LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. fS 1 -7- T T ifyap Siipijrigfti ^n—-.— Shel$£s:£i.C| 5 S UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. r » ) r\ 1 o u t: PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND, AND OTHER PLACES. BY MINNIE GILMORE. " All these things writ On happy mornings with a morning heart, That leaps for love, is active for resolve, Weak for art only ,' ' E. B. Browning: Aurora Leigh. o OCT .20 1886 /a _OF WASHING NEW YORK. CASSELL & COMPANY, Limited. 739 & 741 Broadway. \ Copyright, 1886, By O. M. DUNHAM. PRESS OF HUNTER & BEACH, NEW YORK. CONTENTS. PAGE Prelude 7 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. * Watooska 21 The Shooting Star 22 The River on the Plain 25 A Prairie Flower 30 Juanita 32 A Western Wedding 34 An Autumn Canter 39 Mowing the Harvest Hay 42 Attuned 44 The Husking of the Corn ......... 46 iii CONTENTS. PAGE The Deserted Cabin 50 A Sorghum Candy-Puli 52 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. A Pioneer Poet 63 Dare-Devil Dick 68 A Border Romance 7l At the Mouth of the Tunnel 76 While the White Corn Pops 83 An Open Letter 87 Jim 9* Transplanted 93 Blackbird 100 PIPES FROM OTHER PLACES. A Quintette of Song: I. — Life 109 II. — Love no III. — Song m IV. — Peace 112 V. — Death 113 Cleo 114 After the Ball 117 iv CONTENTS. PAGE Three Serenades: I , , , . 118 II. ...» 119 III 120 By the River . 122 Fall Harbingers . 123 On the Hill 124 The Deserted Chapel 127 To the Rain , 129 The Wind 132 A Snow Song 134 The Lesson of the Crucifix 136 A Virgin Chaplet 139 A Lamp for the Tabernacle 142 Adieu 144 CODA. To my Critics i4g PRELUDE. *T^HE sun sails down to the west. O friends ! let us drift in its wake. To the mountains with snowy crest, To the canyons hung high with brake ; To the pine-trees that bend and blow ; To the copses where roses hide, And the streains that run swift beside- O friends, let us go, let us go ! The wind blows down to the west. friends ! let us follow its flight, To the crags where the eaglets nest, And the pha?ito?n-braves fit by night ; To the prairies that gleam below, Where the buffaloes run at will, And the prairie-dog 7nounts his hill, — O friends, let us go, let us go / The birds fly down to the west. O friends / let us flee in their train, 7 PRELUDE. To the wigwams that frown abreast, To the towns on the lonely plain ; To the farms where the milch-cows low, Where the horses in pastures play, And the meadows are sweet with hay. — O friends, let us go, let us go I The dusk drifts down to the west. O friends, let us speed in its trail, To the life that is free and best, To the folk that are blithe and hale ; To the ki7idly hearts that I know, To the hearth of the pioneer, To the simple and cordial cheer. — friends, let us go, let us go / The gold stars break in the west. O friends, that my pipes so might soar, Stars of song, from the fair young breast Of our beautiful western shore ! Warm and red as the flashing Mars, They should beck you and draw you on To the " Land of the Setting Sun" — O friends, were my songs but as stars ! PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. WATOOSKA. TVTORTH from the sunny Great Water, -*• ^ The far Mississippi — North from Otope, the alders, The singing, wet valley — Far in the land of the Red Man, The shadowy Northland, Glimmers a forest of pine trees, Still, dusky as twilight. There, 'mid the silence and shadows, There, long years gone over, Rounded through springtimes and summers, A live bud to flower, Bloom of the blood of the Red Man, The breast of the Pale-face; Born of the chief and his captive Watooska, White Lily. Two races battled within her, Warred in her young bosom; PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. Two natures played on her heartstrings, Flamed hot in her pulses, Mingled within her their hatreds, Their loves and their passions. Loved she the old chief, her father, Megizze, White Eagle; Loved in him all the fierce Red Men, Her savage, wild people; Loved the pinewoods, and the wigwam, The glowing feast torches; Loved her dead mother, the Pale-face, The gentle, white captive — Loved for her sake all her kindred, The foe, the Pale-faces. Fairest of all the O jib way Fair maidens, Watooska. Fair, slim, and supple as Kezhik, Kezhik, the white cedar; Lissom and swift as the robin, The lissom Opechee. Eyes of brown depths, wide and plaintive As eyes of the reindeer; Lashes more dark than Kahgahgee, More dark than the raven. PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. Up the white cheek of her mother, The cheek of the Pale-face, Crimson the blood of Megizze, The Red Man, the chieftain. Sweet her soft voice, as the falling, Far, light Minnehaha. Oft' to the door of her wigwam Sped young braves, her lovers ; Sped in their warpaint and feathers, With wampum and trophies ; Runners, and wrestlers, and dancers, And rulers, and warriors ; Hunters with slings and with arrows, Game warm on their shoulders; Sued all in vain for Watooska, In vain for White Lily; Thus ever chanting Megizze: — "Be it as thy heart wilt. Say thou, yea, nay, O my daughter, Say thou, my Watooska!" " Nay, then, my father ! " in answer, With soft voice, White Lily. Why did she sigh as she answered, Tears bright on her eyelids? J 3 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. Why wandered ever at twilight, Hands clasped in her tresses, Dusky eyes blinded with anguish, Lips spent with long moaning, Out from the lodge and the maidens, The braves and young chieftains, Out from the fires and the dances, The tales and the feasting, Up to the rim of the forest, The lonely, far mountain — Up to the crag crowned with pine trees, To fling herself headlong Down by its brink, fierce eyes piercing The still deeps below it? Ah, here her lover had wooed her, Here, here, he had won her! — Pale Chief, the young Wabishkizzi, The daring young Pale-face. Braved at the hands of the Red Men Slow death by sore torture, Stake, and sure knife, and fleet arrow, Through one sweet, warm summer; Sped out at night from the village, Spurs deep in his courser, 14 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. Swift as the wind, to the fragrant West rim of the forest ; Flung on low branches the bridle, And stole, silent-footed, Up through the trees to the tryst-place — Up, up, to Watooska. Here 'neath the stars he had wooed her, Had wooed her and won her; Here, to the rim of the forest, The lonely, far mountain, Here, to the crag crowned with pine trees, One languid, late twilight, Stealthy and sure as the panther, One stilly had tracked him, Jealous, mad hate in his bosom ; Sped out from the shadows Lithe as a flame, from his quiver A hissing, sure arrow; Harking the cry of Watooska, As over the crag-brink, Down the lone fathoms her lover, Smote by the Great Spirit. What saw the dim-eyed Megizze, As back to her wigwam, 15 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. Wan as a wraith, stole the maiden, Chill, mute as the midnight — That from the threshold he lifted The furry, soft curtain, Bade her pass in all unchidden, And slumber till daybreak? That through the night he sat musing Alone at his doorway, Flame in his pipe fading palely, Unfed and forgotten — Thence, when her lovers besought her, Bade ever in answer: "Say thou, yea, nay, O my daughter, Say thou, my Watooska ? " — That when round moons, ripe and ruddy, A half score had faded — When, o'er the Ottawa warcry That rang from the lodges, Chusco, first-born of Ningwegon, Great Ottawa chieftain, Holding the pipe to Megizze, Said, "Give me thy daughter! Give me Watooska, and ended The warfare and bloodshed ! " 16 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. Torn with his love for his people, The threatened Ojibways — Yearning the peace-pipe, Megizze Yet gently waived answer: — "Say thou, yea, nay, O my daughter, Say thou, my Watooska ? " Out to the crag crowned with pine trees, That dusk, sped Watooska ; Waged through the twilight and midnight Fierce war with her spirit ; Wrestled alone, empty-handed, Palms clenched on the crag-brink, Writhing in mortal, mute anguish, Lips set; hot eyes tearless. Rose up at daybreak : " Forgive me, Forgive me," she pleaded ; "Sweetheart, my dead Wabishkizzi — Forgive me, O Pale-face ! Thou my one love, O my lover, My one love forever!" Sought then, Megizze, and faltered, "As thou wilt, my