The Hired Man And Floretty
The Hired Man's supper, which he sat before,
In near reach of the wood-box, the stove-door
And one leaf of the kitchen-table, was
Somewhat belated, and in lifted pause
His dextrous knife was balancing a bit
Of fried mush near the port awaiting it.
At the glad children's advent--gladder still
To find _him_ there--'Jest tickled fit to kill
To see ye all!' he said, with unctious cheer.--
'I'm tryin'-like to he'p Floretty here
To git things cleared away and give ye room
Accordin' to yer stren'th. But I p'sume
It's a pore boarder, as the poet says,
That quarrels with his victuals, so I guess
I'll take another wedge o' that-air cake,
Florett', that you're a-_learnin_' how to bake.'
He winked and feigned to swallow painfully.--
'Jest 'fore ye all come in, Floretty she
Was boastin' 'bout her _biscuits_--and they _air_
As good--sometimes--as you'll find anywhere.--
But, women gits to braggin' on their _bread_,
I'm s'picious 'bout their _pie_--as Danty said.'
This raillery Floretty strangely seemed
To take as compliment, and fairly beamed
With pleasure at it all.
--'Speakin' o' _bread_--
When she come here to live,' The Hired Man said,--
'Never ben out o' _Freeport_ 'fore she come
Up here,--of course she needed '_sperience_ some.--
So, one day, when yer Ma was goin' to set
The risin' fer some bread, she sent Florett
To borry _leaven_, 'crost at Ryans'--So,
She went and asked fer _twelve_.--She didn't _know_,
But thought, _whatever_ 'twuz, that she could keep
_One_ fer _herse'f_, she said. O she wuz deep!'
Some little evidence of favor hailed
The Hired Man's humor; but it wholly failed
To touch the serious Susan Loehr, whose air
And thought rebuked them all to listening there
To her brief history of the _city_-man
And his pale wife--'A sweeter woman than
_She_ ever saw!'--So Susan testified,--
And so attested all the Loehrs beside.--
So entertaining was the history, that
The Hired Man, in the corner where he sat
In quiet sequestration, shelling corn,
Ceased wholly, listening, with a face forlorn
As Sorrow's own, while Susan, John and Jake
Told of these strangers who had come to make
Some weeks' stay in the town, in hopes to gain
Once more the health the wife had sought in vain:
Their doctor, in the city, used to know
The Loehrs--Dan and Rachel--years ago,--
And so had sent a letter and request
For them to take a kindly interest
In favoring the couple all they could--
To find some home-place for them, if they would,
Among their friends in town. He ended by
A dozen further lines, explaining why
His patient must have change of scene and air--
New faces, and the simple friendships there
With _them_, which might, in time, make her forget
A grief that kept her ever brooding yet
And wholly melancholy and depressed,--
Nor yet could she find sleep by night nor rest
By day, for thinking--thinking--thinking still Upon a grief beyond the doctor's skill,--
The death of her one little girl.
'Pore thing!'
Floretty sighed, and with the turkey-wing
Brushed off the stove-hearth softly, and peered in
The kettle of molasses, with her thin
Voice wandering into song unconsciously--
In purest, if most witless, sympathy.--
''Then sleep no more:
Around thy heart
Some ten-der dream may i-dlee play.
But mid-night song,
With mad-jick art,
Will chase that dree muh-way!''
'That-air besetment of Floretty's,' said
The Hired Man,--'_singin_--she _inhairited_,--
Her _father_ wuz addicted--same as her--
To singin'--yes, and played the dulcimer!
But--gittin' back,--I s'pose yer talkin' 'bout
Them _Hammondses_. Well, Hammond he gits out
_Pattents_ on things--inventions-like, I'm told--
And's got more money'n a house could hold!
And yit he can't git up no pattent-right
To do away with _dyin'_.--And he might
Be worth a _million_, but he couldn't find
Nobody sellin' _health_ of any kind!...
But they's no thing onhandier fer _me_
To use than other people's misery.--
Floretty, hand me that-air skillet there
And lem me git 'er het up, so's them-air
Childern kin have their popcorn.'
