause. "Read on!" I said,--"Read on!Read all of it!"
The old man's face was radiant as he continued:--
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore, When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore, Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide That gazed back at me so gay and glorified, It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness. But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways, How pleasant was the jurney down the old dusty lane, Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole. But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.
"Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall, And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all; And it mottled the worter with amber and gold Tel the glad lillies rocked in the ripples that rolled; And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky, Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.
"Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place, The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face; The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot. And I strayed down the banks whare the trees ust to be-- But never again will theyr shade shelter me! And I wisht in my sorrow I could strip to the soul, And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole."
My applause was long and loud. The old man's interpretation of thepoem was a positive revelation, though I was glad enough to concealfrom him my moistened eyes by looking through the scraps for otherspecimens of his verse.
"Here," said I enthusiastically, "is another one, signed 'Benj. F.Johnson,' read me this," and I handed him the poem.
The old man smiled and took the manuscript. "This-here one's on '_TheHoss_,'" he said, simply clearing his throat. "They ain't so muchfancy-work about this as the other'n, b
ut they's jest as much _fact_,you can bet--'cause, they're no animal a-livin' 'at I love better 'an
"THE HOSS"
"The hoss he is a splendud beast; He is man's friend, as heaven desined, And, search the world from west to east, No honester you'll ever find!
"Some calls the hoss 'a pore dumb brute,' And yit, like Him who died fer you, I say, as I theyr charge refute, 'Fergive; they know not what they do!'
"No wiser animal makes tracks Upon these earthly shores, and hence Arose the axium, true as facts, Extoled by all, as 'Good hoss-sense!'
"The hoss is strong, and knows his stren'th,-- You hitch him up a time er two And lash him, and he'll go his len'th And kick the dashboard out fer you!
"But, treat him allus good and kind, And never strike him with a stick, Ner aggervate him, and you'll find He'll never do a hostile trick.
"A hoss whose master tends him right And worters him with daily care, Will do your biddin' with delight, And act as docile as _you_ air.
"He'll paw and prance to hear your praise, Because he's learnt to love you well; And, though you can't tell what he says, He'll nicker all he wants to tell.
"He knows you when you slam the gate At early dawn, upon your way Unto the barn, and snorts elate, To git his corn, er oats, er hay.
"He knows you, as the orphant knows The folks that loves her like theyr own, And raises her and 'finds' her clothes, And 'schools' her tel a womern-grown!
"I claim no hoss will harm a man, Ner kick, ner run away, cavort, Stump-suck, er balk, er 'catamaran,' Ef you'll jest treat him as you ort.
"But when I see the beast abused And clubbed around as I've saw some, I want to see his owner noosed, And jest yanked up like Absolum!
"Of course they's differunce in stock,-- A hoss that has a little yeer, And slender build, and shaller hock, Can beat his shadder, mighty near!
"Whilse one that's thick in neck and chist And big in leg and full in flank, That tries to race, I still insist He'll have to take the second rank.
"And I have jest laid back and laughed, And rolled and wallered in the grass At fairs, to see some heavy-draft Lead out at _first_, yit come in _last_!
"Each hoss has his appinted place,-- The heavy hoss should plow the soil;-- The blooded racer, he must race, And win big wages fer his toil.
"I never bet--ner never wrought Upon my feller-man to bet-- And yit, at times, I've often thought Of my convictions with regret.
"I bless the hoss from hoof to head-- From head to hoof, and tale to mane!-- I bless the hoss, as I have said, From head to hoof, and back again!
"I love my God the first of all, Then Him that perished on the cross, And next, my wife,--and then I fall Down on my knees and love the hoss."
Again I applauded, handing the old man still another of his poems, andthe last received. "Ah!" said he, as his gentle eyes bent on thetitle; "this-here's the cheerfullest one of 'em all. This is the onewrit, as I wrote you about--on that glorious October morning two weeksago--I thought your paper would print this-un, shore!"
