The Old
Such was the Child-World of the long-ago—
The little world these children used to know:—
Johnty, the oldest, and the best, perhaps,
Of the five happy little Hoosier chaps
Inhabiting this wee world all their own.—
Johnty, the leader, with his native tone
Of grave command—a general on parade
Whose each punctilious order was obeyed
By his proud followers.
But Johnty yet—
After all serious duties—could forget
The gravity of life to the extent,
At times, of kindling much astonishment
About him: With a quick, observant eye,
And mind and memory, he could supply
The tamest incident with liveliest mirth;
And at the most unlooked-for times on earth
Was wont to break into some travesty
On those around him—feats of mimicry
Of this one’s trick of gesture—that one’s walk—
Or this one’s laugh—or that one’s funny talk,—
The way 'the watermelon-man’ would try
His humor on town-folks that wouldn’t buy;—
How he drove into town at morning—then
At dusk (alas!) how he drove out again.
Though these divertisements of Johnty’s were
Hailed with a hearty glee and relish, there
Appeared a sense, on his part, of regret—
A spirit of remorse that would not let
Him rest for days thereafter.—Such times he,
As some boy said, ‘jist got too overly
Blame good fer common boys like us, you know,
To ’_so_ciate with—less’n we ‘ud go
And jine his church!’
Next after Johnty came
His little tow-head brother, Bud by name.—
And O how white his hair was—and how thick
His face with freckles,—and his ears, how quick
And curious and intrusive!—And how pale
The blue of his big eyes;—and how a tale
Of Giants, Trolls or Fairies, bulged them still
Bigger and bigger!—and when 'Jack’ would kill
The old ‘Four-headed Giant,’ Bud’s big eyes
Were swollen truly into giant-size.
And Bud was apt in make-believes—would hear
His Grandma talk or read, with such an ear
And memory of both subject and big words,
That he would take the book up afterwards
And feign to ‘read aloud,’ with such success
As caused his truthful elders real distress.
But he _must_ have _big words_—they seemed to give
Extremer range to the superlative—
That was his passion. 'My Gran’ma,' he said,
One evening, after listening as she read
Some heavy old historical review—
With copious explanations thereunto
Drawn out by his inquiring turn of mind,—
'My Gran’ma she’s read _all_ books—ever’ kind
They is, ‘at tells all ’bout the land an’ sea
An’ Nations of the Earth!—An’ she is the
Historicul-est woman ever wuz!'
(Forgive the verse’s chuckling as it does
In its erratic current.—Oftentimes
The little willowy waterbrook of rhymes
Must falter in its music, listening to
The children laughing as they used to do.)
Who shall sing a simple ditty all about the Willow,
Dainty-fine and delicate as any bending spray
That dandles high the happy bird that flutters there to trill a
Tremulously tender song of greeting to the May.
Ah, my lovely Willow!—Let the Waters lilt your graces,—
They alone with limpid kisses lave your leaves above,
Flashing back your sylvan beauty, and in shady places
Peering up with glimmering pebbles, like the eyes of love.
Next, Maymie, with her hazy cloud of hair,
And the blue skies of eyes beneath it there.
Her dignified and 'little lady’ airs
Of never either romping up the stairs
Or falling down them; thoughtful everyway
Of others first—The kind of child at play
That ‘gave up,’ for the rest, the ripest pear
Or peach or apple in the garden there
Beneath the trees where swooped the airy swing—
She pushing it, too glad for anything!
Or, in the character of hostess, she
Would entertain her friends delightfully
In her play-house,—with strips of carpet laid
Along the garden-fence within the shade
Of the old apple-trees—where from next yard
Came the two dearest friends in her regard,
The little Crawford girls, Ella and Lu—
As shy and lovely as the lilies grew
In their idyllic home,—yet sometimes they
Admitted Bud and Alex to their play,
Who did their heavier work and helped them fix
To have a 'Festibul’—and brought the bricks
And built the ‘stove,’ with a real fire and all,
And stovepipe-joint for chimney, looming tall
And wonderfully smoky—even to
Their childish aspirations, as it blew
And swooped and swirled about them till their sight
Was feverish even as their high delight.
Then Alex, with his freckles, and his freaks
Of temper, and the peach-bloom of his cheeks,
And '_amber-colored_ hair’—his mother said
‘Twas that, when others laughed and called it ’_red_'
And Alex threw things at them—till they’d call
A truce, agreeing 't’uz n’t red _ut-tall_!'