It was good
To hear him now, and so the children stood
Closer about him, waiting.
'Things to _eat_,'
The Hired Man went on, ''s mighty hard to beat!
Now, when _I_ wuz a boy, we was so pore,
My parunts couldn't 'ford popcorn no more
To pamper _me_ with;--so, I hat to go
_Without_ popcorn--sometimes a _year_ er so!--
And _suffer'n' saints!_ how hungry I would git
Fer jest one other chance--like this--at it!
Many and many a time I've _dreamp_', at night,
About popcorn,--all busted open white,
And hot, you know--and jest enough o' salt
And butter on it fer to find no fault--
_Oomh!_--Well! as I was goin' on to say,--
After a-_dreamin_' of it thataway,
_Then_ havin' to wake up and find it's all
A _dream_, and hain't got no popcorn at-tall,
Ner haint _had_ none--I'd think, '_Well, where's the use!_'
And jest lay back and sob the plaster'n' loose!
And I have _prayed_, what_ever_ happened, it
'Ud eether be popcorn er death!.... And yit
I've noticed--more'n likely so have you--
That things don't happen when you _want_ 'em to.'
And thus he ran on artlessly, with speech
And work in equal exercise, till each
Tureen and bowl brimmed white. And then he greased
The saucers ready for the wax, and seized
The fragrant-steaming kettle, at a sign
Made by Floretty; and, each child in line,
He led out to the pump--where, in the dim
New coolness of the night, quite near to him
He felt Floretty's presence, fresh and sweet
As ... dewy night-air after kitchen-heat.
There, still, with loud delight of laugh and jest,
They plied their subtle alchemy with zest--
Till, sudden, high above their tumult, welled
Out of the sitting-room a song which held
Them stilled in some strange rapture, listening
To the sweet blur of voices chorusing:--
''When twilight approaches the season
That ever is sacred to song,
Does some one repeat my name over,
And sigh that I tarry so long?
And is there a chord in the music
That's missed when my voice is away?--
And a chord in each heart that awakens
Regret at my wearisome stay-ay--
Regret at my wearisome stay.''
All to himself, The Hired Man thought--'Of course
_They'll_ sing _Floretty_ homesick!'
... O strange source
Of ecstasy! O mystery of Song!--
To hear the dear old utterance flow along:--
''Do they set me a chair near the table
When evening's home-pleasures are nigh?--
When the candles are lit in the parlor.
And the stars in the calm azure sky.''...
Just then the moonlight sliced the porch slantwise,
And flashed in misty spangles in the eyes
Floretty clenched--while through the dark--'I jing!'
A voice asked, 'Where's that song '_you'd_ learn to sing
Ef I sent you the _ballat_?'--which I done
Last I was home at Freeport.--S'pose you run
And git it--and we'll all go in to where
They'll know the notes and sing it fer ye there.'
And up the darkness of the old stairway
Floretty fled, without a word to say--
Save to herself some whisper muffled by
Her apron, as she wiped her lashes dry.