"Oh, it _will_ print it," I said eagerly; "and it will print the othertwo as well! It will print _anything_ that you may do us the honor tooffer, and we'll reward you beside just as you may see fit todesignate.--But go on--go on! Read me the poem."
The old man's eyes were glistening as he responded with the poementitled
"WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN"
"When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
"They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here-- Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
"The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries--kindo' lonesome-like, but still A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in theyr stalls below--the clover overhead!-- O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
"Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps; And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!... I don't know how to tell it--but ef sich a thing could be As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on _me_-- I'd want to 'commodate 'em--all the whole-indurin' flock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!"
That was enough! "Surely," thought I, "here is a diamond in the rough,and a 'gem,' too, 'of purest ray serene'!" I caught the old man's handand wrung it with positive rapture; and it is needless to go furtherin explanation of how the readers of our daily came to an acquaintancethrough its columns with the crude, unpolished, yet most gentle geniusof Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone.
LORD BACON
WRITTEN AS A JOKE AND ASCRIBED TO A VERY PRACTICAL BUSINESS MAN, AMOSJ. WALKER
Master of masters in the days of yore, When art met insult, with no law's redress; When Law itself insulted Righteousness, And Ignorance thine own scholastic lore, And thou thine own judicial office more,-- What master living now canst love thee less, Seeing thou didst thy greatest art repress And leave the years its riches to restore To us, thy long neglectors. Yield us grace To make becoming recompense, and dawn On us thy poet-smile; nor let us trace, In fancy, where the old-world myths have gone, The shade of Shakespeare, with averted face, Withdrawn to uttermost oblivion.
MY FIRST WOMERN
I buried my first womern In the spring; and in the fall I was married to my second, And hain't settled yit at all!-- Fer I'm allus thinkin'--thinkin' Of the first one's peaceful ways, A-bilin' soap and singin' Of the Lord's amazin' grace.
And I'm thinkin' of her, constant, Dyin' carpet chain and stuff, And a-makin' up rag carpets, When the _floor_ was good enough! And I mind her he'p a-feedin', And I riccollect her now A-drappin' corn, and keepin' Clos't behind me and the plow!
And I'm allus thinkin' of her Reddin' up around the house; Er cookin' fer the farm-hands; Er a-drivin' up the cows.-- And there she lays out yander By the lower medder fence, Where the cows was barely grazin', And they're usin' ever sence.
And when I look acrost there-- Say it's when the clover's ripe, And I'm settin', in the evenin', On the porch here, with my pipe, And the _other'n_ hollers "Henry!"-- W'y they ain't no sadder thing Than to think of my first womern And her funeral last spring Was a year ago--
AS WE READ BURNS
Who is speaking? Who has spoken? Whose voice ceasing thus has broken The sweet pathos of our dreams? Sweetest bard of sweetest themes, Pouring in each poet-heart Some rare essence of your art Till it seems your si
nging lip Kisses every pencil tip! Far across the unknown lands-- Reach of heavenly isle and sea-- How we long to touch the hands You outhold so lovingly!
TO JAMES NEWTON MATTHEWS
IN ANSWER TO A LETTER ON THE ANATOMY OF THE SONNET
Oho! ye sunny, sonnet-singin' vagrant, Flauntin' your simmer sangs in sic a weather! Ane maist can straik the bluebells and the heather Keekin' aboon the snaw and bloomin' fragrant! Whiles you, ye whustlin' brither, sic a lay grant O' a' these janglin', wranglin' sweets thegither, I weel maun perk my ain doon-drappin' feather And pipe a wee: Tho' boisterous and flagrant The winds blow whuzzle-whazzle rhymes that trickle Fra' aff my tongue less limpid than I'd ha'e them, I in their little music hap a mickle O' canty praises, a' asklent to weigh them Agen your pride, and smile to see them tickle The warm nest o' the heart wherein I lay them.