A Child-World Part 3

Glorious news!-- Even more glorious when verified In the boys' welcoming eyes of love and pride, As one by one they greeted their old friends And neighbors.--Nor until their earth-life ends Will that bright memory become less bright Or dimmed indeed.

... Again, at candle-light, The faces all are gathered. And how glad The Mother's features, knowing that she had Her dear, sweet Mary Loehr back again.-- She always was so proud of her; and then The dear girl, in return, was happy, too, And with a heart as loving, kind and true As that maturer one which seemed to blend As one the love of mother and of friend.

From time to time, as hand-in-hand they sat, The fair girl whispered something low, whereat A tender, wistful look would gather in The mother-eyes; and then there would begin A sudden cheerier talk, directed to The stranger guests--the man and woman who, It was explained, were coming now to make Their temporary home in town for sake Of the wife's somewhat failing health. Yes, they Were city-people, seeking rest this way, The man said, answering a query made By some well meaning neighbor--with a shade Of apprehension in the answer.... No,-- They had no _children_. As he answered so, The man's arm went about his wife, and she Leant toward him, with her eyes lit prayerfully: Then she arose--he following--and bent Above the little sleeping innocent Within the cradle at the mother's side-- He patting her, all silent, as she cried.-- Though, haply, in the silence that ensued, His musings made melodious interlude.

In the warm, health-giving weather My poor pale wife and I Drive up and down the little town And the pleasant roads thereby: Out in the wholesome country We wind, from the main highway, In through the wood's green solitudes-- Fair as the Lord's own Day.

We have lived so long together.

And joyed and mourned as one, That each with each, with a look for speech, Or a touch, may talk as none But Love's elect may comprehend-- Why, the touch of her hand on mine Speaks volume-wise, and the smile of her eyes, To me, is a song divine.

There are many places that lure us:-- "The Old Wood Bridge" just west Of town we know--and the creek below, And the banks the boys love best: And "Beech Grove," too, on the hill-top; And "The Haunted House" beyond, With its roof half off, and its old pump-trough Adrift in the roadside pond.

We find our way to "The Marshes"-- At least where they used to be; And "The Old Camp Grounds"; and "The Indian Mounds,"

And the trunk of "The Council Tree:"

We have crunched and splashed through "Flint-bed Ford"; And at "Old Big Bee-gum Spring"

We have stayed the cup, half lifted up.

Hearing the redbird sing.

And then, there is "Wesley Chapel,"

With its little graveyard, lone At the crossroads there, though the sun sets fair On wild-rose, mound and stone ...

A wee bed under the willows-- My wife's hand on my own-- And our horse stops, too ... And we hear the coo Of a dove in undertone.

The dusk, the dew, and the silence.

"Old Charley" turns his head Homeward then by the pike again, Though never a word is said-- One more stop, and a lingering one-- After the fields and farms,-- At the old Toll Gate, with the woman await With a little girl in her arms.

The silence sank--Floretty came to call The children in the kitchen, where they all Went helter-skeltering with shout and din Enough to drown most sanguine silence in,-- For well indeed they knew that summons meant Taffy and popcorn--so with cheers they went.

THE HIRED MAN AND FLORETTY

The Hired Man's supper, which he sat before, In near reach of the wood-box, the stove-door And one leaf of the kitchen-table, was Somewhat belated, and in lifted pause His dextrous knife was balancing a bit Of fried mush near the port awaiting it.

At the glad children's advent--gladder still To find _him_ there--"Jest tickled fit to kill To see ye all!" he said, with unctious cheer.-- "I'm tryin'-like to he'p Floretty here To git things cleared away and give ye room Accordin' to yer stren'th. But I p'sume It's a pore boarder, as the poet says, That quarrels with his victuals, so I guess I'll take another wedge o' that-air cake, Florett', that you're a-_learnin_' how to bake."

He winked and feigned to swallow painfully.--

"Jest 'fore ye all come in, Floretty she Was boastin' 'bout her _biscuits_--and they _air_ As good--sometimes--as you'll find anywhere.-- But, women gits to braggin' on their _bread_, I'm s'picious 'bout their _pie_--as Danty said."