father." Great then, the joy of Megizze, The rapture of Chusco; 17 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. Lightsome the hearts of her people, The ransomed Ojibways. Out from the Ottawa lodges In peace came the foemen, Young braves and dauntless old chieftains, And rulers and warriors, Painted and plumed for the bridal, The feast and the peace-pipe. Happy the squaws and old women Grouped round on the rushes ; Gleeful the youths and brown maidens, Fawn-fleet in the dances; Laughing the swart young pappooses ; — Sad only Watooska. Palely from height of the feasting She stole to the shadows; Soft in her footprints sped Chusco, Her lover, her husband; Heat more than love in his pulses, The burning fire-water Spur to his savage, fierce spirit, His passion, his triumph. What did his fevered word whisper That smote as the whirlwind — 18 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. Smote as the arrow of heaven, The storm-flame, the lightning? — Mourns't thou the dead Wabishkizzi, Thy lover, the Pale-face ? Know the Great Spirit that slew him Was arrow of Chusco ! " On went the feast, the light dances, The songs and the stories. Uprose Watooska, and calmly Made way through the rushes, Passed the old wives and the maidens, Stood tall 'mid the chieftains — Chanted : " Ningwegon, Megizze, O chieftains my fathers, All ye bold Ottawa warriors, Ye braves of O jib way, Be peace swo*n truly between you, And sealed by Watooska, Sealed by the troth of White Lily To-day, unto Chusco, Be that seal set now forever In smoke of the peace-pipe ! " Deftly she filled the deep pipe-bowl, And watched the weed kindle; 19 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. Followed with strained eyes, the curling Blue clouds of the peace-smoke; Spoke yet again, her voice stealing Song-sweet on the silence: — "One word give unto your daughter, I pray ye, my fathers. Set is the seal with the peace-smoke — What power shall loose it ? " Reverent then, spake Ningwegon, "But One— the Great Spirit!" Softly the Ottawas echoed, And all the Ojibways, Chieftains, and rulers, and warriors, " But One — the Great Spirit ! " Over the face of Watooska Pale peace shone like moonlight. Softly she cried to Megizze, "Bless, bless me, my father!" Turned, as the old chief crooned fondly, " The Great Spirit bless thee ! " Swift as a deer, to the doorway; Sped out through the shadows, Up to the rim of the forest, The crag crowned with pine trees. PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. What heard the guests as they followed, And crouched on the crag-brink? Only the hiss of cut breezes Down, down the far fathoms — Only the ringing, wild echoes, "I come, O my Pale-face!" THE SHOOTING STAR. "One of the most bewitching flowers in all the marvellous flora of Colorado:'- -H. H. TN lonely canyon, in court of pines, * Dwelt a kingly rock apart; His crown of the virgin columbines, Yet sad in his great dark heart. For night on night, in the sky above, There trembled a maiden star; And the rock had looked his royal love, Yet she held her light afar. He had donned white robes on winter night; He had trailed green gowns in June; But the star still swung her vestal light, And laughed to the watching moon. PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. So lonely aye, in his court of pines, Dwelt the kingly rock apart, His crown of the virgin columbines, Yet sad in his great dark heart. Till one May night, in his sore despair, He ventured a ruse; and lo! There lay on his breast, with blushing air, A rose from the vale below. He held her close in his strong brown arms, And fondled her cheek's pink gloss; And softly nestled her budding charms In a bed of velvet moss. He dared the wound of her thorny sheath, And drank of her breast's sweet cup ; He drained deep, deep, of her fragrant breath, And then, he looked lightly up — Looked lightly up to the sky above, Where trembled the maiden star Who had seen him look his royal love, Yet had held her light afar. 23 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. They mingled one long, mute, midnight look- Then met in a burning kiss ! And clouds dosed over an empty nook In the starry sky's abyss. The hapless rose, o'er the pine's dark crest Was flung to the fields afar; But pink and sweet on the rock's brown breast, Since, nestles a "shooting star." 24 THE RIVER ON THE PLAIN. f~\N high Sierra a young spring glows, ^-^ White as a babe, from its natal snows. The soft winds over its cradle sway; Croon, as they rock it, a roundelay. Their dewy chaplets tell mists in gray, Veiling it chastely from day to day : And flocks of raindrops, on earthward quest, With light wings dimple its pulsing breast. A crown of sunshine it dons, as born Of ruddy Eos, the infant Morn: A crown of starshine it dons by night, Waiting the kiss of the pale moonlight: As censors swaying, blown pines that guard, Fan it with odors more sweet than nard, 25 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. And strong young eagles, on royal wing, Winnow the heart of the mountain spring. Over the mountain a streamlet speeds, Spurred by the prick of the bulrush reeds. The woodbine tracks it from ledge to ledge, Twining her tendrils along its edge : A willowed army, with cedared flank, Presses its pathway, close rank on rank: And files of fir-trees, armed with cones, Riddle its picketing, lichened stones. Bright bluffs and canyons it spans apace, Clematis after, in purple chase : Her wee green tassels the wild hop sways, Listing its lyrics through sunny days: The timid aspen takes heart and dips Tremulous boughs for its warm young lips: The blue wind-flower holds out her cup, Yearning its ripples that sparkle up — 26 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. And coyly tinkles the plashed harebell, Ringing the way to her citadel, As down the mountain the streamlet speeds. Spurred by the prick of the bulrush reeds. Over the prairie a river glides, Tuft-grass a-tilt on its sloping sides. Its white foam ripens to buds of spray, Blooming the river as field of May: It gaily sprinkles with opal show'r Robes of the glittering mustard-flow'r : Then slows and hushes, where rose on rose Beside it anchors in pink repose. Under the heavens, its clear tide glints Rich as a rainbow in tangled tints : And fair as Eden, along its flow, Gardens of vetch in the sunlight glow. Yet on forever, with panting breast, Presses the river in vague unrest. 27 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. O, little recks it of mountain spring, Winnowing eagles, and winds that sing! — Of piney gulches it leaped in glee, Chasing the blue-eyed anemone: Of cloistered canyons with scented ways, Flowery haunts of its early days. For naught that has been, nor naught that is, Merits the river's light loyalties — But fairer ever, as moon than star, Visions, that shadow what were or are, Of goal that beckons, whose fair shores lie On the veiled breast of futurity. Alas! O river, not we, not we, Meetly may chide of disloyalty! Nor bid you tarry, while yet you may, Prizing the bloom of your sunny way — For we, too, reckon to-day a bond, And yearn the morrow that waits beyond. 28 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. What is, is nothing; what shall be, all. So runs it ever, and ever shall — Till as a river that meets the sea, Finiteness ripes to Infinity! 29 A PRAIRIE FLOWER. /"~\NCE on the prairie red with June, ^-^ (O, for the sweet June hour!) Fond skies sending to her baptism Warm winds for sponsors, and dews for chrism, Blossomed a human flower. Set in the waste of prairie grass Like star in an empty heaven, Out from an aureole of hair Her virgin face, with the haloed air Of young May moon at even. Blue as the gentian-bells her eyes; Fresh as the winds that hover Soft on the high Sierra peaks, The fitful bloom of her wildrose cheeks, Dimpled their pink hearts over. . Cradled in suns and snows she rocked Out of her young bud, lithely; 30 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. Out of her bud, (as birdlings wing Swift way from the nest's safe sheltering,) Into her fair bloom, blithely. Came Love then, with a lilt and lay — Love that is light and airy; Wove a snare of a golden thread, Tangled her heart in its mesh and sped Out from the red June prairie : Bore her swiftly and bore her far — (Ah, for the sad June hour!) Now in jewels and robes of state, With wistful eyes, at the city gate, A pale young prairie flower. 