Returning, with a letter, which she laid
Upon the kitchen-table while she made
A hasty crock of 'float,'--poured thence into
A deep glass dish of iridescent hue
And glint and sparkle, with an overflow
Of froth to crown it, foaming white as snow.--
And then--poundcake, and jelly-cake as rare,
For its delicious complement,--with air
Of Hebe mortalized, she led her van
Of votaries, rounded by The Hired Man.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Popcorn Love
Dont you know, dont you know, dont you know
Its the real thing, girl
They say its popcorn love
But its more than that to me
Popcorn love
Just wait, they will see
Its popcorn love
Every morning, noon and night
Popcorn love
Dont you know, dont you know
Its the real thing, girl
When we go on those special dates
Were always holding hands
Were never, ever late
Youre on my mind all the time
I keep thinking (I keep thinking)
Thinking (I keep thinking)
I keep thinking (thinking of you)
Popcorn love
But its more than that to me
Popcorn love
Just wait, they will see
Popcorn love
Every morning, noon and night
Popcorn love
Dont you know, dont you know
Its the real thing, girl
I go to school and then I come straight home
The first thing that I do is call you on the phone
The things you say, uh, really make my day
I need you, girl, in every kind of way
I keep thinking
Im just thinking
I keep thinking (thinking)
Thinking (thinking)
Thinking (thinking)
Thinking
Thats right
Thats right
Thats right
Thats right
Ah p is for her personality
I said the o is for originality
And the other p is for the perfect love she gives to me
The c is just cause she loves me
And the o means shes the only love I got
And the r and the n, our love will never end
Well, I know, I know its the real thing
Because she told me so
And I know, I know its the real thing
And ill never let her go
I just got to, I just got to have your love
Popcorn love
But its more than that to me
Popcorn love
Just wait, they will see
Its popcorn love
Every morning, noon and night
Popcorn love
Popcorn love
Its more than that to me
Popcorn love
Just wait, they will see
Popcorn love
Every morning, noon and night
Popcorn love
Popcorn love
But its more than that to me
Popcorn love
song performed by by New Edition
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Floretty's Musical Contribution
All seemed delighted, though the elders more,
Of course, than were the children.--Thus, before
Much interchange of mirthful compliment,
The story-teller said _his_ stories 'went'
(Like a bad candle) _best_ when they went _out_,--
And that some sprightly music, dashed about,
Would _wholly_ quench his 'glimmer,' and inspire
Far brighter lights.
And, answering this desire,
The flutist opened, in a rapturous strain
Of rippling notes--a perfect April-rain
Of melody that drenched the senses through;--
Then--gentler--gentler--as the dusk sheds dew,
It fell, by velvety, staccatoed halts,
Swooning away in old 'Von Weber's Waltz.'
Then the young ladies sang 'Isle of the Sea'--
In ebb and flow and wave so billowy,--
Only with quavering breath and folded eyes
The listeners heard, buoyed on the fall and rise
Of its insistent and exceeding stress
Of sweetness and ecstatic tenderness ...
With lifted finger _yet_, Remembrance--List!--
'_Beautiful isle of the sea!_' wells in a mist
Of tremulous ...
... After much whispering
Among the children, Alex came to bring
Some kind of _letter_--as it seemed to be--
To Cousin Rufus. This he carelessly
Unfolded--reading to himself alone,--
But, since its contents became, later, known,
And no one '_plagued_ so _awful_ bad,' the same
May here be given--of course without full name,
Fac-simile, or written kink or curl
Or clue. It read:--
'Wild Roved an indian Girl
Brite al Floretty'
deer freind
I now take
*this* These means to send that _Song_ to you & make
my Promus good to you in the Regards
Of doing What i Promust afterwards,
the _notes_ & _Words_ is both here _Printed_ SOS
you *kin* can git _uncle Mart_ to read you *them* those
& cousin Rufus you can git to _Play_
the _notes_ fur you on eny Plezunt day
His Legul Work aint *Pressin* Pressing.
Ever thine
As shore as the Vine
doth the Stump intwine
thou art my Lump of Sackkerrine
Rinaldo Rinaldine
the Pirut in Captivity.
... There dropped
Another square scrap.--But the hand was stopped
That reached for it--Floretty suddenly
Had set a firm foot on her property--
Thinking it was the _letter_, not the _song_,--
But blushing to discover she was wrong,
When, with all gravity of face and air,
Her precious letter _handed_ to her there
By Cousin Rufus left her even more
In apprehension than she was before.
But, testing his unwavering, kindly eye,
She seemed to put her last suspicion by,
And, in exchange, handed the song to him.--
A page torn from a song-book: Small and dim
Both notes and words were--but as plain as day
They seemed to him, as he began to play--
And plain to _all_ the singers,--as he ran
An airy, warbling prelude, then began
Singing and swinging in so blithe a strain,
That every voice rang in the old refrain:
From the beginning of the song, clean through,
Floretty's features were a study to
The flutist who 'read _notes_' so readily,
Yet read so little of the mystery
Of that face of the girl's.--Indeed _one_ thing
Bewildered him quite into worrying,
And that was, noticing, throughout it all,
The Hired Man shrinking closer to the wall,
She ever backing toward him through the throng
Of barricading children--till the song
Was ended, and at last he saw her near
Enough to reach and take him by the ear
And pinch it just a pang's worth of her ire
And leave it burning like a coal of fire.
