John Smith, U.S.A Part 6

Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ringdoves a-mating, Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming.

"Peter!" his mother would call, "the cream is a-ready for churning!"

"Peter!" his father would cry, "go grub at the weeds in the garden!"

"Peter!" and "Peter!" all day--calling, reminding and chiding-- Peter neglected his ch.o.r.es; therefore that outcry for Peter; Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him-- Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter!

Surely enough, on a time, reading and lazing and dreaming Wrought the calamitous ill all had predicted for Peter; For, of a morning in spring when lay the mist in the valleys-- "See," quoth the folk, "how the witch breweth her evil decoctions!

See how the smoke from her fire broodeth on wood land and meadow!

Grant that the sun cometh out to smother the smudge of her caldron!

She hath been forth in the night, full of her spells and devices, Roaming the marshes and dells for heathenish musical nostrums; Digging in leaves and at stumps for centipedes, pismires and spiders, Grubbing in poisonous pools for hot salmanders and toadstools; Charming the bats from the flues, snaring the lizards by twilight, Sucking the scorpion's egg and milking the breast of the adder!"

Peter derided these things held in such faith by the farmer, Scouted at magic and charms, hooted at Jonahs and hoodoos-- Thinking the reading of books must have unsettled his reason!

"There ain't no witches," he cried; "it isn't smoky, but foggy!

I will go out in the wet--you all can't hender me, nuther!"

Surely enough he went out into the damp of the morning, Into the smudge that the witch spread over woodland and meadow, Into the fleecy gray pall brooding on hillside and valley.

Laughing and scoffing, he strode into that hideous vapor; Just as he said he would do, just as he bantered and threatened, Ere they could fasten the door, Peter had gone and done it!

Wasting his time over books, you see, had unsettled his reason-- Soddened his callow young brain with semi-p.u.b.escent paresis, And his neglect of his ch.o.r.es hastened this evil condition.

Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over; Down in the pasture the sheep hear that shrill crying for Peter, Up from the spring-house the wail stealeth anon like a whisper, Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated.

Such are the voices that whooped wildly and vainly for Peter Decades and decades ago down in the state of Kentucky-- Such are the voices that cry from the woodland and meadow, "Peter--O Peter!" all day, calling, reminding, and chiding-- Taking us back to the time when Peter he done gone and done it!

These are the voices of those left by the boy in the farmhouse When, with his laughter and scorn, hatless and bootless and sockless, Clothed in his jeans and his pride, Peter sailed out in the weather, Broke from the warmth of his home into that fog of the devil.

Into the smoke of that witch brewing her d.a.m.nable porridge!

Lo, when he vanished from sight, knowing the evil that threatened, Forth with importunate cries hastened his father and mother.

"Peter!" they shrieked in alarm, "Peter!" and evermore "Peter!"-- Ran from the house to the barn, ran from the barn to the garden, Ran to the corn-crib anon, then to the smokehouse proceeded; Henhouse and woodpile they pa.s.sed, calling and wailing and weeping, Through the front gate to the road, braving the hideous vapor-- Sought him in lane and on pike, called him in orchard and meadow, Clamoring "Peter!" in vain, vainly outcrying for Peter.

Joining the search came the rest, brothers, and sisters and cousins, Venting unspeakable fears in pitiful wailing for Peter!

And from the neighboring farms gathered the men and the women.

Who, upon hearing the news, swelled the loud chorus for Peter.

Farmers and hussifs and maids, bosses and field-hands and n.i.g.g.e.rs, Colonels and jedges galore from corn-fields and mint-beds and thickets.

All that had voices to voice, all to those parts appertaining.

Came to engage in the search, gathered and bellowed for Peter.

The Taylors, the Dorseys, the Browns, the Wallers, the Mitch.e.l.ls, the Logans.

The Yenowines, Crittendens, Dukes, the Hickmans, the Hobbses, the Morgans; The Ormsbys, the Thompsons, the Hikes, the Williamsons, Murrays and Hardins, The Beynroths, the Sherlays, the Hokes, the Haldermans, Harneys and Slaughters-- All famed in Kentucky of old for prowess prodigious at farming.

Now surged from their prosperous homes to join in the hunt for the truant.

To ascertain where he was at, to help out the chorus for Peter.

Still on these prosperous farms were heirs and a.s.signs of the people Specified hereinabove and proved by the records of probate-- Still on these farms shall you hear (and still on the turnpikes adjacent) That pitiful, petulant call, that pleading, expostulant wailing, That hopeless, monotonous moan, that crooning and droning for Peter.

