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PUBLISHERS' NOTE 
 
 "The CourtinV in its final form as here printed, 
 made its first appearance at the end of the Introduction 
 to the Second Series of" The Biglow Papers." Twelve 
 stanzas of the poem, afterwards somewhat revised, had 
 before been published in connection with the "Notices 
 of an Independent Press" which the author prefixed to 
 the first series of " Biglow Papers" His explanation of 
 the circumstances is given in the Introduction to the 
 Second Series as follows : — 
 
 " The only attempt I had ever made at anything 
 like a pastoral (if that may be called an attempt which 
 was the result almost of pure accident) was in 'The 
 Court in .' While the introduction to the First Series 
 was going through the press, I received word from the 
 printer that there was a blank page left which must be 
 filled. I sat down at once and improvised another fic- 
 titious ''notice of the press ^ in which, because verse 
 would fill up space more cheaply than prose, I inserted 
 an extract from a supposed ballad of Mr. Biglow. I 
 kept no copy of it, and the printer, as directed, cut it off 
 when the gap was filled. Presently I began to receive let- 
 ters asking for the rest of it, sometimes for the balance 
 of it. I had none, but to answer such demands, I patched 
 
a conclusion upon it in a later edition. "Those who had 
 only the first continued to importune me. Afterward, 
 being asked to write it out as an autograph for the Balti- 
 more Sanitary Commission Fair, I added other verses ', 
 into some of which I infused a little more sentiment in 
 a homely way, and after a fashion completed it by sketch- 
 ing in the characters and making a connected story. 
 Most likely I have spoiled it, but I shall put it at the 
 end of this Introduction, to answer once for all those 
 kindly impor tunings." 
 
 As the result of much inquiry the publishers have 
 recently learned the history of the autograph copy of the 
 poem above referred to, and by the kind permission of 
 the present owner it is reproduced in this volume. At 
 the time of the Baltimore Fair, Colonel Alexander Bliss 
 {then stationed at Fort McHenry) and Mr. John 
 P. Kennedy made a large collection of autographs, to 
 be lithographed for sale at the fair as " Autograph 
 Leaves." The originals, except those that were merely 
 lent, were bound, and the volume became the property 
 of Colonel Bliss. It is now owned by his son, Mr. Wil- 
 liam J. F. Bliss, of Baltimore. Among the original 
 manuscripts thus preserved is " The Courtin\" 
 
 The poem has long been popular as a charming and 
 humorous Yankee idyl composed in the genuine old New 
 England dialect. As interpreted by Mr. Keller s sympa- 
 thetic brush it will give a new pleasure to its readers. 
 
 Boston, September, ipop. 
 
od makes seen nights, all white an' still 
 Fur 'z you can look or listen, 
 Moonshine an' snow on field an* hill, 
 All silence an' all glisten. 
 
 Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown 
 An' peeked in thru' the winder, 
 
 An' there sot Huldy all alone, 
 'ith no one nigh to hender. 
 
 A fireplace rilled the room's one side 
 With half a cord o' wood in — 
 
 There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) 
 To bake ye to a puddin'. 
 
 The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out 
 Towards the pootiest, bless her, 
 
 An' leetle flames danced all about 
 The chiny on the dresser. 
 
 Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, 
 
 An' in amongst 'em rusted 
 The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young 
 
 Fetched back Pom Concord busted. 
 
 The very room, coz she was in, 
 Seemed warm Pom floor to ceilin*, 
 
 An' she looked full ez rosy agin 
 Ez the apples she was peelin'. 
 
GoartTn 
 
 Cj was kin' o' kingdom-come to look 
 On sech a blessed cretur, 
 A dogrose blushin' to a brook 
 Ain't modester nor sweeter. 
 
 He was six foot o' man, A i, 
 
 Clear grit an' human natur', 
 None could n't quicker pitch a ton 
 
 Nor dror a furrer straighter. 
 
 He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, 
 Hed squired 'em, danc'd'em, druv 'em, 
 
 Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells — 
 All is, he couldn't love 'em. 
 
 But long o' her his veins 'ould run 
 All crinkly like curled maple, 
 
 The side she breshed felt full o' sun 
 Ez a south slope in Ap'il. 
 
 She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing 
 
 Ez hisn in the choir; 
 My ! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, 
 
 She knowed the Lord was nigher. 
 
 An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, 
 When her new meetin'-bunnet 
 
 Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair 
 O' blue eyes sot upun it. 
 
r 
 
 het night, I tell ye, she looked some ! 
 She seemed to Ve gut a new soul, 
 For she felt sartin-sure he 'd come, 
 Down to her very shoe-sole. 
 
 She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, 
 
 A-raspin' on the scraper, — 
 All ways to once her feelins flew 
 
 Like sparks in burnt-up paper. 
 
 He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, 
 
 Some doubtfle o' the sekle, 
 His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, 
 
 But hern went pity Zekle. 
 
 An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk 
 Ez though she wished him furder, 
 
 An' on her apples kep' to work, 
 Parin' away like murder. 
 
 "You want to see mv Pa, I s'pose?" 
 "Wal ... no ... I come dasigmin'" — 
 
 "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es 
 Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." 
 
 To sav why gals act so or so, 
 Or don't, 'ould be persumin'; 
 
 Mebbv to mean j'^ an' sav no 
 Comes nateral to women. 
 
I 
 
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 II Je stood a spell on one foot fust, 
 Then stood a spell on t' other, 
 An* on which one he felt the wust 
 He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. 
 
 Says he, "I 'd better call agin;" 
 Says she, "Think likely, Mister:" 
 
 Thet last word pricked him like a pin, 
 An' . . . Wal, he up an' kist her. 
 
 When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, 
 
 Huldy sot pale ez ashes, 
 All kin' o' smily roun' the lips 
 
 An' teary roun' the lashes. 
 
 For she was jes' the quiet kind 
 
 Whose naturs never vary, 
 Like streams that keep a summer mind 
 
 Snowhid in Jenooary. 
 
 The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued 
 
 Too tight for all expressin', 
 Tell mother see how metters stood, 
 
 An' gin 'em both her blessin'. 
 
 Then her red come back like the tide 
 
 Down to the Bay o' Fundy, 
 An' all I know is they was cried 
 
 In meetin' come nex' Sunday. 
 

 
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 USA 
 
OCT 7 1909 
 
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