He noticed, too, in subtle pantomime
She seemed to dust him off, from time to time;
And when somebody, later, asked if she
Had never heard the song before--'What! _me?_'
She said--then blushed again and smiled,--
'I've knowed that song sence _Adam_ was a child!--
It's jes a joke o' this-here man's.--He's learned
To _read_ and _write_ a little, and its turned
His fool-head some--That's all!'
And then some one
Of the loud-wrangling boys said--'_Course_ they's none
No more, _these_ days!--They's Fairies _ust_ to be,
But they're all dead, a hunderd years!' said he.
'Well, there's where you're _mustakened_!'--in reply
They heard Bud's voice, pitched sharp and thin and high.--
'An' how you goin' to _prove_ it!'
'Well, I _kin_!'
Said Bud, with emphasis,--'They's one lives in
Our garden--and I _see_ 'im wunst, wiv my
Own eyes--_one_ time I did.'
'_Oh, what a lie_!'
--''_Sh!_''
'Well, nen,' said the skeptic--seeing there
The older folks attracted--'Tell us _where_
You saw him, an' all _'bout_ him!'
'Yes, my son.--
If you tell 'stories,' you may tell us one,'
The smiling father said, while Uncle Mart,
Behind him, winked at Bud, and pulled apart
His nose and chin with comical grimace--
Then sighed aloud, with sanctimonious face,--
''_How good and comely it is to see
Children and parents in friendship agree!_'--
You fire away, Bud, on your Fairy-tale--
Your _Uncle's_ here to back you!'
Somewhat pale,
And breathless as to speech, the little man
Gathered himself. And thus his story ran.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Loehrs And The Hammonds
'Hey, Bud! O Bud!' rang out a gleeful call,--
'_The Loehrs is come to your house!_' And a small
But very much elated little chap,
In snowy linen-suit and tasseled cap,
Leaped from the back-fence just across the street
From Bixlers', and came galloping to meet
His equally delighted little pair
Of playmates, hurrying out to join him there--
'_The Loehrs is come!--The Loehrs is come!_' his glee
Augmented to a pitch of ecstasy
Communicated wildly, till the cry
'_The Loehrs is come!_' in chorus quavered high
And thrilling as some paean of challenge or
Soul-stirring chant of armied conqueror.
And who this _avant courier_ of 'the Loehrs'?--
This happiest of all boys out-o'-doors--
Who but Will Pierson, with his heart's excess
Of summer-warmth and light and breeziness!
'From our front winder I 'uz first to see
'Em all a-drivin' into town!' bragged he--
'An' seen 'em turnin' up the alley where
_Your_ folks lives at. An' John an' Jake wuz there
Both in the wagon;--yes, an' Willy, too;
An' Mary--Yes, an' Edith--with bran-new
An' purtiest-trimmed hats 'at ever wuz!--
An' Susan, an' Janey.--An' the _Hammonds-uz_
In their fine buggy 'at they're ridin' roun'
So much, all over an' aroun' the town
An' _ever_'wheres,--them _city_-people who's
A-visutin' at Loehrs-uz!'
Glorious news!--
Even more glorious when verified
In the boys' welcoming eyes of love and pride,
As one by one they greeted their old friends
And neighbors.--Nor until their earth-life ends
Will that bright memory become less bright
Or dimmed indeed.
... Again, at candle-light,
The faces all are gathered. And how glad
The Mother's features, knowing that she had
Her dear, sweet Mary Loehr back again.--
She always was so proud of her; and then
The dear girl, in return, was happy, too,
And with a heart as loving, kind and true
As that maturer one which seemed to blend
As one the love of mother and of friend.
