Once git a smell o' musk into a draw,
An' it clings hold like precerdents in law;
Your gra'ma'am put it there,—when, goodness knows,—To jes this—worldify her Sunday-clo'es;
But the old chist wun't sarve her gran'son's wife,(For, 'thout new funnitoor, wut good in life?)An' so ole clawfoot, from the precinks dreadO' the spare chamber, slinks into the shed,
Where, dim with dust, it fust or last
To holdin' seeds an' fifty things besides;
But better days stick fast in heart an' husk,
An' all you keep in't gits a scent o' musk.
Jes' so with poets: wut they've airly
Git,s kind o' worked into their heart-an' head,
So 's 't they can't seem to write but jest on
With furrin countries or played-out ideers,
Nor hev a feelin', ef it doosn't smackO' wut some critter chose to feel 'way back.
This makes 'em talk o' daisies, larks, an' things,
Ez though we'd nothin' here that blows an' sings,—(Why,
I'd give more for one live
Than a square mile o' larks in printer's ink,)This makes 'em think our fust o' May is May,
Which 't ain't, for all the almanicks can say.
O little city-gals, don't never go
Blind on the word o' noospaper or poet!
They're apt to puff, an' May-day seldom
Up in the country, ez it dons in
They're no more like than hornets'-nests an' hives,
Or printed sarmons be to holy lives.
I, with my trouses perched on cow-hide boots,
Tuggin' my foundered feet out by the roots,
Hev seen ye come to fling on April's
Your muslin nosegays from the milliner's,
Puzzlin' to find dry ground your queen to choose,
An' dance your throats sore m morocker shoesI've seen ye an' felt proud, thet, come wut would,
Our Pilgrim stock wuz pithed with hardihood.
Pleasure doos make us Yankees kind o' winch,
Ez though 'twuz sunthin' paid for by the inch;
But yit we du contrive to worry thru,
Ef Dooty tells us thet the thing's to du,
An' kerry a hollerday, ef we set out,
Ez stidchly ez though 'twaz a redoubt.
I, country-born an' bred, know where to
Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind,
An' seem to metch the doubtin' bluebird's notes,—Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats,
Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef you oncurl,
Each on 'em 's cradle to a baby-pearl,—But these are jes' Spring's pickets; sure ez sin,
The rebble frosts'll try to drive 'em in;
For half our May's so awfully like Mayn't,'Twould rile a Shaker or an evrige saint;
Though I own up I like our back'ard
Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things,
An' when you most give up, 'ithout more
Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, an'
Thet's Northun natur', slow an' apt to doubt,
But when it doos git stirred, ther' 's no gin-out!
Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in tall trees,
An' settlin' things in windy Congresses,—Queer politicians, though, for I'll be
Ef all on 'em don't head against the wind.'Fore long the trees begin to show belief,
The maple crimsons to a coral-reef,
Then saffern swarms swing off from' all the
So plump they look like yaller caterpillars,
Then gray hossches'nuts leetle hands
Softer'n a baby's be at three days
Thet's robin-redbreast's almanick; he
Thet arter this ther' 's only
So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' spouse,
He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house.
Then seems to come a hitch,—things lag behind,
Till some fine mornin' Spring makes up her mind,
An' ez, when snow-swelled avers cresh their
Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an' jams,
A leak comes spirtin thru some pin-hole cleft,
Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' left,
Then all the waters bow themselves an'
Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam,
Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in
An gives one leap from April into
Then all comes crowdin' in; afore you think,
Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with
The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud;
The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud;
Red-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it,
An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet;
The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o'
An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade;
In ellum-shrouds the flashin' hangbird
An' for the summer vy'ge his hammock slings;
All down the loose-walled lanes in archin'
The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden flowers,
Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals love to
With pins—they'll worry yourn so, boys, bimeby!
But I don't love your cat'logue style,—do you?- -Ez ef to sell off Natur' b y vendoo;
One word with blood in 't 's twice ez good ez two:'Nuff sed,
June's bridesman, poet o' the year,
Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here;
Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings,
Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin' wings,
Or, givin' way to't in a mock despair,
Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air.