31 JUANITA. /^~\UT, like a star from the midnight, ^-^ Flashes her face, from the splendid Warm depths of her hair: Under arched brows, olive-lidded, Eyes pensive and passioned ; woman With child adream there. Royal dark cheeks, faintly oval; Daintily dimpled, and glowing With youth bright as sun: Lips rarely proud, withal tender ; Crescent-curved; smiles sweet as roses In blushes thereon. Throat arching softly to shoulder: Arms for caressing; slight- wristed ; Slim hands brown and firm: Young breast athrob with unconscious, Shy dreams, whence years shall discover Love warm in the germ. 32 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. Supple, round limbs, clearly veined, Lithe as spring boughs ; swift and stealthy To flee or to track : Flaming their basilisk beauty, Savage blood traced to red chieftains Proud centuries back. Nay, veil that glance — she is holy! Round her young days, as a halo, The blight of her race. Wild and unrestful her spirit Under the glow of her bosom, The flash of her face. Exile of trackless pine forests, Exile of natal brown wigwam, She wanders apart, Holding the hates of her fathers; Beating like bird on her fetters With passionate heart. — Brown maid Juanita, one balm is, Potent to soothe thy sore spirit, As near years shall prove. Sweeter than scent of thy pine-trees, Warmer than teepe or wigwam, Juanita, is — love! 33 A WESTERN WEDDING. /^\ GOLDEN blows the summer wind ! The summer ^-^ rose blooms red — The little birds are singing sweet in branches overhead, And softly down the meadow-path the clover-scent is shed. The clover down the meadow-path, blent with the fragrant pine; Pale yuccas by the roadside wave, and ruddy vetches twine ; And round the farmhouse, daisies drift, and bright tuft- grasses shine. Sweet honeysuckle climbs the warm, brown rafters to the vane ; Grapevines above the threshold hang their tangled summer chain, And roses up the casement-sills, tap at each open pane. 34 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. The great barn nestles close behind, corn stacked beside, in rows; Within, birds twitter from the beams, and hens on soft nests drowse; The new hay shimmers in the loft; in bins the ripe grain glows. Ungathered in west orchards hang round apples on the trees ; No step the languid meadows wakes, adream in the south breeze ; The grainfields waver north and east, like lone, unridden seas. No sickle sweeps, nor groan the wains ; freed horses graze at will ; Unyoked oxen slowly stray in wake of the swift rill; The milch-cows, unmolested doze in shadow of the hill. For chores are done, and fieldwork left, and daily stints put by; The neighbors to the farmhouse flock from hearthstones far and nigh, And of a bridal sing the birds unto the summer sky. 35 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. O, but a maiden is the bride, maid-sweet, and fresh and fair! The good old priest a blessing prays as she trips down the stair, Upon her cheek the red, red rose, the gold wind in her hair. The red, red rose upon her cheek, the white rose on her breast ; Soft tears within her frank brown eyes, that happy smiles contest, And shy lips tuned to the vows of sanctioned love, and bless'd. The farmfolk mutely gather round; the merry guests are still ; The honeysuckle joins the rose, and tarries on the sill; And singing birds their carols hush, to list her low " I will." The glad young lover links the ring, and seals it with a kiss; And when the gay folk follow suit, takes it no whit amiss, Till shyly seeks the bride his side, and prays an armistice. Then leads the cordial housewife out, where waits the bridal-board ; A smile is on her face, but ah ! within her heart a sword, For from her harp of life to-day, is rent the golden chord. 36 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. With creamed coffee brim the cups ; the sweet young cider flows; Red jellies glow like wine between curds white as drifted snows ; The frost upon the bridal-cake is crowned by one white rose. The toasts are drunk; the speeches done; the flute and viol play"; The young folk start a merry dance; the bride steals soft away, And up the stair she flits in white, and down the stair in gray. Still on her breast the white, white rose ; still on her cheek, the red ; She smiles but faintly, and her eyes are deep with tears unshed, For love has crossed her woof of life, and snapped the virgin thread. She is all faith, she is all fear; all sorrow and all bliss ; She is so new to life and love, what if she prove remiss ? She trembles as her sweet lips seek the parting parent- kiss. 37 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. The proud groom takes her little hand, and lays it on his arm; She steals a glance at his glad face, and chides her vague alarm ; She strives to smile, and smiling turns her face from the old farm. The white rice patters on her path; the lucky shoe falls near; She waves a kiss back to the folk, who answer with a cheer ; But on the grasses, as she stands, there shines a fallen tear. Across the fields a white house gleams, the sun upon its dome; A gilded vane looks from the roof, and beckons her to come. The happy bridegroom bends his head, and softly whispers "Home !" His lips are warm ; his eyes are glad ; his heart beats high with pride; He leads her up the flowered lane, and sets the bars aside, And on the threshold, ere they cross, he kisses his young bride. 3S AN AUTUMN CANTER. "\ \J IDE and windy the skies hang over, ' * Linked clouds riding their dizzy height ; On to the prairie speeds the plover, Cut winds hissing along her flight. Brown Fall woods shed a leafy shower, Brown Fall grasses drift down the plain; Shades of night to the mountain lower, Hung on silver, slant ropes of rain. Great firs filing the rocky passes, Crisp shot volley in russet cones; Gray mists coiling in smoky masses Over the riddled mountain stones. On, my charger! the far mists guide us; Lashed skies press on our speeding way; Gold leaves race with the red, beside us; — On, through the royal, rare Fall day! 39 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. What if the heavens dark and glower? What if the threatened rain fall fast? Sweeter than sun the fresh Fall shower; Sweeter than song, the ringing blast. O, to fetter this perfect hour Fast as fate, to thy glancing reins! O, to hold for a lasting dower, New life flaming my kindled veins! O, to ride to the Red Man's heaven! O, that the Hunting Grounds were near! O, to shoe thee with Jovic leven, Spurring thee onward, year by year, Up the height of the sun's gold gateway, Up the sky, through the moon's warm bars; Up to the winds, to race them straightway Swift abreast, through the watching stars! Borne on wing of thy strong, fleet motion, Deep and deeper, in god-like bliss, Rare a nectar as great Jove's potion Quaff my lips in the wind's fierce kiss. Who that tastes of a god's libation Will not drain, though the lees be death? 4 o PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. Back not I, to the old stagnation, Slow, calm pulses, and even breath ! On, nor falter! On so, forever, Brave my bearer, with hoofs of speed ! All behind do I gladly sever — On forever, O gallant steed! 4* MOWING THE HARVEST HAY. '"THE late sun furls her golden sails, A And turns her red prow west; The wind blows sweet with rye and wheat, The bluejay seeks her nest. The patient kine wind to the ranch, The homeward horses neigh ; And down the grass the swift scythes pass, Mowing the harvest hay. The brown young farmer walks beside, And cheers the meek team on; His eyes are blue, his heart is true, And warm as summer sun. He gaily whistles tune on tune, To while the time away, As down the grass the swift scythes pass, Mowing the harvest hay. From the near barn a clear voice calls The milch-cows one by one; 42 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. Beside the gates the farmer waits— The faithful team goes on. The pretty milkmaid leaves her pails, To hear what he would say, And down the grass the scythes still pass, Mowing the harvest hay. O sweet old tale that never tires ! O love forever new! — The dusk to hear, steals softly near, Adown her bridge of dew. The brown young farmer pleads his prayer, The pretty maid says "Aye" — And down the grass the swift scythes pass, Mowing the harvest hay. 43 ATTUNED. PvOWN the dim mountains drifts the gloam; ■■— * The nightwinds wake and sigh; Deep shadows hang the lurid dome Of storm-horizoned sky. Monks of the lone Sierra crests, Mute pines, in mournful row, Their vigils keep, with bar£d breasts Long disciplined with snow. From their high springs slant streamlets sail With ghostly prows of foam, And masts of mist, that unfurl pale Wet sheets along the gloam. On the dank bloom dews glimmer chill As tears in faded eyes ; Across the hush, aloft and shrill, A stray cayote cries. 