This raillery Floretty strangely seemed To take as compliment, and fairly beamed With pleasure at it all.

--"Speakin' o' _bread_-- When she come here to live," The Hired Man said,-- "Never ben out o' _Freeport_ 'fore she come Up here,--of course she needed '_sperience_ some.-- So, one day, when yer Ma was goin' to set The risin' fer some bread, she sent Florett To borry _leaven_, 'crost at Ryans'--So, She went and asked fer _twelve_.--She didn't _know_, But thought, _whatever_ 'twuz, that she could keep _One_ fer _herse'f_, she said. O she wuz deep!"

Some little evidence of favor hailed The Hired Man's humor; but it wholly failed To touch the serious Susan Loehr, whose air And thought rebuked them all to listening there To her brief history of the _city_-man And his pale wife--"A sweeter woman than _She_ ever saw!"--So Susan testified,-- And so attested all the Loehrs beside.-- So entertaining was the history, that The Hired Man, in the corner where he sat In quiet sequestration, sh.e.l.ling corn, Ceased wholly, listening, with a face forlorn As Sorrow's own, while Susan, John and Jake Told of these strangers who had come to make Some weeks' stay in the town, in hopes to gain Once more the health the wife had sought in vain: Their doctor, in the city, used to know The Loehrs--Dan and Rachel--years ago,-- And so had sent a letter and request For them to take a kindly interest In favoring the couple all they could-- To find some home-place for them, if they would, Among their friends in town. He ended by A dozen further lines, explaining why His patient must have change of scene and air-- New faces, and the simple friendships there With _them_, which might, in time, make her forget A grief that kept her ever brooding yet And wholly melancholy and depressed,-- Nor yet could she find sleep by night nor rest By day, for thinking--thinking--thinking still Upon a grief beyond the doctor's skill,-- The death of her one little girl.

"Pore thing!"

Floretty sighed, and with the turkey-wing Brushed off the stove-hearth softly, and peered in The kettle of mola.s.ses, with her thin Voice wandering into song unconsciously-- In purest, if most witless, sympathy.--

"'Then sleep no more: Around thy heart Some ten-der dream may i-dlee play.

But mid-night song, With mad-jick art, Will chase that dree muh-way!'"

"That-air besetment of Floretty's," said The Hired Man,--"_singin_--she _inhairited_,-- Her _father_ wuz addicted--same as her-- To singin'--yes, and played the dulcimer!

But--gittin' back,--I s'pose yer talkin' 'bout Them _Hammondses_. Well, Hammond he gits out _Pattents_ on things--inventions-like, I'm told-- And's got more money'n a house could hold!

And yit he can't git up no pattent-right To do away with _dyin'_.--And he might Be worth a _million_, but he couldn't find n.o.body sellin' _health_ of any kind!...

But they's no thing onhandier fer _me_ To use than other people's misery.-- Floretty, hand me that-air skillet there And lem me git 'er het up, so's them-air Childern kin have their popcorn."

It was good To hear him now, and so the children stood Closer about him, waiting.

"Things to _eat_,"

The Hired Man went on, "'s mighty hard to beat!

Now, when _I_ wuz a boy, we was so pore, My parunts couldn't 'ford popcorn no more To pamper _me_ with;--so, I hat to go _Without_ popcorn--sometimes a _year_ er so!-- And _suffer'n' saints!_ how hungry I would git Fer jest one other chance--like this--at it!

Many and many a time I've _dreamp_', at night, About popcorn,--all busted open white, And hot, you know--and jest enough o' salt And b.u.t.ter on it fer to find no fault-- _Oomh!_--Well! as I was goin' on to say,-- After a-_dreamin_' of it thataway, _Then_ havin' to wake up and find it's all A _dream_, and hain't got no popcorn at-tall, Ner haint _had_ none--I'd think, '_Well, where's the use!_'

And jest lay back and sob the plaster'n' loose!

And I have _prayed_, what_ever_ happened, it 'Ud eether be popcorn er death!.... And yit I've noticed--more'n likely so have you-- That things don't happen when you _want_ 'em to."