But Alex was affectionate beyond
The average child, and was extremely fond
Of the paternal relatives of his
Of whom he once made estimate like this:—
'_I’m_ only got _two_ brothers,—but my _Pa_
He’s got most brothers’n you ever saw!—
He’s got _seben_ brothers!—Yes, an’ they’re all my
Seben Uncles!—Uncle John, an’ Jim,—an’ I’
Got Uncle George, an’ Uncle Andy, too,
An’ Uncle Frank, an’ Uncle Joe.—An’ you
_Know_ Uncle _Mart_.—An’, all but _him_, they’re great
Big mens!—An’ nen s Aunt Sarah—she makes eight!—
I’m got _eight_ uncles!—'cept Aunt Sarah _can’t_
Be ist my _uncle_ 'cause she’s ist my _aunt_!'
Then, next to Alex—and the last indeed
Of these five little ones of whom you read—
Was baby Lizzie, with her velvet lisp,—
As though her Elfin lips had caught some wisp
Of floss between them as they strove with speech,
Which ever seemed just in yet out of reach—
Though what her lips missed, her dark eyes could say
With looks that made her meaning clear as day.
And, knowing now the children, you must know
The father and the mother they loved so:—
The father was a swarthy man, black-eyed,
Black-haired, and high of forehead; and, beside
The slender little mother, seemed in truth
A very king of men—since, from his youth,
To his hale manhood _now_—(worthy as then,—
A lawyer and a leading citizen
Of the proud little town and county-seat—
His hopes his neighbors’, and their fealty sweet)—
He had known outdoor labor—rain and shine—
Bleak Winter, and bland Summer—foul and fine.
So Nature had ennobled him and set
Her symbol on him like a coronet:
His lifted brow, and frank, reliant face.—
Superior of stature as of grace,
Even the children by the spell were wrought
Up to heroics of their simple thought,
And saw him, trim of build, and lithe and straight
And tall, almost, as at the pasture-gate
The towering ironweed the scythe had spared
For their sakes, when The Hired Man declared
It would grow on till it became a _tree_,
With cocoanuts and monkeys in—maybe!
Yet, though the children, in their pride and awe
And admiration of the father, saw
A being so exalted—even more
Like adoration was the love they bore
The gentle mother.—Her mild, plaintive face
Was purely fair, and haloed with a grace
And sweetness luminous when joy made glad
Her features with a smile; or saintly sad
As twilight, fell the sympathetic gloom
Of any childish grief, or as a room
Were darkened suddenly, the curtain drawn
Across the window and the sunshine gone.
Her brow, below her fair hair’s glimmering strands,
Seemed meetest resting-place for blessing hands
Or holiest touches of soft finger-tips
And little roseleaf-cheeks and dewy lips.
Though heavy household tasks were pitiless,
No little waist or coat or checkered dress
But knew her needle’s deftness; and no skill
Matched hers in shaping pleat or flounce or frill;
Or fashioning, in complicate design,
All rich embroideries of leaf and vine,
With tiniest twining tendril,—bud and bloom
And fruit, so like, one’s fancy caught perfume
And dainty touch and taste of them, to see
Their semblance wrought in such rare verity.
Shrined in her sanctity of home and love,
And love’s fond service and reward thereof,
Restore her thus, O blessed Memory!—
Throned in her rocking-chair, and on her knee
Her sewing—her workbasket on the floor
Beside her,—Springtime through the open door
Balmily stealing in and all about
The room; the bees’ dim hum, and the far shout
And laughter of the children at their play,
And neighbor-children from across the way
Calling in gleeful challenge—save alone
One boy whose voice sends back no answering tone—
The boy, prone on the floor, above a book
Of pictures, with a rapt, ecstatic look—
Even as the mother’s, by the selfsame spell,
Is lifted, with a light ineffable—
As though her senses caught no mortal cry,
But heard, instead, some poem going by.
The Child-heart is so strange a little thing—
So mild—so timorously shy and small.—
When _grown-up_ hearts throb, it goes scampering
Behind the wall, nor dares peer out at all!—
It is the veriest mouse
That hides in any house—
So wild a little thing is any Child-heart!
