Poems Teachers Ask For Volume I Part 2

When I fell sick with pining, we didn't wait any more, But moved away from the cornlands, out to this river sh.o.r.e-- The Tuscarawas it's called, sir--off there's a hill, you see-- And now I've grown to like it next best to the Tennessee.

I was at work that morning. Some one came riding like mad Over the bridge and up the road--Farmer Rouf's little lad.

Bareback he rode; he had no hat; he hardly stopped to say, "Morgan's men are coming, Frau; they're galloping on this way.

"I'm sent to warn the neighbors. He isn't a mile behind; He sweeps up all the horses--every horse that he can find.

Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men, With bowie knives and pistols, are galloping up the glen!"

The lad rode down the valley, and I stood still at the door; The baby laughed and prattled, playing with spools on the floor; Kentuck was out in the pasture; Conrad, my man, was gone.

Nearer, nearer, Morgan's men were galloping, galloping on!

Sudden I picked up baby, and ran to the pasture bar.

"Kentuck!" I called--"Kentucky!" She knew me ever so far!

I led her down the gully that turns off there to the right, And tied her to the bushes; her head was just out of sight.

As I ran back to the log house, at once there came a sound-- The ring of hoofs, galloping hoofs, trembling over the ground-- Coming into the turnpike out from the White Woman Glen-- Morgan, Morgan the raider, and Morgan's terrible men.

As near they drew and nearer, my heart beat fast in alarm; But still I stood in the doorway with baby on my arm.

They came, they pa.s.sed; with spur and whip in haste they sped along-- Morgan, Morgan the raider, and his band, six hundred strong.

Weary they looked and jaded, riding through night and through day; Pushing on east to the river, many long miles away, To the border strip where Virginia runs up into the West, And fording the Upper Ohio before they could stop to rest.

On like the wind they hurried, and Morgan rode in advance; Bright were his eyes like live coals, as he gave me a sideways glance.

And I was just breathing freely, after my choking pain, When the last one of the troopers suddenly drew his rein.

Frightened I was to death, sir; I scarce dared look in his face, As he asked for a drink of water, and glanced around the place.

I gave him a cup, and he smiled--'twas only a boy, you see; Faint and worn, with dim blue eyes; and he'd sailed on the Tennessee.

Only sixteen he was, sir--a fond mother's only son-- Off and away with Morgan before his life had begun!

The damp drops stood on his temples; drawn was the boyish mouth; And I thought me of the mother waiting down in the South.

Oh! pluck was he to the backbone, and clear grit through and through; Boasted and bragged like a trooper; but the big words wouldn't do;-- The boy was dying, sir, dying as plain as plain could be, Worn out by his ride with Morgan up from the Tennessee.

But when I told the laddie that I too was from the South, Water came in his dim eyes, and quivers around his mouth.

"Do you know the Blue-Gra.s.s country?" he wistful began to say; Then swayed like a willow sapling, and fainted dead away.

I had him into the log house, and worked and brought him to; I fed him, and I coaxed him, as I thought his mother'd do; And when the lad got better, and the noise in his head was gone, Morgan's men--were miles; away, galloping, galloping on.

"Oh, I must go," he muttered; "I must be up and away!

Morgan--Morgan is waiting for me; Oh, what will Morgan say?"

But I heard a sound of tramping and kept him back from the door-- The ringing sound of horses' hoofs that I had heard before.

And on, on, came the soldiers--the Michigan cavalry-- And fast they rode, and black they looked, galloping rapidly,-- They had followed hard on Morgan's track; they had followed day and night; But of Morgan and Morgan's raiders they had never caught a sight.

And rich Ohio sat startled through all those summer days; For strange, wild men were galloping over her broad highways-- Now here, now there, now seen, now gone, now north, now east, now west, Through river-valleys and cornland farms, sweeping away her best.

A bold ride and a long ride; but they were taken at last.

They almost reached the river by galloping hard and fast; But the boys in blue were upon them ere ever they gained the ford, And Morgan, Morgan the raider, laid down his terrible sword.

Well, I kept the boy till evening--kept him against his will-- But he was too weak to follow, and sat there pale and still.

