The Old Soldiers Story Part 10

"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 the poem was a positive revelation, though I was glad enough to conceal from him my moistened eyes by looking through the sc.r.a.ps for other specimens 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 ma.n.u.script. "This-here one's on '_The Hoss_,'" he said, simply clearing his throat. "They ain't so much fancy-work about this as the other'n, but 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 sh.o.r.es, 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 gra.s.s 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 G.o.d 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, and the last received. "Ah!" said he, as his gentle eyes bent on the t.i.tle; "this-here's the cheerfullest one of 'em all. This is the one writ, as I wrote you about--on that glorious October morning two weeks ago--I thought your paper would print this-un, sh.o.r.e!"

"Oh, it _will_ print it," I said eagerly; "and it will print the other two as well! It will print _anything_ that you may do us the honor to offer, and we'll reward you beside just as you may see fit to designate.--But go on--go on! Read me the poem."

The old man's eyes were glistening as he responded with the poem ent.i.tled

"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-c.o.c.k, 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-b.u.t.ter, 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 hand and wrung it with positive rapture; and it is needless to go further in explanation of how the readers of our daily came to an acquaintance through its columns with the crude, unpolished, yet most gentle genius of Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone.

LORD BACON

WRITTEN AS A JOKE AND ASCRIBED TO A VERY PRACTICAL BUSINESS MAN, AMOS J. 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.