From time to time, as hand-in-hand they sat,
The fair girl whispered something low, whereat
A tender, wistful look would gather in
The mother-eyes; and then there would begin
A sudden cheerier talk, directed to
The stranger guests--the man and woman who,
It was explained, were coming now to make
Their temporary home in town for sake
Of the wife's somewhat failing health. Yes, they
Were city-people, seeking rest this way,
The man said, answering a query made
By some well meaning neighbor--with a shade
Of apprehension in the answer.... No,--
They had no _children_. As he answered so,
The man's arm went about his wife, and she
Leant toward him, with her eyes lit prayerfully:
Then she arose--he following--and bent
Above the little sleeping innocent
Within the cradle at the mother's side--
He patting her, all silent, as she cried.--
Though, haply, in the silence that ensued,
His musings made melodious interlude.
In the warm, health-giving weather
My poor pale wife and I
Drive up and down the little town
And the pleasant roads thereby:
Out in the wholesome country
We wind, from the main highway,
In through the wood's green solitudes--
Fair as the Lord's own Day.
We have lived so long together.
And joyed and mourned as one,
That each with each, with a look for speech,
Or a touch, may talk as none
But Love's elect may comprehend--
Why, the touch of her hand on mine
Speaks volume-wise, and the smile of her eyes,
To me, is a song divine.
There are many places that lure us:--
'The Old Wood Bridge' just west
Of town we know--and the creek below,
And the banks the boys love best:
And 'Beech Grove,' too, on the hill-top;
And 'The Haunted House' beyond,
With its roof half off, and its old pump-trough
Adrift in the roadside pond.
We find our way to 'The Marshes'--
At least where they used to be;
And 'The Old Camp Grounds'; and 'The Indian Mounds,'
And the trunk of 'The Council Tree:'
We have crunched and splashed through 'Flint-bed Ford';
And at 'Old Big Bee-gum Spring'
We have stayed the cup, half lifted up.
Hearing the redbird sing.
And then, there is 'Wesley Chapel,'
With its little graveyard, lone
At the crossroads there, though the sun sets fair
On wild-rose, mound and stone ...
A wee bed under the willows--
My wife's hand on my own--
And our horse stops, too ... And we hear the coo
Of a dove in undertone.
The dusk, the dew, and the silence.
'Old Charley' turns his head
Homeward then by the pike again,
Though never a word is said--
One more stop, and a lingering one--
After the fields and farms,--
At the old Toll Gate, with the woman await
With a little girl in her arms.
The silence sank--Floretty came to call
The children in the kitchen, where they all
Went helter-skeltering with shout and din
Enough to drown most sanguine silence in,--
For well indeed they knew that summons meant
Taffy and popcorn--so with cheers they went.
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Griggsby's Station
Pap's got his patent-right, and rich is all creation;
But where's the peace and comfort that we all had before?
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station--
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
The likes of us a-livin' here! It's jest a mortal pity
To see us in this great big house, with cyarpets on the stairs,
And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! City! City
And nothin' but the city all around us ever'wheres!
Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple,
And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree!
And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people,
And none that neighbors with us or we want to go and see!
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station--
Back where the latch-strings a-hangin' from the door,
And ever' neighbor round the place is dear as a relation--
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit-and-bilin',
A-drivin' up from Shallor Ford to stay the Sunday through;
And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their son-in-law's and pilin'
Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they ust to do!
I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones girls is makin';
And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired hand,
And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigh a-takin',
Till her Pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his land.
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station--
Back where they's nothin' aggervatin' any more,
Shet away safe in the woods around the old location--
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
I want to see Marindy and he'p her with her sewin',
And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and gone,
And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he's growin',
And smile as I have saw her 'fore she putt her mournin' on.
And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower eighty,
Where John, our oldest boy, he was tuk and burried-- for
His own sake and Katy's--, and I want to cry with Katy
As she reads all his letters over, writ from The War.
What's in all this grand life and high situation,
And nary pink nor hollyhawk a-bloomin' at the door--?