_Child-heart!—mild heart!—
Ho, my little wild heart!—
Come up here to me out o’ the dark,
Or let me come to you!_
So lorn at times the Child-heart needs must be.
With never one maturer heart for friend
And comrade, whose tear-ripened sympathy
And love might lend it comfort to the end,—
Whose yearnings, aches and stings.
Over poor little things
Were pitiful as ever any Child-heart.
_Child-heart!—mild heart!—
Ho, my little wild heart!—
Come up here to me out o’ the dark,
Or let me come to you!_
Times, too, the little Child-heart must be glad—
Being so young, nor knowing, as _we_ know.
The fact from fantasy, the good from bad,
The joy from woe, the—_all_ that hurts us so!
What wonder then that thus
It hides away from us?—
So weak a little thing is any Child-heart!
_Child-heart!—mild heart!—
Ho, my little wild heart!—
Come up here to me out o’ the dark,
Or let me come to you!_
Nay, little Child-heart, you have never need
To fear _us_,—we are weaker far than you—
Tis _we_ who should be fearful—we indeed
Should hide us, too, as darkly as you do,—
Safe, as yourself, withdrawn,
Hearing the World roar on
Too willful, woful, awful for the Child-heart!
_Child-heart!—mild heart!—
Ho, my little wild heart!—
Come up here to me out o’ the dark,
Or let me come to you!_
The clock chats on confidingly; a rose
Taps at the window, as the sunlight throws
A brilliant, jostling checkerwork of shine
And shadow, like a Persian-loom design,
Across the homemade carpet—fades,—and then
The dear old colors are themselves again.
Sounds drop in visiting from everywhere—
The bluebird’s and the robin’s trill are there,
Their sweet liquidity diluted some
By dewy orchard spaces they have come:
Sounds of the town, too, and the great highway—
The Mover-wagons’ rumble, and the neigh
Of overtraveled horses, and the bleat
Of sheep and low of cattle through the street—
A Nation’s thoroughfare of hopes and fears,
First blazed by the heroic pioneers
Who gave up old-home idols and set face
Toward the unbroken West, to found a race
And tame a wilderness now mightier than
All peoples and all tracts American.
Blent with all outer sounds, the sounds within:—
In mild remoteness falls the household din
Of porch and kitchen: the dull jar and thump
Of churning; and the 'glung-glung’ of the pump,
With sudden pad and skurry of bare feet
Of little outlaws, in from field or street:
The clang of kettle,—rasp of damper-ring
And bang of cookstove-door—and everything
That jingles in a busy kitchen lifts
Its individual wrangling voice and drifts
In sweetest tinny, coppery, pewtery tone
Of music hungry ear has ever known
In wildest famished yearning and conceit
Of youth, to just cut loose and eat and eat!—
The zest of hunger still incited on
To childish desperation by long-drawn
Breaths of hot, steaming, wholesome things that stew
And blubber, and up-tilt the pot-lids, too,
Filling the sense with zestful rumors of
The dear old-fashioned dinners children love:
Redolent savorings of home-cured meats,
Potatoes, beans, and cabbage; turnips, beets
And parsnips—rarest composite entire
That ever pushed a mortal child’s desire
To madness by new-grated fresh, keen, sharp
Horseradish—tang that sets the lips awarp
And watery, anticipating all
The cloyed sweets of the glorious festival.—
Still add the cinnamony, spicy scents
Of clove, nutmeg, and myriad condiments
In like-alluring whiffs that prophesy
Of sweltering pudding, cake, and custard pie—
The swooning-sweet aroma haunting all
The house—upstairs and down—porch, parlor, hall
And sitting-room—invading even where
The Hired Man sniffs it in the orchard-air,
And pauses in his pruning of the trees
To note the sun minutely and to—sneeze.
Then Cousin Rufus comes—the children hear
His hale voice in the old hall, ringing clear
As any bell. Always he came with song
Upon his lips and all the happy throng
Of echoes following him, even as the crowd
Of his admiring little kinsmen—proud
To have a cousin _grown_—and yet as young
Of soul and cheery as the songs he sung.
He was a student of the law—intent
Soundly to win success, with all it meant;
And so he studied—even as he played,—
With all his heart: And so it was he made
His gallant fight for fortune—through all stress
Of battle bearing him with cheeriness
And wholesome valor.