I ollus feels the sap start in my
In Spring, with curus heats an' prickly pains,
Thet drive me, when I git a chance, to
Off by myself to hev a privit
With a queer critter thet can't seem to
Along o' me like most folks,—Mister Me.
Ther' 's times when I'm unsoshle ez a
An' sort o' suffocate to be alone,—I'm crowded jes' to think thet folks are nigh,
An' can't bear nothin' closer than the sky;
Now the wind's full ez shifty in the
Ez wut it is ou'-doors, ef I ain't blind,
An' sometimes, in the fairest sou'west weather,
My innard vane pints east for weeks together,
My natur' gits all goose-flesh, an' my
Come drizzlin' on my conscience sharp ez pins:
Wal, et sech times I jes' slip out o'
An' take it out in a fair stan'-up
With the one cuss I can't lay on the shelf,
The crook'dest stick in all the heap,—Myself.'Twuz so las' Sabbath arter meetin'-time:
F'indin' my feelin's wouldn't noways
With nobody's, but off the hendle
An' took things from an east-wind pint o' view,
I started off to lose me in the
Where the pines be, up back o' Siah's Mills:
Pines, ef you're blue, are the best friends I know,
They mope an' sigh an' sheer your feelin's so,—They hesh the ground beneath so, tu,
I swan,
You half-forgit you've gut a body on."Ther' 's a small school'us' there where four road, meet,
The door-steps hollered out by little feet,
An side-posts carved with names whose owners
To gret men, some on 'em an' deacons, tu;'Tain't used no longer, coz the town hez gutA high-school, where they teach the Lord knows wut:
Three-story larnin' 's poplar now:
I
We thriv' ez wal on jes' two stories less,
For it strikes me ther' 's sech a thing ez sinnin'By overloadin' children's underpinnin:
Wal, here it wuz I larned my A B C,
An' it's a kind o' favorite spot with me.
We're curus critters:
Now ain't jes' the
Thet ever fits us easy while we're in it;
Long ez 'twuz futur',
Id be perfect bliss,—Soon ez it's past, thet time's wuth ten o'
An' yit there ain't a man thet need be
Thet Now's the only bird lays eggs o' gold.
A knee-high lad,
I used to plot an'
An' think 'twuz life's cap-sheaf to be a man;
Now, gittin' gray, there's nothin' I
Like dreamin' back along into a boy:
So the ole school'us' is a place I
Afore all others, ef I want to muse;
I set down where I used to set, an'
Diy boyhood back, an' better things with it,—Faith,
Hope, an' sunthin' ef it isn't Cherrity,
It's want o' guile, an' thet's ez gret a rerrity.
Now, 'fore I knowed, thet Sabbath
Thet I sot out to tramp myself in tune,
I found me in the school'us' on my seat,
Drummin' the march to No-wheres with my feet.
Thinkin' o' nothin',
I've heerd ole folks say,
Is a hard kind o' dooty in its way:
It's thinkin' everythin' you ever knew,
Or ever hearn, to make your feelin's blue.
From this to thet I let my worryin'
Till finally I must ha' fell asleep.
Our lives in sleep are some like streams thet
Twixt flesh an' sperrit boundin' on each side,
Where both shores' shadders kind o' mix an'
In sunthin' thet ain't jes' like either single;
An' when you cast off moorin's from To-day,
An' down towards To-morrer drift away,
The imiges thet tengle on the
Make a new upside-down'ard world o' dream:
Sometimes they seem like sunrise-streaks an' warnin'sO' wut'll be in Heaven on Sabbath-mornin's,
An', mixed right in ez ef jest out o' spite,
Sunthin' thet says your supper ain't gone right.
I'm gret on dreams: an' often, when I wake,
I've lived so much it makes my mem'ry ache,
An' can't skurce take a cat-nap in my cheer'Thout hevin' 'em, some good, some bad, all queer.
Now I wuz settin' where I'd ben, it seemed,
An' ain't sure yit whether I rally dreamed,
Nor, ef I did, how long I might ha' slep',
When I hearn some un stompin' up the step,
An' lookirz' round, ef two an' two make four,
I see a Pilgrim Father in the door.