44 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. No sunbeam lingers from the day: No star breaks out apace; Upon the plain the dusk lies gray As death on human face — And like mute heart whose chords of pain Vibrate 'neath some soft hand, Swept by the wind, the dumb clouds rain Wet notes along the land. No village orbed with twinkling light, In the lone distance lies ; No cottage lamp sheds on the night The glow the moon denies. All, all is dark and chill and lone, From doming sky, to nave Of wild grass tangled round the stone That marks a lonely grave. 45 THE HUSKING OF THE CORN. T^HE sweet hay scales the rafters, •*■ The oats are in the bin ; The harvests are all garnered, The fruit is gathered in. The cider foams the tankard, The farmer sounds the horn, And bids us to the husking, The husking of the corn. O the husking of the corn, The husking of the corn! And 0, to find the red ear, The shy red ear of corn ! — To tear the husks asunder, And when the cob is shorn, To kiss the girl I love, at The husking of the corn. Within the cheery farmhouse The ruddy pine-logs glow; PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. The lamps flame at the casements, And light the fields below; While in the barn adjoining, That shining stacks adorn, We gather for the husking, The husking of the corn. O the husking of the corn, etc., etc. The crisp sheaves rive and rustle, The silk twines into curls ; The shorn cobs glimmer chastely In vestal veils of pearls ; And when from rosy kernels The clinging husks are torn, O merry grows the husking, The husking of the corn ! O the husking of the corn, etc., etc. The stacks grow low and lower, The husked ears are stored; Within the bright farm-kitchen We throng the festal board. And o'er the sparkling cider, Ah ! who has heart to scorn 47 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. The merry, merry husking, The husking of the corn ! O the husking of the corn, etc., etc. And when the feast is over, To crown the husker's weal, The fiddler seeks the hearthstone, And shyly sounds the reel ; Then trips each lad and lassie The happy dance till morn, All at the merry husking, The husking of the corn. O the husking of the corn, etc., etc. Then O, the noisy going, The tying on of hoods, The ride across the prairie, Or through the dark pine woods ! And ah! the soft words spoken, And ah ! the sweet faiths sworn, All going from the husking, The husking of the corn! O the husking of the corn, The husking of the corn! PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. And O, to find the red ear The shy red ear of corn ! To tear the husks asunder, And when the cob is shor To kiss the girl I love, at The husking of the corn. 49 THE DESERTED CABIN. SIERRAS. THE lone gulch shrouds it wierdly A In snows untrod and deep ; To pines behind, the winter wind Sobs from drear steep to steep. No sun it knows, nor starlight, Nor glow of northern lights ; For grim between, the mountains lean, With glaciers up their heights. The three-month snows are drifted Within the unhinged door; And gleam in white, through day and night, On the untrodden floor. The casement creaks, and clashes Its dangling swords of ice, Unsheathed and bare, and wrought in rare, Chill shapes of quaint device. 50 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. Down from the riven rafters, And hoary walls of pine, Keen scimitars for mimic wars Glint in a frosty line. While from one lonely corner, With snowflakes for a crown, Nailed to the Tree of Calvary, A silver Christ looks down. O fond and faithful spirit This cross does mutely tell! What fate may stay thine absent way 111 farest thou, or well? The chill snows drift in palely; The pine trees sob and sway; The fierce winds shriek from peak to peak; Their answer — who shall say? 51 A SORGHUM CANDY-PULL. T^IVE miles out from house or village stands the old -*■ farm on the prairie; From its roof red lanterns dangle, lest we miss the lonely- way. Lamps are shining at each window, in the barn and in the dairy, And red pine-flames on the snowdrifts o'er the kitchen threshold play. Rows of sleighs stand ' in the barnyard ; rows of steeds paw in the stable ; There is sound of many voices, then a sudden listing lull, As we sweep through the great gateway to the porch beneath the gable, Where the farmer bids us welcome to the sorghum candy- pull. At the door his good wife curtsies, with both hands out- stretched in greeting; Points us up to the front chamber, where young voices bid us "Come!" 52 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. And we file up the wide stairway, followed still by her entreating That we "Give th' gals our bunnits, an' jest make our- selves t' hum." On the top stair wait her daughters, twin wild-roses blushing newly In their fear lest "city-people find wild weste'n doin's dull"— Till their warm young hands enfolding, we assure them, (and most truly,) That we know no sweeter frolic than a sorghum candy- pull. As we enter the bright kitchen, the gray host presents us duly : — "Friends, th' city-folks from east'ards, ez is stoppin' ter Mis' Est's." And the bows and handshakes over, the red logs are kindled newly, And a hush of expectation deepens 'mong the waiting guests. Then from off the high pine dresser comes the great, brass shining kettle, And the farm-wife pours the sorghum till the girls proclaim it full; 53 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. When they lift it to the fire, and the farmer from his settle, Claps his knee, and hurrahs gaily for the sorghum candy- pull. As the pine-flames leap and crackle, we can see the sorghum stealing In great golden coils that shimmer round the kettle's circled brim ; And the lads crowd to the pantry, tall heads dodging the low ceiling, For the great spoons peeping brightly from the shelf's rosetted rim. Then what gallantry and blushes, as each to his chosen maiden Holds the shining pewter handle, the deep bowl still in his hand; And the pretty, quaint procession, as they file in twains, so laden, And group gaily round the kettle, at the leader's blithe command ! Swift the first spoon seeks the sorghum, and the stirring goes on fleetly, Two hands clasped about the handle, hers for holding, his to guide; 54 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. And as o'er the ruddy hearthstone, soft young cheeks flush out so sweetly, O, I dream the flames steal deeper, and warm soft young hearts, beside ! And as twain each twain replaces, till the spoons have all been christened, Sitting back in the still corner, while the kettle brims and boils, To my heart float faint, stray echoes of shy words the fire has listened, As the spoons went slowly circling through the golden sorghum-coils. Out unto the ice-bound bucket go the last twain, snows Unheeding, For a bowl of water sparkling from the well, like rare old wine; And what pretty, anxious faces, and what rapture swift succeeding, As the sorghum seeks the bottom in a crisp and brittle line! Then the putting out of platters ; routing of canine infringers ; And the restless time of waiting till the frosty air shall cool; 55 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. And the eager choice of partners, and the buttering of fingers, As the farm-wife names the candy as all ready for the pull. What a merry tussle follows, with the golden ropes that shimmer Titian-red between the embers, and the lamps of ruddy light ; And what rival boasts and daring, while the gold grows ever dimmer, Till the yellow merges slowly first to cream and then to white ! What an awed and anxious silence, as from defter hands fall gleaming Hearts, and rings, and blent initials, linked in true lovers' knots — And what calls for water, after, for the sticky palms' redeeming, And what girlish toss of ribands, and what brushing off of spots ! Then the bearing of the candy, in a great dish to the table In the dining-room adjoining, where the juicy apples wait ; 56 PIPES FROM PRAIRIE-LAND. Where the giant-jugs of cider foam like nectar of old fable, And the nuts for philopening lie in lone and dusky state. And the merry hours that follow, winged in jest and song and laughter, While the apples grow but phantoms, and the nuts but shells that seem, And the cider ebbs out surely as the candy, that leaves after But the lovers' knots, that cherished, pledge each maid a charmed dream. Twelve strokes echo from the stairway, ere the last good- nights are spoken, Ere the steeds turn from the stables, and the sleighs stand at the door; And the farmfolk from the threshold, after each, in kindly token, Throw a pippin from the basket newly filled from their rich store. As the merry sleighs speed by us, I lean back against the cushion, And the moonlight blinds me strangely, for my eyes and heart are full, As I question if my city, with its eastern wealth and fashion, Boasts so truly sweet a frolic as a sorghum candy-pull. 57 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. 