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station--
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Our Hired Girl
1 Our hired girl, she's 'Lizabuth Ann;
2 An' she can cook best things to eat!
3 She ist puts dough in our pie-pan,
4 An' pours in somepin' 'at's good an' sweet;
5 An' nen she salts it all on top
6 With cinnamon; an' nen she'll stop
7 An' stoop an' slide it, ist as slow,
8 In th' old cook-stove, so's 'twon't slop
9 An' git all spilled; nen bakes it, so
10 It's custard-pie, first thing you know!
11 An' nen she'll say,
12 "Clear out o' my way!
13 They's time fer work, an' time fer play!
14 Take yer dough, an' run, child, run!
15 Er I cain't git no cookin' done!"
16 When our hired girl 'tends like she's mad,
17 An' says folks got to walk the chalk
18 When she's around, er wisht they had!
19 I play out on our porch an' talk
20 To Th' Raggedy Man 'at mows our lawn;
21 An' he says, "Whew!" an' nen leans on
22 His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes,
23 An' sniffs all 'round an' says, "I swawn!
24 Ef my old nose don't tell me lies,
25 It 'pears like I smell custard-pies!"
26 An' nen he'll say,
27 "Clear out o' my way!
28 They's time fer work, an' time fer play!
29 Take yer dough, an' run, child, run!
30 Er she cain't git no cookin' done!"
31 Wunst our hired girl, when she
32 Got the supper, an' we all et,
33 An' it wuz night, an' Ma an' me
34 An' Pa went wher' the "Social" met, --
35 An' nen when we come home, an' see
36 A light in the kitchen door, an' we
37 Heerd a maccordeun, Pa says, "Lan'-
38 O'-Gracious! who can her beau be?"
39 An' I marched in, an' 'Lizabuth Ann
40 Wuz parchin' corn fer The Raggedy Man!
41 Better say,
42 "Clear out o' the way!
43 They's time fer work, an' time fer play!
44 Take the hint, an' run, child, run!
45 Er we cain't git no courtin' done!"
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Reaping
You want to know what's the matter with me, do yer?
My! ain't men blinder'n moles?
It ain't nothin' new, be sure o' that.
Why, ef you'd had eyes you'd ha' seed
Me changin' under your very nose,
Each day a little diff'rent.
But you never see nothin', you don't.
Don't touch me, Jake,
Don't you dars't to touch me,
I ain't in no humour.
That's what's come over me;
Jest a change clear through.
You lay still, an' I'll tell yer,
I've had it on my mind to tell yer
Fer some time.
It's a strain livin' a lie from mornin' till night,
An' I'm goin' to put an end to it right now.
An' don't make any mistake about one thing,
When I married yer I loved yer.
Why, your voice 'ud make
Me go hot and cold all over,
An' your kisses most stopped my heart from beatin'.
Lord! I was a silly fool.
But that's the way 'twas.
Well, I married yer
An' thought Heav'n was comin'
To set on the door-step.
Heav'n didn't do no settin',
Though the first year warn't so bad.
The baby's fever threw you off some, I guess,
An' then I took her death real hard,
An' a mopey wife kind o' disgusts a man.
I ain't blamin' yer exactly.
But that's how 'twas.
Do lay quiet,
I know I'm slow, but it's harder to say 'n I thought.
There come a time when I got to be
More wife agin than mother.
The mother part was sort of a waste
When we didn't have no other child.
But you'd got used ter lots o' things,
An' you was all took up with the farm.
Many's the time I've laid awake
Watchin' the moon go clear through the elm-tree,
Out o' sight.
I'd foller yer around like a dog,
An' set in the chair you'd be'n settin' in,
Jest to feel its arms around me,
So long's I didn't have yours.
It preyed on me, I guess,
Longin' and longin'
While you was busy all day, and snorin' all night.
Yes, I know you're wide awake now,
But now ain't then,
An' I guess you'll think diff'rent
When I'm done.
Do you mind the day you went to Hadrock?