And the children had
Another relative who kept them glad
And joyous by his very merry ways—
As blithe and sunny as the summer days,—
Their father’s youngest brother—Uncle Mart.
The old 'Arabian Nights’ he knew by heart—
‘Baron Munchausen,’ too; and likewise ‘The
Swiss Family Robinson.’—And when these three
Gave out, as he rehearsed them, he could go
Straight on in the same line—a steady flow
Of arabesque invention that his good
Old mother never clearly understood.
He _was_ to be a _printer_—wanted, though,
To be an _actor_.—But the world was 'show’
Enough for _him_,—theatric, airy, gay,—
Each day to him was jolly as a play.
And some poetic symptoms, too, in sooth,
Were certain.—And, from his apprentice youth,
He joyed in verse-quotations—which he took
Out of the old ‘Type Foundry Specimen Book.’
He craved and courted most the favor of
The children.—They were foremost in his love;
And pleasing _them_, he pleased his own boy-heart
And kept it young and fresh in every part.
So was it he devised for them and wrought
To life his quaintest, most romantic thought:—
Like some lone castaway in alien seas,
He built a house up in the apple-trees,
Out in the corner of the garden, where
No man-devouring native, prowling there,
Might pounce upon them in the dead o’ night—
For lo, their little ladder, slim and light,
They drew up after them. And it was known
That Uncle Mart slipped up sometimes alone
And drew the ladder in, to lie and moon
Over some novel all the afternoon.
And one time Johnty, from the crowd below,—
Outraged to find themselves deserted so—
Threw bodily their old black cat up in
The airy fastness, with much yowl and din.
Resulting, while a wild periphery
Of cat went circling to another tree,
And, in impassioned outburst, Uncle Mart
Loomed up, and thus relieved his tragic heart:
'_Hence, long-tailed, ebon-eyed, nocturnal ranger!
What led thee hither 'mongst the types and cases?
Didst thou not know that running midnight races
O’er standing types was fraught with imminent danger?
Did hunger lead thee—didst thou think to find
Some rich old cheese to fill thy hungry maw?
Vain hope! for none but literary jaw
Can masticate our cookery for the mind!_'
So likewise when, with lordly air and grace,
He strode to dinner, with a tragic face
With ink-spots on it from the office, he
Would aptly quote more ‘Specimen-poetry—’
Perchance like 'Labor’s bread is sweet to eat,
(_Ahem!_) And toothsome is the toiler’s meat.'
Ah, could you see them _all_, at lull of noon!—
A sort of _boisterous_ lull, with clink of spoon
And clatter of deflecting knife, and plate
Dropped saggingly, with its all-bounteous weight,
And dragged in place voraciously; and then
Pent exclamations, and the lull again.—
The garland of glad faces 'round the board—
Each member of the family restored
To his or her place, with an extra chair
Or two for the chance guests so often there.—
The father’s farmer-client, brought home from
The courtroom, though he 'didn’t _want_ to come
Tel he jist saw he _hat_ to!' he’d explain,
Invariably, time and time again,
To the pleased wife and hostess, as she pressed
Another cup of coffee on the guest.—
Or there was Johnty’s special chum, perchance,
Or Bud’s, or both—each childish countenance
Lit with a higher glow of youthful glee,
To be together thus unbrokenly,—
Jim Offutt, or Eck Skinner, or George Carr—
The very nearest chums of Bud’s these are,—
So, very probably, _one_ of the three,
At least, is there with Bud, or _ought_ to be.
Like interchange the town-boys each had known—
His playmate’s dinner better than his own—
_Yet_ blest that he was ever made to stay
At _Almon Keefer’s, any_ blessed day,
For _any_ meal!... Visions of biscuits, hot
And flaky-perfect, with the golden blot
Of molten butter for the center, clear,
Through pools of clover-honey—_dear-o-dear!_—
With creamy milk for its divine 'farewell’:
And then, if any one delectable
Might yet exceed in sweetness, O restore
The cherry-cobbler of the days of yore
Made only by Al Keefer’s mother!—Why,
The very thought of it ignites the eye
Of memory with rapture—cloys the lip
Of longing, till it seems to ooze and drip
With veriest juice and stain and overwaste
Of that most sweet delirium of taste
That ever visited the childish tongue,
Or proved, as now, the sweetest thing unsung.
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