59 " \7"E whose hearts are fresh and simple, Who have faith in God and Nature, Who believe that in all ages Every human heart is human, That in even savage bosoms There are longings, yearniiigs, strivings, For the good they comprehend not, That the feeble hands and helpless, Groping blindly in the darkness, Touch God's right hand in that darkness And are lifted up and strengthened ; Listen to these simple stories, To these songs of mine and meadow." Adapted from Longfellow's "Hiawatha; 61 A PIONEER POET. QEE thet tent thar, whar' th' grass ^ Follers up th' mounting-pass ? See thet chap ez looks a clown, Walkin' slowly up an' down? Thar's his tent, sir, an' thar's him Ez ye axed fur — poet Jim. Wot on 'arth folks gits ter see In thet feller, squelches me. Dashed ef I hain't showed th' way Three more times afore, terday. Nuthin' much, he ain't, in looks — S'pose ye've hearn ez he writes books ? 'Read em?' Jest draw mild, pard! Me?- Ya — as! thet's jest th' sort I be. Knowed his father; me an' him Onct wuz pards. He wuz a limb, Old Jim wuz in his young days, Till one year he tuk a craze • 6 3 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. Fur a gal ez with her par Kem ter summer on th' Bar — W'ite an' peaky; a poor lot- Not my style by a long shot ! Full o' flowery, high talk Ez hed nary stem nor stalk. Howsomever, Jim wuz struck Hard an' hot; an' she, wuss luck, Caved-in ter his han'some face, Settled down in thet same place; Stay in' jest till thet chap kum, Then put out her light, sir, plum'! Jim died later, fifteen year, Jest ez he hed struck luck here- Left his claim an' tent ter him, Thet poor chap thar — poet Jim. W'u'dn't guess it, seein' him, But he hed th' sass, hed Jim, Ter git sweet upon my gal — My one darter, sir, my Sal. Hi! but thet night D's wuz thick— I swar some, I did, by Nick! Sal, she cried, ez wimmen do, But I guess she'll live it thro'. 6 4 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. 'Taint fur her, so peart an' trim, Ter be jest Mis' Poet Jim! Hain't no gumption, thet Jim hain't- Gosh! his ways 'ud rile a saint. Works a spell, when he's cleaned out, Then jest idles roun' about, Roamin' up an' down th' pass, Lyin' in th' summer grass, Starin' up them same old skies, (Ez is kin ter his blue eyes — ) Watchin' now, jest a wild rose Bowin' ez th' breezes blows, Lookin' up et them dark pines Yaller when th' noon sun shines, Countin' all th' birds thet fly, Smilin', sighin'; by an' by Sets ter-writin' fur dear life — Nice chap thet, ter hev' a wife ! Wot's his line — trees, birds, an' stars, Ain't it ? Tho't so ! Like his mar's. 'Fore she merried, she writ, too, Hevin' nuthin' more ter do. Gals afore they git a beau Kinder find life dull, ye know, 65 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. An' some high uns tek ter rhyme, Jest ter pass away th' time — W'ich I ain't on leanin' rousfh, Ez they'll drop it sharp enough Et a chance ter settle down, With a man an' babies roun'. But a chap with no more vim Then ter be a poet, like Jim — Shunt it, pard, it makes me sick ! — Eh ? O thankee ! Yer a brick ! Some like — thet ! More ? No, pard, no !- Wal, I don't keer — let her go ! Ain't no poet, ye ain't, sir! Hey? Blast my ears, wot's thet ye say? Jest thet same, sir? Wal, I vum! Dern my boots ef thet ain't rum ! Tuk ye fur a tearin' swell. — Jest a poet ? Ain't thet a sell ! Eh ? Good Lord ! Let me set down ! Jim th' talk o' town on town? Great folks thro' th' hull wide land Holdin* him warm heart an' hand? Him th' pride o' comin' times, Jest thro' his falutin' rhymes? 66 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. Him a gen'us — him a star — His name ringin' near an' far — Gold a-runnin' up his claim? Gosh !— Jim, I say! Jest aim Roun' our way some night, an' — wal, S'pose ye jest talk over Sal? 6 7 DARE-DEVIL DICK. O ! the play's at an end, ^ And the curtain rung down And the hero, old friend, Makes his bow to the town With cold death for a crown. Where both laurel and bay Once entwined me, I vow — Where love's red roses lay Warm as kiss on my brow, Creeps the chill cypress, now. Thirty years, to a day, Since Dame Fate threw the bone Labelled Life, in my way; And I, poor dog, disown That bone now, as a stone ! IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. What is living, but pain ? What is hope, but a cheat? What is love, but a vein That with hot ebb, and sweet, Falters out at Time's feet? — Full my cup to the brim With life's wine, and I laugh'd O'er the glowing, red rim, And drank deep, till I quaff'd The death-lees of the draught. O my golden, proud youth, And the plaudits mine then, When I reigned in all truth From the throne of my pen, As a prince among men ! — O ye reckless, wild days, When I served at the shrine Of two gods fit for praise — Love and Bacchus ! Divine Days of women and wine! — O ye after-days here In this rogue's paradise, 6 9 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. Where I end my career To the chink of wined ice, And the ring of the dice ! — Have ye led but to this? Do ye hold but this goal — Red with Lorette's last kiss, Red with lees of the bowl, Death, death, body and soul? Ah, that blood! D it! Pass That red wine there. God ! Quick ! Say: He drank his last glass To the health of old Nick — Did bold dare-devil Dick! 7 o A BORDER ROMANCE. A YARN ? Lemme see ! Wot's yer style ? Poetry, hey ? **• Well, I reckon thet ain't my line. This border-life 'yer I hain't allers found play, Nor struck much o' poetry in mine. Yet things sometimes comes ter us boys, ez sounds well When a poet-chap hauls out his rhyme, An' mebbe — 'yer, jest ye set down fur a spell, An' give this 'yer slow feller time. Glad ye happened along. Them theer's on a spree, So I shunted off from their den, An' lit my pipe 'yer, a streak bein' in me Ez likes solitood now an' then; An' often o' evenin's, I shake off th' lot, An' smokin' 'yer, under th' sky, Sorter start my thoughts off on a backward trot Ter th' days ez is long went by. 71 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. Sho, now ! Jest quit pokin' yer fun ter my nose ! Me a poet ? Well, jokin' apart, Thar's mebbe more poetry 'n most folks suppose, Hid deep in a rough feller's heart ! Which mine, sech ez 'tiz, sence ye think it wuth while, Ye're welcome to, pard, so 'yer goes ; An' ef ye don't find it jest arter yer style, Ye might mebbe tack it ter prose. — Thet moon, like a pale woman-face in th' sky, Th' wind moanin' sad thro' th' pines, An' them shadders driftin' like waves slowly by, Down th' shafts o' th' lonely mines, Some'ow brings ter my mind a night I onct seen A-minin' up yon, on th' Bar — A blade from th' coast, ez wuz yet in th' green, But counted ter be on th' squar'. Well, lyin' alone in my tent this 'yer night, An' pinin', not hevin' no pard, Th' boys an' me not hitchin' well ez we might, Me not playin' nor drinkin' hard — A shadder kem quick-like, twixt me an' th' light O' th' moon, like thet thar un, dim ; 72 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. An' th' frightened, pale face o' a lad kem in sight, Th' boys, like mad hounds, arter him. A poor un, thet lad, fur a lad ; small an' lean, With a voice ez soft ez a bird's ; Weak et work ez a gal ; an' skeery an' green Ez