Some say the witch in her wrath transmogrified all those good people; That, wakened from slumber that day by the calling and bawling for Peter, She out of her cave in a trice, and, waving the foot of a rabbit (Crossed with the caul of a c.o.o.n and smeared with the blood of a chicken), She changed all these folks into birds and shrieking with demoniac venom: "Fly away over the land, moaning your Peter forever, Croaking of Peter, the boy who didn't believe there were hoodoos, Crooning of Peter the fool who scouted at stories of witches.

Crying for Peter for aye, forever outcalling for Peter!"

This is the story they tell; so in good sooth saith the legend: As I have told, so tell the folk and the legend, That it is true I believe, for on the breeze of the morning Come the shrill voices of birds calling and calling for Peter; Out of the maple and beech glitter the eyes of the wailers, Peeping and peering for him who formerly lived in these places-- Peter, the heretic lad, lazy and careless and dreaming, Sorely afflicted with books and with p.u.b.escent paresis.

Hating the things of the farm, care of the barn and the garden.

Always neglecting his ch.o.r.es--given to books and to reading, Which, as all people allow, turn the young person to mischief, Harden his heart against toil, wean his affections from tillage.

This is the legend of yore told in the state of Kentucky When in the springtime the birds call from the beeches and maples, Call from the petulant thorn, call from the acrid persimmon; When from the woods by the creek and from the pastures and meadows, When from the spring-house and lane and from the mint-bed and orchard, When from the redbud and gum and from redolent lilac, When from the dirt roads and pikes comes that calling for Peter; Cometh the dolorous cry, cometh that weird iteration Of "Peter" and "Peter" for aye, of "Peter" and "Peter" forever!

This is the legend of old, told in the tumt.i.tty meter Which the great poets prefer, being less labor than rhyming (My first attempt at the same, my last attempt, too, I reckon,) Nor have I further to say, for the sad story is ended.

DIBDIN'S GHOST.

Dear wife, last midnight while I read The tomes you so despise, A specter rose beside the bed And spoke in this true wise; "From Canaan's beatific coast I've come to visit thee, For I'm Frognall Dibdin's ghost!"

Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

I bade him welcome and we twain Discussed with buoyant hearts The various things that appertain To bibliomaniac arts.

"Since you are fresh from t'other side, Pray tell me of that host That treasured books before they died,"

Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

"They've entered into perfect rest, For in the life they've won There are no auctions to molest, No creditors to dun; Their heavenly rapture has no bounds Beside that jasper sea-- It is a joy unknown to Lowndes!"

Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

Much I rejoiced to hear him speak Of biblio-bliss above, For I am one of those who seek What bibliomaniacs love; "But tell me--for I long to hear What doth concern me most-- Are wives admitted to that sphere?"

Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

"The women folk are few up there, For 'twere not fair you know That they our heavenly joy should share Who vex us here below!

The few are those who have been kind To husbands such as we-- They knew our fads, and didn't mind,"

Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

"But what of those who scold at us When we would read in bed?

Or, wanting victuals, make a fuss If we buy books, instead?

And what of those who've dusted not Our motley pride and boast?

Shall they profane that sacred spot?"

Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

"Oh, no! they tread that other path Which leads where torments roll, And worms--yes bookworms--vent their wrath Upon the guilty soul!

Untouched of bibliomaniac grace That saveth such as we, They wallow in that dreadful place!"

Says Dibdin's ghost to me.

"To my dear wife will I recite What things I've heard you say; She'll let me read the books by night She's let me buy by day; For we, together, by and by, Would join that heavenly host-- She's earned a rest as well as I!"

Says I to Dibdin's ghost.

AN AUTUMN TREASURE-TROVE.

'Tis the time of the year's sundown, and flame Hangs on the maple bough; And June is the faded flower of a name; The thin hedge hides not a singer now.

Yet rich am I; for my treasures be The gold afloat in my willow-tree.

Sweet morn on the hillside dripping with dew, Girded with blue and pearl, Counts the leaves afloat in the streamlet too; As the love-lorn heart of a wistful girl, She sings while her soul brooding tearfully Sees a dream of gold in the willow-tree.

All day pure white and saffron at eve, Clouds awaiting the sun Turn them at length to ghosts that leave When the moon's white path is slowly run Till the morning comes, and with joy for me O'er my gold agleam in the willow-tree.

The lilacs that blew on the breast of May Are an old and lost delight; And the rose lies ruined in his careless way As the wind turns the poplars underwhite, Yet richer am I for the autumn; see All my misty gold in the willow-tree.