And thus he ran on artlessly, with speech And work in equal exercise, till each Tureen and bowl brimmed white. And then he greased The saucers ready for the wax, and seized The fragrant-steaming kettle, at a sign Made by Floretty; and, each child in line, He led out to the pump--where, in the dim New coolness of the night, quite near to him He felt Floretty's presence, fresh and sweet As ... dewy night-air after kitchen-heat.

There, still, with loud delight of laugh and jest, They plied their subtle alchemy with zest-- Till, sudden, high above their tumult, welled Out of the sitting-room a song which held Them stilled in some strange rapture, listening To the sweet blur of voices chorusing:--

"'When twilight approaches the season That ever is sacred to song, Does some one repeat my name over, And sigh that I tarry so long?

And is there a chord in the music That's missed when my voice is away?-- And a chord in each heart that awakens Regret at my wearisome stay-ay-- Regret at my wearisome stay.'"

All to himself, The Hired Man thought--"Of course _They'll_ sing _Floretty_ homesick!"

... O strange source Of ecstasy! O mystery of Song!-- To hear the dear old utterance flow along:--

"'Do they set me a chair near the table When evening's home-pleasures are nigh?-- When the candles are lit in the parlor.

And the stars in the calm azure sky.'"...

Just then the moonlight sliced the porch slantwise, And flashed in misty spangles in the eyes Floretty clenched--while through the dark--"I jing!"

A voice asked, "Where's that song '_you'd_ learn to sing Ef I sent you the _ballat_?'--which I done Last I was home at Freeport.--S'pose you run And git it--and we'll all go in to where They'll know the notes and sing it fer ye there."

And up the darkness of the old stairway Floretty fled, without a word to say-- Save to herself some whisper m.u.f.fled by Her ap.r.o.n, as she wiped her lashes dry.

Returning, with a letter, which she laid Upon the kitchen-table while she made A hasty crock of "float,"--poured thence into A deep gla.s.s dish of iridescent hue And glint and sparkle, with an overflow Of froth to crown it, foaming white as snow.-- And then--poundcake, and jelly-cake as rare, For its delicious complement,--with air Of Hebe mortalized, she led her van Of votaries, rounded by The Hired Man.

THE EVENING COMPANY

Within the sitting-room, the company Had been increased in number. Two or three Young couples had been added: Emma King, Ella and Mary Mathers--all could sing Like veritable angels--Lydia Martin, too, And Nelly Millikan.--What songs they knew!--

_"'Ever of Thee--wherever I may be, Fondly I'm drea-m-ing ever of thee!_'"

And with their gracious voices blend the grace Of Warsaw Barnett's tenor; and the ba.s.s Unfathomed of Wick Chapman--Fancy still Can _feel_, as well as _hear_ it, thrill on thrill, Vibrating plainly down the backs of chairs And through the wall and up the old hall-stairs.-- Indeed young Chapman's voice especially Attracted _Mr. Hammond_--For, said he, Waiving the most Elysian sweetness of The _ladies_' voices--alt.i.tudes above The _man's_ for sweetness;--_but_--as _contrast_, would Not Mr. Chapman be so very good As, just now, to oblige _all_ with--in fact, Some sort of _jolly_ song,--to counteract In part, at least, the sad, pathetic trend Of music _generally_. Which wish our friend "The Noted Traveler" made second to With heartiness--and so each, in review, Joined in--until the radiant _ba.s.so_ cleared His wholly un.o.bstructed throat and peered Intently at the ceiling--voice and eye As opposite indeed as earth and sky.-- Thus he uplifted his vast ba.s.s and let It roam at large the memories booming yet:

"'Old Simon the Cellarer keeps a rare store Of Malmsey and Malvoi-sie, Of Cyprus, and who can say how many more?-- But a chary old so-u-l is he-e-ee-- A chary old so-u-l is he!

Of hock and Canary he never doth fail; And all the year 'round, there is brewing of ale;-- Yet he never aileth, he quaintly doth say, While he keeps to his sober six flagons a day.'"