I couldn't put inter words. No day more'n eighteen, an' a poor un fur thet, With a young face smooth ez a pear; Big eyes like thet heart's-ease thar, purple an' wet, An' a roofin' o' yaller hair. Th' boys meant no harm, bein' jest on a spree Fur th' night, an' not bad et heart, But rough ez a crowd, fur thet lad, an' burn me ! I jest couldn't but tek his part. So up went th' flap o' my tent, ez he pass'd, An' in he wuz pulled, sharp ez shot; He pantin' fur breath like a roe et her last, Ez I waited ter face th' lot. They kem in a pack, with their teeth set fur game, An' th' lad got shaky an' white, But onct rile my blood, an' I'm all sot aflame — An' I wuzn't put back one mite, 73 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. Fur this six-shooter 'yer, wuz safe in one hand, An' safe in th' t'other, its mate ; An' I kinder suspicioned they'd tek a stand Ez them sharps didn't kalkerlate. So I up with my hands, an' quiet an' slow, Sez : " Kum, boys, ter one o' yer size." An' barks o' them dogs o' a suddin wuz low, In a sickly sort o' surprise. Sez I : " I ain't much on hard drink, ez ye know, Nor keerds, so I ain't half a man, But jest thet fur growed thet I like blow fur blow, Which ain't jest th' size o' yer plan. "Jest thet near a man, thet I like fightin' fa'r, An' hit whar thar's some hittin' back; An' yer fully-growed sharps '11 be derned more squar' When they tumble on thet same tack. — "Which I've only ter say thet from this night on, This lad he'll be under my keer, An' all jokers is welcome ter tek their fun Out o' me, an' my pardners 'yer !" Which th' moon, ez wuz low, shun out like a brick, An' these poppers, they showed out fine; 74 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. An' them cowards, they kinder got pale an' sick, An' turned tail in a sharp B line. An' from thet night ter this, thet poor lad an' me, We've be'n pards ez is pards fur life. — Don't guess ? Sho ! Look thar by my tent. Don't ye see ? Thar's th' lad — thet woman — my wife ! 75 AT THE MOUTH OF THE TUNNEL. \~X TOT are you starin' at? Can't a girl cry, ^ * But you must be knowin' the how an' why ? A poet, now, ain't you ? I know your style. Down close by the fiddles, front chair, left aisle, You figgered last evenin', an' when I died, You clapped me — an' snickered in stage aside. Well, mebbe my actin' ain't Bern'art's yet, But there's that more tragic you'd like, I bet, (You bein' a poet, an' up to time Fur points as '11 posture up well, in rhyme — ) I can tell you, deadhead, of an affair Twixt me, an' him — dead — in the tunnel there. I'd brazened the footlights, an' gone about Fur two or more seasons, to towns set out, When last March, at twilight, we somehow struck On this here Black Tunnel, in stroke of luck. I've taken well allers, play wot I might, But that time — " M'liss " headed the bills that night, 7 6 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. An' I played it splendid, with all my art, An' with wot's more tellin', my woman's heart — ) Along with my takin' this here hull town, I was taken myself, which warn't writ down, By a big chap fillin' a chair to right — Joe Smith, as they're diggin fur, here, to-night ! We'd a run that Sunday across a streak Of the lone March prairie, brown, bare, and bleak. The sad winds was sobbin', an' blew the rain Like great tears a-splashin' my window-pane. I must hev' been nerv'us, I guess, an' low, As us poor weak wimmin will be, you know, Fur it seemed them raindrops jest wept fur me — (I must hev' been nerv'us an' low, you see.) Fur the life, good, blameless, I might hev' led, With a godlier heart, an' wiser head ; An' I gev' up hopin' to walk more straight, Fur them winds kept sobbin', " Too late ! too late ! ! I ain't jest ill-favored, as you may see, Nor saint more 'n others as lives like me; An' the fun that's offered, I've up an' had, With no " nice distinctions " twixt good an' bad. Which that same, sir, knowin', an' owned to-night, Is a truth bat seldom so clear in sight; 77 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. Fur I've allers argu'd, when sore at heart, As how some was casted fur soubrette-part In Life, that's God's drama, sir, arter all — An' it ain't too often that I, here, fall In a mood so sober as on that day, That no overture-chords could play away. Well, the curtain lifted; I got my cue, An' the boards was taken with dash, tell you ! Fur I'd jest swore mildly, in makin' up, That I'd not miss, leastways, the winning cup On the only race-track left sech as me, An' it ain't hard guessin' which that one be. An' lookin' out over the row of lights — The stars as us actors loves best o' nights — Two eyes, blue an' gentle, looked inter mine, An' I felt as justly I can't define* But so as we only feel onct on earth, When love trembles, babe-like, in pangs of birth. That strong I was taken, there seemed none there But jest him, sir, han'some, with wavy hair. — Sech a big, grave feller, as looked all true, An' I played so pointed he caught the cue. The house, it was crowded ; the boys they cheered ; But he jest set quiet till all was cleared, 78 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. An' then, of a sudden, he took the wings, An' caught me still flauntin' in last-act things, With my face all painted, an' pencilled eyes, An' wot does I do, sir, in sharp surprise, But mindless of powder an' toggery, Jest add to the program, a woman's cry ! You see, I hed fancied my life laid bare In his eyes' blue mirrors, as he set there ; An' I seen me plainly, as I jest be, Not bad at the bottom, but bold an' free, An' brushin' too nearly the shame of life, To ever be counted a good man's wife. An' the day seemed over to turn or mend, An' my heart seen nary an other end Then jest to go on'ards from bad to worse, To the last-night exit, in a black hearse ; So I cried an' cried, sir, an' thro' my tears, Sobbed out all the feelin's I'd crushed fur years. " He said — ? " Beg your pardon, but jest that, I Can't quite tell, or leastways, I shan't ; an' why Won't be all a riddle, if you've yet be'n In that line of drama us two struck then. True love is a greenroom, shut to the crowd! An' first sight, Joe loved me — a point allowed 79 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. As not out of natur, where much is chance, By me, who am livin' by stage-romance, An' you, as a poet, with seein' eyes Fur things as don't allers go commonwise. An' purer or truer, no love could be Than fate billed fur debiit that night, fur me. Things comes to us people in crooked lines, In ways as don't trouble the Philistines ; An' mebbe a woman not on the stage, Nor deep inter poetry, (the latest rage — ) Wouldn't jest hev' fallen in love that way, But I ain't shamefaced, sir, to up an' say As that dear chap held me, from that first night, By a chain I cherished with main an' might. An' shiftin' our scenics, I gev' my vow, (Which he ain't, poor feller, fur claimin', now!) That nuthin' should hold me, when his call came, From new boards took under his honest name. I think we'd hev' married, sir, there an' then, But luck wasn't friendly as might hev' be'n ; He was poor an' haughty as chap might be, An' wouldn't take kindly to wot struck me — That we might be married, an' me still play ; So our ways they parted, one gray March day, 80 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. An' sence, we've be'n doin' our common best To lay somethin' by, sir. You know the rest. We'd jest sighted clearly our daily bread, An' my " Last Appearance " the posters read Last night. — The play's over. — To-night was billed Fur us two to marry, an' — Joe — is — killed ! Seems hard, kinder, don't it ? An' yet I know Jest why this here climax was worked up so. — His heart, it was pure, sir, an' mine was black, An' the two warn't never fur single track. My best I meant surely; but p'raps 'twas writ, An' me an' him never aguessin' it — That as time went on'ards, an' me his wife, I might jest grow restless fur the old life, An' take a step back'ards, or strike out wrong, In some line of badness, with him along ; An' so, this here cave-in was meant to be, To save the poor feller, jest, sir, from me ! Wot's that ? O, I'll stop here till he's laid out, Then strike, bag and baggage, fur the old route — Be blazed on the posters, pose as a star, Flirt over the footlights, etcetera. Jest turn out the moral fur good or worse, An' ring down the curtain as best in verse — 81 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. But the truth, (if called fur,) is that I'll make A " special " of virtue, fur his dear sake. The role is a new one, an' not my line, But please God ! in Joe's name, I'll make it mine, An' then — don't you think, sir, a day may be When we won't be parted — my Joe an' me? 82 WHILE THE WHITE CORN POPS. ]P\RAW the heavy curtains closer — ■'— ^ We will shut out the wild night. Pile the pine-logs high and higher; Trim anew the crimson light. Bring the settle to the hearthstone, Where the ruddy pine-flames glow : — Naught care we for winter weather, Bitter night, or cold white snow. From the cellar bear the apples, And the brown nuts stored beside; Tap the cider till it gushes In a foamy, golden tide; Fill the quaint old glasses waiting, To their shining, crystal tops — And be Merry, Merry, Merry, While the white corn pops ! 