Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches

ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT

"Little Haly! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree;"Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!" moans the bee;"Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the kill-deer at twilight;And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly!" all the night.The sunflowers and the hollyhawks droops over the garden fence;The old path down the gardenwalks still holds her footprints' dents;And the well-sweep's swingin' bucket seems to wait fer her to comeAnd start it on its wortery errant down the old bee-gum.The bee-hives all is quiet; and the little Jersey steer,When any one comes nigh it, acts so lonesome-like and queer;And the little Banty chickens kindo' cutters faint and low,Like the hand that now was feedin' 'em was one they didn't know.They's sorrow in the wavin' leaves of all the apple-trees;And sorrow in the harvest-sheaves, and sorrow in the breeze;And sorrow in the twitter of the swallers 'round the shed;And all the song her red-bird sings is "Little Haly's dead!"The medder 'pears to miss her, and the pathway through the grass,Whare the dewdrops ust to kiss her little bare feet as she passed;And the old pin in the gate-post seems to kindo'-sorto' doubtThat Haly's little sunburnt hands'll ever pull it out.Did her father er her mother ever love her more'n me,Er her sisters er her brother prize her love more tendurly?I question – and what answer? – only tears, and tears alone,And ev'ry neghbor's eyes is full o' tear-drops as my own."Little Haly! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree;"Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!" moans the bee;"Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the kill-deer at twilight,And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly!" all the night.

THE MULBERRY TREE

O, it's many's the scenes which is dear to my mindAs I think of my childhood so long left behind;The home of my birth, with its old puncheon-floor,And the bright morning-glorys that growed round the door;The warped clab-board roof whare the rain it run offInto streams of sweet dreams as I laid in the loft,Countin' all of the joys that was dearest to me,And a-thinkin' the most of the mulberry tree.And to-day as I dream, with both eyes wide-awake,I can see the old tree, and its limbs as they shake,And the long purple berries that rained on the groundWhare the pastur' was bald whare we trommpt it around.And again, peekin' up through the thick leafy shade,I can see the glad smiles of the friends when I strayedWith my little bare feet from my own mother's kneeTo foller them off to the mulberry tree.Leanin' up in the forks, I can see the old rail,And the boy climbin' up it, claw, tooth, and toe-nail,And in fancy can hear, as he spits on his hands,The ring of his laugh and the rip of his pants.But that rail led to glory, as certin and shoreAs I'll never climb thare by that rout' any more —What was all the green lauruls of Fame unto me,With my brows in the boughs of the mulberry tree!Then its who can fergit the old mulberry treeThat he knowed in the days when his thoughts was as freeAs the flutterin' wings of the birds that flew outOf the tall wavin' tops as the boys come about?O, a crowd of my memories, laughin' and gay,Is a-climbin' the fence of that pastur' to-day,And a-pantin' with joy, as us boys ust to be,They go racin' acrost fer the mulberry tree.

TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN

Fer forty year and better you have been a friend to me,Through days of sore afflictions and dire adversity,You allus had a kind word of counsul to impart,Which was like a healin' 'intment to the sorrow of my hart.When I burried my first womern, William Leachman, it was youHad the only consolation that I could listen to —Fer I knowed you had gone through it and had rallied from the blow,And when you said I'd do the same, I knowed you'd ort to know.But that time I'll long remember; how I wundered here and thare —Through the settin'-room and kitchen, and out in the open air —And the snowflakes whirlin', whirlin', and the fields a frozen glare,And the neghbors' sleds and wagons congergatin' ev'rywhare.I turned my eyes to'rds heaven, but the sun was hid away;I turned my eyes to'rds earth again, but all was cold and gray;And the clock, like ice a-crackin', clickt the icy hours in two —And my eyes'd never thawed out ef it hadn't been fer you!We set thare by the smoke-house – me and you out thare alone —Me a-thinkin' – you a-talkin' in a soothin' undertone —You a-talkin' – me a-thinkin' of the summers long ago,And a-writin' "Marthy – Marthy" with my finger in the snow!William Leachman, I can see you jest as plane as I could then;And your hand is on my shoulder, and you rouse me up again;And I see the tears a-drippin' from your own eyes, as you say:"Be rickonciled and bear it – we but linger fer a day!"At the last Old Settlers' Meetin' we went j'intly, you and me —Your hosses and my wagon, as you wanted it to be;And sence I can remember, from the time we've neghbored here,In all sich friendly actions you have double-done your sheer.It was better than the meetin', too, that 9-mile talk we hadOf the times when we first settled here and travel was so bad;When we had to go on hoss-back, and sometimes on "Shanks's mare,"And "blaze" a road fer them behind that had to travel thare.And now we was a-trottin' 'long a level gravel pike,In a big two-hoss road-wagon, jest as easy as you like —Two of us on the front seat, and our wimmern-folks behind,A-settin' in theyr Winsor-cheers in perfect peace of mind!And we pinted out old landmarks, nearly faded out of sight: —Thare they ust to rob the stage-coach; thare Gash Morgan had the fightWith the old stag-deer that pronged him – how he battled fer his life,And lived to prove the story by the handle of his knife.Thare the first griss-mill was put up in the Settlement, and weHad tuck our grindin' to it in the Fall of Forty-three —When we tuck our rifles with us, techin' elbows all the way,And a-stickin' right together ev'ry minute, night and day.Thare ust to stand the tavern that they called the "Travelers' Rest,"And thare, beyent the covered bridge, "The Counterfitters' Nest" —Whare they claimed the house was ha'nted – that a man was murdered thare,And burried underneath the floor, er 'round the place somewhare.And the old Plank-road they laid along in Fifty-one er two —You know we talked about the times when the old road was new:How "Uncle Sam" put down that road and never taxed the StateWas a problem, don't you rickollect, we couldn't dimonstrate?Ways was devius, William Leachman, that me and you has past;But as I found you true at first, I find you true at last;And, now the time's a-comin' mighty nigh our jurney's end,I want to throw wide open all my soul to you, my friend.With the stren'th of all my bein', and the heat of hart and brane,And ev'ry livin' drop of blood in artery and vane,I love you and respect you, and I venerate your name,Fer the name of William Leachman and True Manhood's jest the same!