He wore a steeple-hat, tall boots, an'
With rowels to 'em big ez ches'nut-burrs,
An' his gret sword behind him sloped
Long'z a man's speech thet dunno wut to say.—"Ef your name's Biglow, an' your
Hosee," sez he, "it's arter you I came;
I'm your gret-gran they multiplied by three.""My wut?" sez I.—your gret-gret-gret," sez he:"You wouldn't ha' never ben here but for me.
Two hundred an' three year ago this May,
The ship I come in sailed up Boston Bay;
I'd been a cunnle in our Civil War,—But wut on girth hev ,you gut up one for?
Coz we du things in England, 'tain't for
To git a notion you can du 'em tu:
I'm told you write in public prints: ef true,
It's nateral you should know a thing or two."—"Thet air's an argymunt I can't endorse,—'Twould prove, coz you wear spurs, you kep' a horse:
But du pray tell me, 'fore we furder go,
How in all Natur' did you come to know'Bout our affairs," sez I "in Kingdom-Come?"—"Wal,
I worked round at sperrit-rappin' some,
An' danced the tables till their legs wuz gone,
In hopes o' larnin wut wuz goin' on,"Sez he, "but mejums lie so like
Thet I concluded it wuz best to quit.
But, come now, ef you wun't confess to knowin',
You've some conjectures how the thing's a-goin'."—"Gran'ther," sez I, "a vane warn't never
Nor asked to hev a jedgment of its own;
An' yit, ef 'tain't gut rusty in the jints,
It's safe to trust its say on certin
It knows the wind's opinions to a T,
An' the wind settles wut the weather'll be.""I never thought a scion of our
Could grow the wood to make a weathercock;
When I wuz younger'n you, skurce more'n a shaver,
No airthly wind," sez he, "could make me waver!"(Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an' forehead,
Hitchin' his belt to bring his sword-hilt forrard.)"Jes' so it wuz with me," sez I, "I swow,
When I wuz younger'n wut you see me now,—Nothin' from Adam's fall to Huldy's bonnet,
Thet I warm't full-cocked with my jedgment on it;
But now I'm gittin' on in life,
I
It's a sight harder to make up my mind,—Nor I don't often try tu, when
Will du it for me free of all expense.
The moral question's ollus plain enough,—It's jes' the human-natur' side thet's tough;
Wut's best to think mayn't puzzle me nor you,—The pinch comes in decidin' wut to du;
Ef you read History, all runs smooth ez grease,
Coz there the men ain't nothin' more'n idees,—But come to make it, ez we must to-day,
Th' idees hev arms an' legs an' stop the
It's easy fixin' things in facts an' figgers,—They can't resist, nor warn't brought up with nigers;
But come to try your the'ry on,—why,
Your facts an' figgers change to ign'ant
Actin' ez ugly—"—"Smite 'em hip an' thigh!"Sez gran'ther, "and let every man-child die!
Oh for three weeks o' Crommle an' the Lord!
Up,
Isr'el, to your tents an' grind the sword!"Thet kind o' thing worked wal in ole Judee,
But you forgit how long it's hen A.
D.;
You think thet's ellerkence—I call it shoddy,
A thing," sez I, "wun't cover soul nor body;
I like the plain all-wool o' common-sense,
Thet warms ye now, an' will a twelvemonth hence.
You took to follerin' where the Prophets beckoned.
An', fust you knowed on, back come Charles the Second;
Now, wut I want's to hev all we gain stick,
An' not to start Millennium too quick;
We hain't to punish only, but to keep,
An' the cure's gut to go a cent'ry deep""Wal, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' glue,"Sez he, "an' so you'll find before you're thru;"Strike soon," sez he, "or you'll be deadly ailin'—Folks thet's afeared to fail are sure o' failin';
God hates your sneakin' creturs thet
He'll settle things they run away an' leave!"He brought his foot down fercely, ez he spoke,
An' give me sech a startle thet I woke.