83 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. Steal the book away from father, Set the mother's knitting by; Let us all be young together While we watch the kernels fly. Gold or crimson, which is riper? — (Bring the great dish from the shelf. — ) Hear the fierce wind down the chimney, Like a hungry, thievish elf ! (Get the salt from out the pantry — Fill the popper once again.) Hear the little snow-hands tapping On the shutters and the pane ! Ah ! what wonder they would enter ? For the frolic never stops, But is Merry, Merry, Merry, While the white corn pops. (Stir the popped corn in the sorghum If you want a bar or ball.) — Shall I tell you a true story ? Listen well, now, one and all ! Once a little farmhouse lifted From a prairie lone and wide ; 8 4 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. Once a sweet lass sat within it, A rough fellow by her side, Who had loved her warm and truly, Many a long day and night, But to tell her he strove vainly, For she always took to flight. — (What, Ruth, going? Nay, girl, never! Hear my story till it stops, And be Merry, Merry, Merry, While the white corn pops.) Well, he waited long and vainly, But the lassie still was coy, Till at last her lover thought him Of a ruse he might employ. So as snows fell white and fleetly, On the winds of winter borne, What did he but ask — " Her answer ?" Nay — the popper and the corn ! And a seat she scarce had taken At his plain-expressed desire, Close beside him on the settle Drawn before the bright pine-fire, 85 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. When he pleaded : — (Ruth, dear, listen !) "Ere the summer ripes the crops, Will you Marry, Marry? Tell me, While the white corn pops !" What the lassie said, I know not. Ruth here, maybe, knows the rest. Bid her speak, O father, mother, Who my little ruse have guess'd! And your pity I claim surely, For a lover so forlorn, He can pop the question only While a-popping of the corn. Now, Ruth, put away your blushes, And say clearly, yes or no ! "Yes?" O father, lay the book down — Mother, let the knitting go ! Let us all be young together, Now the clock of time, love stops — And be Merry, Merry, Merry, While the white corn pops. 86 AN OPEN LETTER. . HP HE moon, like a gold ship, is sailing the sky, -*■ With tiny star-boats in her train ; On phantom-oars softly, the wind wavers by, Its dewy spray plashing my pane. The midnight is scented with pine and new hay; A dreaming bird trills from her nest : And — a letter to Gothamite Ned all the way From this lovely, too lovely, West. Where are you? Abed, sir, and dreaming of me? Ah ! at that old club, I dare say. Or sweetly devoted to some horrid she, At an out-of-season soiree : While poor little I sit as lone as a nun — Since Jim said good-night at the gate. (As a rule, he comes in ; but to-night, just for fun, We staid out too awfully late.) We rode with a party, some twenty or more, All — this goes sans dire — two by two ; — 87 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. (Three horses abreast make a ride just a bore, Jim told me, and so, once, did you !) Rode out from the town, while the light died away, And tender dusk shrouded it round, And soft dewdrops, like tears for the dead summer day, Grew and glistened along the ground. We cantered, we trotted, we raced at our will, Winds fanning our cheeks as we sped ; The hush only broke by a bird's dreamy trill, Our horses' firm, resonant tread: By "cricks" rippling gaily the roadside along, By cricket-chirps low on the green; By the ring of our voices in laughter and song, The murmur of soft words between. O poor city Ned ! can't I make you just see The purple dusk sinking to night — The baby-stars peeping out, winsome and wee, The moon drifting slowly in sight ; The long, shadowed road, with the grainfields beside, That billow like seas, in the wind, Glinting fleets of gold ripples afloat on their tide In lights from the farms behind? We passed corralled mares, looking wistfully out, With smooth noses over the wall; 83 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. And great mooing herds, that had put me to rout, If Jim had not scattered them all ; And queer little sheds with thatched roofs, where Jim said Small piggies were dreaming of mash — And O, they are all little negro-pigs, Ned, With tails curled just like your mustache ! We came to a field, (or, as Jim says, a patch — ) Where melons lay ripe for the knife ; And what did those boldest of boys, Ned, but snatch One apiece, and remount for dear life ! And quartered, and peeled, and ate turn-about bite By each two, it was really fun — Though of course we pretended, we girls, that we quite Were shocked with the way they were won! We ate apples, too ; red and golden, Ned ; gleaned From orchards we rode through at will; And had lovely drinks from cold wells, intervened By cider new-drawn from the still. And then we turned homeward, and raced score abreast To the depot and back again — And I might have been winner — (Jim says I ride best — ) But I was afraid of the train. 8q IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. Then came the good-nights, and the verging of ways ; And Neddie, the moon was so bright, That when Jim proposed a ride down by the maize, I thought, just that once, that I might. So we paced side by side, till houses were shut, And lights in the casements grew few, And then, then — why, of course, dear, I took a short cut, And sped homeward to write to you ! So there it all is, a tale told to the end — And here is a kiss on the rim ; And now don't be cross, Ned, nor dare to pretend You are jealous of dear old Jim. He, and more like him, sir, belong to my West, But somehow, the East calls me back, To — O Neddie, your heart, dear, can read all the rest, Though not set clown in white and black! 9 o JIM. HPHANKEE, Miss ! I will set fur a spell, ef I may. — * An' it's true thet to-morrer, ye're goin' away, An' Pine Camps sees naught o' ye, arter terday? Dern thet sun ! It's so strong a chap's eyes can't but blink.— These 'yer pines hez done well by ye, Miss, don't ye think ? Fust-off, yer cheeks wuzn't so round nor so pink. Clear four months, is it ? No ! Don't seem longer 'n one, Sence thet stage thar, driv' up in th' settin' June sun, An' yer little feet lit like birds on thet stun'. — Got a chip on it 'yer — bruk it off thet same night! Don't jest know, Miss, ez sech a poor chap hed a right, But th' stars, lookin' on, blazed nary a mite — An' I tho't thet yer eyes, bein' stars, too, ye see, Might jest mebbe look soft ez them others on me, Forgivin' a poor chap ez — love — med' too free. 91 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. Thar, it's out, an' thet's all; an' I'll bid ye goodby! I jest sez ter mysel', " mek' a clean breast," sez I, Fur 'taint in my line ter do aught on th' sly — " An' then brave, like a man, say ' God bless ye,' an' go ; Which a-seein' yer love ain't fur bringin' her low, She might mebbe rest her white hand in yer'n ' " — so ! Thankee, Miss ! Thet's a thing ez '11 last a chap's life !— Now, good God! thet word cuts thro' my heart like a knife. Goodby ! — Eh ? Wot, love me ? O Mary, my wife ! 