MY FIDDLE

My fiddle? – Well, I kindo' keep her handy, don't you know!Though I ain't so much inclined to tromp the strings and switch the bowAs I was before the timber of my elbows got so dry,And my fingers was more limber-like and caperish and spry;Yit I can plonk and plunk and plink,And tune her up and play,And jest lean back and laugh and winkAt ev'ry rainy day!My playin' 's only middlin' – tunes I picked up when a boy —The kindo'-sorto' fiddlin' that the folks calls "cordaroy";"The Old Fat Gal," and "Rye-straw," and "My Sailyor's on the Sea,"Is the old cowtillions I "saw" when the ch'ice is left to me;And so I plunk and plonk and plink,And rosum-up my bowAnd play the tunes that makes you thinkThe devil's in your toe!I was allus a romancin', do-less boy, to tell the truth,A-fiddlin' and a-dancin', and a-wastin' of my youth,And a-actin' and a-cuttin'-up all sorts o' silly pranksThat wasn't worth a botton of anybody's thanks!But they tell me, when I ust to plinkAnd plonk and plunk and play,My music seemed to have the kinkO' drivin' cares away!That's how this here old fiddle's won my hart's indurin' love!From the strings acrost her middle, to the schreechin' keys above —From her "apern," over "bridge," and to the ribbon round her throat,She's a wooin', cooin' pigeon, singin' "Love me" ev'ry note!And so I pat her neck, and plinkHer strings with lovin' hands, —And, list'nin' clos't, I sometimes thinkShe kindo' understands!

THE CLOVER

Some sings of the lilly, and daisy, and rose,And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime throwsIn the green grassy lap of the medder that laysBlinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days;But what is the lilly and all of the restOf the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brestThat was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dewOf the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew?I never set eyes on a clover-field now,Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow,But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as planeAs the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again;And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream,Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleamWith the dew of the dawn of the morning of loveEre it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above.And so I love clover – it seems like a partOf the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart;And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bowAnd thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now;And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die,To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye,And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloomWhile my soul slips away on a breth of purfume.

NEGHBORLY POEMS

ON FRIENDSHIP, GRIEF AND FARM-LIFE

BY

BENJ. F. JOHNSON, OF BOONE

Us farmers in the country, as the seasons go and come,Is purty much like other folks, – we're apt to grumble some!The Spring's too back'ard fer us, er too for'ard – ary one —We'll jaw about it anyhow, and have our way er none!The thaw's set in too suddent; er the frost's stayed in the soilToo long to give the wheat a chance, and crops is bound to spoil!The weather's eether most too mild, er too outrageous rough,And altogether too much rain, er not half rain enugh!Now what I'd like and what you'd like is plane enugh to see:It's jest to have old Providence drop round on you and meAnd ast us what our views is first, regardin' shine er rain,And post 'em when to shet her off, er let her on again!And yit I'd ruther, after all – considern other choresI' got on hands, a-tendin' both to my affares and yours —I'd ruther miss the blame I'd git, a-rulin' things up thare,And spend my extry time in praise and gratitude and prayer.