When it was cool and dusky--you'll wonder to hear me tell-- But I stole down to that gully, and brought up Kentucky Belle.

I kissed the star on her forehead--my pretty gentle la.s.s-- But I knew that she'd be happy back in the old Blue-Gra.s.s.

A suit of clothes of Conrad's, with all the money I had, And Kentuck, pretty Kentuck, I gave to the worn-out lad.

I guided him to the southward as well as I know how; The boy rode off with many thanks, and many a backward bow; And then the glow it faded, and my heart began to swell, As down the glen away she went, my lost Kentucky Belle!

When Conrad came in the evening, the moon was shining high; Baby and I were both crying--I couldn't tell him why-- But a battered suit of rebel gray was hanging on the wall, And a thin old horse, with drooping head, stood in Kentucky's stall.

Well, he was kind, and never once said a hard word to me; He knew I couldn't help it--'twas all for the Tennessee, But, after the war was over, just think what came to pa.s.s-- A letter, sir; and the two were safe back in the old Blue-Gra.s.s.

The lad had got across the border, riding Kentucky Belle; And Kentuck, she was thriving, and fat, and hearty, and well; He cared for her, and kept her, nor touched her with whip or spur.

Ah! we've had many horses since, but never a horse like her!

_Constance F. Woolson._

An Inventor's Wife

I remember it all so very well, the first of my married life, That I can't believe it was years ago--it doesn't seem true at all; Why, I just can see the little church where they made us man and wife, And the merry glow of the first wood-fire that danced on our cottage wall.

_We were happy?_ Yes; and we prospered, too; the house belonged to Joe, And then, he worked in the planing mill, and drew the best of pay; And our cup was full when Joey came,--our baby-boy, you know; So, all went well till that mill burned down and the owner moved away.

It wasn't long till Joe found work, but 'twas never quite the same,-- Never steady, with smaller pay; so to make the two ends meet He fell to inventin' some machine--I don't recall the name, But he'd sit for hours in his little shop that opens toward the street,--

Sit for hours, bent over his work, his tools all strewn about.

I used to want to go in there to dust and sweep the floor, But 'twas just as if 'twas the parson there, writing his sermon out; Even the baby--bless the child!--learned never to slam that door!

People called him a clever man, and folks from the city came To look at his new invention and wish my Joe success; And Joe would say, "Little woman,"--for that was my old pet-name,-- "If my plan succeeds, you shall have a coach and pair, and a fine silk dress!"

I didn't want 'em, the grand new things, but it made the big tears start To see my Joe with his restless eyes, his fingers worn away To the skin and bone, for he wouldn't eat; and it almost broke my heart When he tossed at night from side to side, till the dawning of the day.

Of course, with it all he lost his place. I couldn't blame the man, The foreman there at the factory, for losing faith in Joe, For his mind was never upon his work, but on some invention-plan, As with folded arms and his head bent down he wandered to and fro.

Yet, he kept on workin' at various things, till our little money went For wheels and screws and metal casts and things I had never seen; And I ceased to ask, "Any pay, my dear?" with the answer, "Not a cent!"

When his lock and his patent-saw had failed, he clung to that great machine.

I remember one special thing that year. He had bought some costly tool, When we wanted our boy to learn to read--he was five years old, you know; He went to his cla.s.s with cold, bare feet, till at last he came from school And gravely said, "Don't send me back; the children tease me so!"

I hadn't the heart to cross the child, so, while I sat and sewed He would rock his little sister in the cradle at my side; And when the struggle was hardest and I felt keen hunger's goad Driving me almost to despair--the little baby died.

Her father came to the cradle-side, as she lay, so small and white; "Maggie," he said, "I have killed this child, and now I am killing you!

I swear by heaven, I will give it up!" Yet, like a thief, that night He stole to the shop and worked; his brow all wet with a clammy dew.

I cannot tell how I lived that week, my little boy and I, Too proud to beg; too weak to work; and the weather cold and wild.

I can only think of one dark night when the rain poured from the sky, And the wind went wailing round the house, like the ghost of my buried child.