92 TRANSPLANTED. A FRIEND o' her'n, I reckon ? Wal, thar, jest ez I sed ! **• An' so she wouldn't hev' ye? An' now, poor child, she's dead, An' sleepin' with her baby, terday, jest one sad year, Beneath thet little gravestun', with lilies bloomin' near. Thar, dear, set down an' rest ye. Ye're kinder tuckered out With th' stretch from th' tavern, an' ye not over-stout. Liked her a heap, I reckon ? Th' man ez wants a wife, Is bound ter git down peaky, an' out o' jint with life. Jest let me change this apurn, an' set down fur a spell, Seein' it's a long story ye're settin' me ter tell. — Hey ? O, she war short-merried, but a gal's life ain't told By suns she's seen a-risin', nor jest th' years she's old ! Wal, two year kum this ploughin', she jined th' farm- house thar, Merried ter young John Hardin', agin her mar an' par. Sot on him she war sartin, an' loved him ter th' sky, An' John war fine an' likely, tho' crankerty an' high. 93 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. She used ter tell me often, ez how it kem about — How thet fust summer 'yerways, when she war pestered out With all th' city-courtin', an' finicky town-ways, John fell like a wild-flower, inter her shet-up days. She talked thet soft an' sweet-like, I used ter shet my eyes, An' dream I heerd th' angels a-talkin' in th' skies. When John set down th' nggers, an' brought her line so thin, I think he might hev' reckoned her way o' talkin' in ! She told me how she loved him, he bein' big an' strong, An' kinder cut fur helpin' sech little folks along. How when his arms war roun' her, she felt like bird a-nest; Jest foldin' her wings softly, an' cuddlin' down ter rest. She war thet small an' tender, I think he jest swooped down, An' took her up by power, afore she could look roun'. Them Hardin's all was heighty, an' John th' top o' all, An' love like thet jest pushes a woman ter th' wall. Wal, fust John war ez happy ez enny man I seen; Ez proud' an high an' mighty, ez tho' she war th' queen. He didn't ask her nuthin', he gev' her all thar war, An' wot she tho't war Scriptur', an' wot she sed war more. 94 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. So things went like June roses, a-bloomin' in th' sun, Till John got his pride hurted, an' popped out like a gun ; She war thet dainty, allers, an' never ketched his ways, An' seein' she knowed better, jest sot him in a blaze. He allers liked John Hardin' th' best o' all th' lot, An' when her manners shamed him, th' Hardin' pride got hot. Ez much ez sech men ken love, he loved her et th' fust, But when she riz his sperrit, she sot him et his wust. Then she begun ter hanker, ez th' long months went by, Fur th' old way o' livin', an' sometimes hed her cry; An' tho' she allers hid it, John, he jest guessed th' hull, An' took it hard an' ugly thet he war wearin' dull. He didn't do much talkin', but jest got high an' stern ; Didn't mek' nuthin' o' her, pestered et ev'ry turn. Wot "e'er she done war crooked; wot she didn't, th' same, An' it jest med' her dizzy, not bein' used ter blame. So things went allers crosswise, an' they war allers out, An' jest then kem a feller, an' kinder hung about — Someun she'd knowed ter East'ards, thet told her o' her friends, An' used her poor young feelin's all fur his own bad ends. 95 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. He stopped up ter th' tavern, an' gev' her most his days — Sot him up fur a scholard, a-writin' up our ways ; He talked her par et mornin', he talked her mar et night, An' sorter med' her reckon ez how he'd set things right. Long-last, ter see his coat-tails, jest gev' poor John a spell — Not thet he didn't trust her, a-knowin' her so well, But they talked books an' music, an' set him et a loss, An' riled him like a racer, ez kums in th' last hoss. He got ter speak more sharper, ter show thet he allowed He needn't know much po'try, ter not be easy cowed. He wore his things more careless, an' put his manners by, Ter prove thet he warn't shamefaced, afore a town-man's eye. Wal, three months gone an' over, thet man, he gits a call Ez how he must go East'ards, or jest go ter th' wall ; An' so he ups an' asks her, right in th' light o' day, Ter quit her lawful husband, an' jine him on th' way. Th' poor dear left him talkin', with nary look nor word ; Straight ez a streak o' lightnin', fast ez a frightened bird, Kem ter me, 'yer, a-churnin', an' fell down weak an' white, An' he jest took th' road thar, an' struck fur home thet night. IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. I hetched up th' ole sorrel, an' went ter fetch in John, Down in the weste'n medder, urgin' th' sowers on ; An' twixt us, she war kerried back ter her pretty room, Whar birds sung et th' winders ter roses all in bloom. Th' dizzy spell went off her, an' she kem slowly to ; An' when she seen John by her, a-lookin' strong an' true, She jest war a new critter, an' set up in th' bed, An' told him ev'ry wrinkle thet pesky man hed sed. An' then, he sayin' nuthin', she jest took heart an' spoke O' how they two warn't livin' bekumin' sech young folk — How ef her failin's hurt him, 'twas unbeknownst, fur sure, An' she knowed none amongst 'em, but his dear love 'ud cure. She talked thet sweet an' lovin', I jest cried out my eyes, A-hearin' how an angel war kumin' from th' skies — A little baby-angel, ter take his mother's part, An' give her back her nest-place within her husband's heart. Then John, he kem out suddin, all in a burnin' flash. — He "warn't ter be smoothed over by enny pritty trash. Ef she'd hev' be'n th' woman ez his wife ought ter be, Thet man hed hed his answer, afore he spoke so free. 97 IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. He sed no word o' sinnin' — she hedn't heart fur thet — Whoever drownded fur her, her feet 'ud not be wet ! He didn't take her whiteness ez enny keer fur him, But thro' sin bein' water too rough fur her ter swim." Thar warn't a thing from Adam not brought agin thet child ; I don't think John half meant 'em, but jest talked hisself wild. An' top o' all kep' soundin' his tarnal, hurted pride Thet he hed showed his failin's, a-stannin' by her side. She heerd him white ez ashes, until his say war sed ; Then jest gev' one sob, soft like, an' trembled down in bed. An' then God sent th' baby, ez drawed one little breath, An' out o' life went driftin' back ter th' shore o' death. Next day, ez shadders gethered, an' th' sun, goin' down, Streamed in th' weste'n winders, a-givin' her a crown, Ez red an' gold war fadin', she called John ter her bed, An' looked up sweet an' lovin', an' jest then, she war dead. We shet her blue eyes softly, an' smoothed her golden hair, An' laid th' baby with her, an' parson sed a prayer; IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. An' soon th' two war lyin' in yonder little grave, Whar birds sing sweet in summer, an' medder-lilies wave. Thar, don't take on ! She's happy, ef ever angel be. — An' so she wouldn't hev' ye — an' ye right good ter see ! Wal, John he kinder took her, an' mebbe it war plann'd How she war jest ter flower' ter be picked by his hand. Eh ? O, he took it hardly ; leastways, fust-off, fur sure ! But John ain't jest th' natur' ter never find no cure. He's courtin' Susan Tompkins, ez lives up th' Big Sainte — ■ A-goin' ? Wal, I swanny ! Ye ain't a-goin' ter faint ! 99 BLACKBIRD. QELL her? Sell my mare, this 'yer Blackbird? ^ 'Yer, jest turn thet nag o' yern homewards, Or quit sharp ! Skin me Ef thet ain't th' barefacest sassin' ! — O Sal, Sal, I say ! 'Yer's a swell 'yer, Ez ups, marm, an' axes fur Blackbird From we. Thet thar's my old woman, sir, thet is ! Fine figger, now, ain't she? Two hundred Is hern clear; thet's so. Which same is all owin' ter Blackbird — Ter this mare 'yer — (ho, thar, my beauty!) Ez me an' Sal ain't et no loss fur . Ter show. Four years come this May, Sal an' me, sir, Wuz spliced by th' parson, an' settled Up yon on Stagg's Pass ; Me billed fur Stagg's Mine ; an' Sal chipper IN THE ORIGINAL KEY. Ez bird in her nest, in a shanty I riz her o' pine, on a footin' O' grass. A poor place enough it wuz, sartin ! Th' boys a rough lot, an' th' wimmin . Cards o' th' same pack, An' them thar red devils, th' Sioux, Ez God, sir, hain't no hand in makin', Ter right an' ter left o' us, sharp on Our track. They took th' mines fust — broke th' shafts in, An' undone th' work ez we'd be'n on Fur many a day ; Killed one chap ez bunked up th' mounting, Stole hosses, an' then, et long last, sir, Took one o' our decentest wimmin Away. Et thet, up we riz — laid a trap, sir, An' next night them sharps struck our diggin's, Thar wuz an explode; An ac