ERASMUS WILSON

'Ras Wilson, I respect you, 'causeYou're common, like you allus wasAfore you went to town and s'prisedThe world by gittin' "reckonized,"And yit perservin', as I say,Your common hoss-sense ev'ryway!And when that name o' yourn occursOn hand-bills, er in newspapers,Er letters writ by friends 'at astAbout you, same as in the past,And neghbors and relations 'lowYou're out o' the tall timber now,And "gittin' thare" about as spry'sThe next! – as I say, when my eyes,Er ears, lights on your name, I mindThe first time 'at I come to findYou – and my Rickollection yells,Jest jubilunt as old sleigh-bells —"'Ras Wilson! Say! Hold up! and shakeA paw, fer old acquaintance sake!"My Rickollection, more'n like,Hain't overly too apt to strikeThe what's-called "cultchurd public eye"As wisdom of the deepest dye, —And yit my Rickollection makesSo blame lots fewer bad mistakes,Regardin' human-natchur' andThe fellers 'at I've shook theyr hand,Than my best jedgemunt's done, the dayI've met 'em – 'fore I got away, —'At – Well, 'Ras Wilson, let me gripYour hand in warmest pardnership!Dad-burn ye! – Like to jest haul backA' old flat-hander, jest che-whack!And take you 'twixt the shoulders, say,Sometime you're lookin' t'other way! —Er, maybe whilse you're speakin' toA whole blame Courthouse-full o' 'thu-Syastic friends, I'd like to jestCome in-like and break up the nestAfore you hatched anuther cheer,And say: "'Ras, I can't stand hitched hereAll night – ner wouldn't ef I could! —But Little Bethel Neghborhood,You ust to live at, 's sent some wordFer you, ef ary chance occurredTo git it to ye, – so ef youKin stop, I'm waitin' fer ye to!"You're common, as I said afore —You're common, yit oncommon more. —You allus kindo' 'pear, to me,What all mankind had ort to be —Jest natchurl, and the more hurrawsYou git, the less you know the cause —Like as ef God Hisse'f stood byWhere best on earth hain't half knee-high,And seein' like, and knowin' He'S the Only Grate Man really,You're jest content to size your hightWith any feller-man's in sight. —And even then they's scrubs, like me,Feels stuck-up, in your company!Like now: – I want to go with youPlum out o' town a mile er twoClean past the Fair-ground whare's some hintO' pennyrile er peppermint,And bottom-lands, and timber thickEnugh to sorto' shade the crick!I want to see you – want to setDown somers, whare the grass hain't wet,And kindo' breathe you, like puore air —And taste o' your tobacker thare,And talk and chaw! Talk o' the birdsWe've knocked with cross-bows. – AfterwardsDrop, mayby, into some dispute'Bout "pomgrannies," er cal'mus-root —And how they growed, and whare? – on treeEr vine? – Who's best boy-memory! —And wasn't it gingsang, instedO' cal'mus-root, growed like you said? —Er how to tell a coon-track fromA mussrat's; – er how milksick come —Er ef cows brung it? – Er why nowWe never see no "muley" – cow —Ner "frizzly" – chicken – ner no "clay-Bank" mare – ner nothin' thataway! —And what's come o' the yellow-coreOld wortermelons? – hain't no more. —Tomattusus, the same – all red-Uns nowadays – All past joys fled —Each and all jest gone k-whizz!Like our days o' childhood is!Dag-gone it, 'Ras! they hain't no friend,It 'pears-like, left to comperhendSich things as these but you, and seeHow dratted sweet they air to me!But you, 'at's loved 'em allus, andKin sort 'em out and understand'Em, same as the fine books you've read,And all fine thoughts you've writ, er said,Er worked out, through long nights o' rain,And doubts and fears, and hopes, again,As bright as morning when she broke, —You know a teardrop from a joke!And so, 'Ras Wilson, stop and shakeA paw, fer old acquaintance sake!

MY RUTHERS

[Writ durin' State Fair at Indanoplis, whilse visitin' a Sonin-law then residin' thare, who has sence got back to the country whare he says a man that's raised thare ort to a-stayed in the first place.]

I tell you what I'd ruther do —Ef I only had my ruthers, —I'd ruther work when I wanted toThan be bossed round by others; —I'd ruther kindo' git the swingO' what was needed, first, I jing!Afore I swet at anything! —Ef I only had my ruthers; —In fact I'd aim to be the sameWith all men as my brothers;And they'd all be the same with me—Ef I only had my ruthers.I wouldn't likely know it all —Ef I only had my ruthers; —I'd know some sense, and some base-ball —Some old jokes, and – some others:I'd know some politics, and 'lowSome tarif-speeches same as now,Then go hear Nye on "Branes and HowTo Detect Theyr Presence." T'others,That stayed away, I'd let 'em stay —All my dissentin' brothersCould chuse as shore a kill er cuore,Ef I only had my ruthers.The pore 'ud git theyr dues sometimes —Ef I only had my ruthers, —And be paid dollars 'stid o' dimes,Fer childern, wives and mothers:Theyr boy that slaves; theyr girl that sews —Fer others– not herself, God knows! —The grave's her only change of clothes!… Ef I only had my ruthers,They'd all have "stuff" and time enughTo answer one-another'sAppealin' prayer fer "lovin' care" —Ef I only had my ruthers.They'd be few folks 'ud ast fer trust,Ef I only had my ruthers,And blame few business-men to bu'stTheyrselves, er harts of others:Big Guns that come here durin' Fair-Week could put up jest anywhare,And find a full-and-plenty thare,Ef I only had my ruthers:The rich and great 'ud 'sociateWith all theyr lowly brothers,Feelin' we done the honorun —Ef I only had my ruthers.

ON A DEAD BABE

Fly away! thou heavenly one! —I do hail thee on thy flight!Sorrow? thou hath tasted none —Perfect joy is yourn by right.Fly away! and bear our loveTo thy kith and kin above!I can tetch thy finger-tipsCa'mly, and bresh back the hairFrom thy forr'ed with my lips,And not leave a teardrop thare. —Weep fer Tomps and Ruth– and me—But I can not weep fer thee.

A OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG

It's the curiousest thing in creation,Whenever I hear that old song"Do They Miss Me at Home," I'm so bothered,My life seems as short as it's long! —Fer ev'rything 'pears like adzacklyIt 'peared in the years past and gone, —When I started out sparkin', at twenty,And had my first neckercher on!Though I'm wrinkelder, older and grayerRight now than my parents was then,You strike up that song "Do They Miss Me,"And I'm jest a youngster again! —I'm a-standin' back thare in the furriesA-wishin' fer evening to come,And a-whisperin' over and overThem words "Do They Miss Me at Home?"You see, Marthy Ellen she sung itThe first time I heerd it; and so,As she was my very first sweethart,It reminds me of her, don't you know; —How her face ust to look, in the twilight,As I tuck her to Spellin'; and sheKep' a-hummin' that song tel I ast her,Pine-blank, ef she ever missed me!I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it,And hear her low answerin' words;And then the glad chirp of the crickets,As clear as the twitter of birds;And the dust in the road is like velvet,And the ragweed and fennel and grassIs as sweet as the scent of the lilliesOf Eden of old, as we pass."Do They Miss Me at Home?" Sing it lower —And softer – and sweet as the breezeThat powdered our path with the snowyWhite bloom of the old locus'-trees!Let the whipperwills he'p you to sing it,And the echoes 'way over the hill,Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorusOf stars, and our voices is still.But oh! "They's a chord in the musicThat's missed when her voice is away!"Though I listen from midnight tel morning,And dawn tel the dusk of the day!And I grope through the dark, lookin' up'ardsAnd on through the heavenly dome,With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin'The words "Do They Miss Me at Home?"

"COON-DOG WESS"

"Coon-dog Wess" – he allus went'Mongst us here by that-air name.Moved in this-here SettlementFrom next county – he laid claim, —Lived down in the bottoms – whareUst to be some coons in thare! —In nigh Clayton's, next the crick, —Mind old Billy ust to sayCoons in thare was jest that thick,He'p him corn-plant any day! —And, in rostneer-time, be thenAggin' him to plant again!Well, – In Spring o' '67,This-here "Coon-dog Wess" he come —Fetchin' 'long 'bout forty-'levenOrnriest-lookin' hounds, I gum!Ever mortul-man laid eyesOn sence dawn o' Christian skies!Wife come traipsin' at the rag-Tag-and-bobtail of the crowd,Dogs and childern, with a bagCorn-meal and some side-meat, —ProudAnd as independunt—My!—Yit a mild look in her eye.Well – this "Coon-dog Wess" he jestMoved in that-air little penOf a pole-shed, aidgin' westOn "The Slues o' Death," called then. —Otter- and mink-hunters ustTo camp thare 'fore game vam-moosd.Abul-bodied man, – and lotsCall fer choppers– and fer handsTo git cross-ties out. – But what'sWork to sich as understandsWays appinted and is henceUnder special providence? —"Coon-dog Wess's" holts was houndsAnd coon-huntin'; and he knowedHis own range, and stayed in boundsAnd left work for them 'at showedTalents fer it – same as hisGifts regardin' coon-dogs is.Hounds of ev'ry mungerl breedEver whelped on earth! – Had theseYeller kind, with punkin-seedMarks above theyr eyes – and fleasBoth to sell and keep! – Also

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