I didn't want to stay home for reasons,
But you said someone 'd have to be here
'Cause Elmer was comin' to see t' th' telephone.
An' you never see why I was so set on goin' with yer,
Our married life hadn't be'n any great shakes,
Still marriage is marriage, an' I was raised God-fearin'.
But, Lord, you didn't notice nothin',
An' Elmer hangin' around all Winter!
'Twas a lovely mornin'.
The apple-trees was jest elegant
With their blossoms all flared out,
An' there warn't a cloud in the sky.
You went, you wouldn't pay no 'tention to what I said,
An' I heard the Ford chuggin' for most a mile,
The air was so still.
Then Elmer come.
It's no use your frettin', Jake,
I'll tell you all about it.
I know what I'm doin',
An' what's worse, I know what I done.
Elmer fixed th' telephone in about two minits,
An' he didn't seem in no hurry to go,
An' I don't know as I wanted him to go either,
I was awful mad at your not takin' me with yer,
An' I was tired o' wishin' and wishin'
An' gittin' no comfort.
I guess it ain't necessary to tell yer all the things.
He stayed to dinner,
An' he helped me do the dishes,
An' he said a home was a fine thing,
An' I said dishes warn't a home
Nor yet the room they're in.
He said a lot o' things,
An' I fended him off at first,
But he got talkin' all around me,
Clost up to the things I'd be'n thinkin',
What's the use o' me goin' on, Jake,
You know.
He got all he wanted,
An' I give it to him,
An' what's more, I'm glad!
I ain't dead, anyway,
An' somebody thinks I'm somethin'.
Keep away, Jake,
You can kill me to-morrer if you want to,
But I'm goin' to have my say.
Funny thing! Guess I ain't made to hold a man.
Elmer ain't be'n here for mor'n two months.
I don't want to pretend nothin',
Mebbe if he'd be'n lately
I shouldn't have told yer.
I'll go away in the mornin', o' course.
What you want the light fer?
I don't look no diff'rent.
Ain't the moon bright enough
To look at a woman that's deceived yer by?
Don't, Jake, don't, you can't love me now!
It ain't a question of forgiveness.
Why! I'd be thinkin' o' Elmer ev'ry minute;
It ain't decent.
Oh, my God! It ain't decent any more either way!
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bein' Back Home
HOME agin, an' home to stay —
Yes, it's nice to be away.
Plenty things to do an' see,
But the old place seems to me
Jest about the proper thing.
Mebbe 'ts 'cause the mem'ries cling
Closer 'round yore place o' birth
'N ary other spot on earth.
W'y it's nice jest settin' here,
Lookin' out an' seein' clear,
'Thout no smoke, ner dust, ner haze
In these sweet October days.
What's as good as that there lane,
Kind o' browned from last night's rain?
'Pears like home has got the start
When the goal's a feller's heart.
What's as good as that there jay
Screechin' up'ards towards the gray
Skies? An' tell me, what's as fine
As that full-leafed pumpkin vine?
Tow'rin' buildin's — yes, they're good;
But in sight o' field and wood,
Then a feller understan's
'Bout the house not made with han's
Let the others rant an' roam
When they git away from home;
Jest gi' me my old settee
An' my pipe beneath a tree;
Sight o' medders green an' still,
Now and then a gentle hill.
Apple orchards, full o' fruit,
Nigh a cider press to boot —
That's the thing jest done up brown;
D'want to be too nigh to town;
Want to have the smells an' sights,
An' the dreams o' long still nights,
With the friends you used to know
In the keerless long ago.—
Same old cronies, same old folks,
Same old cider, same old jokes.
Say, it's nice a-gittin' back,
When yore pulse is growin' slack,
An' yore breath begins to wheeze
Like a fair-set valley breeze;
Kind o' nice to set aroun'
On the old familiar groun',
Knowin' that when Death does come,
That he'll find you right at home.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Old Love Song
Bob morrison/alice kiester
You know better and I know better, lets do it anyway
Throw our hearts into the wind and let the music play
One more time, for old times sake where could we go wrong?
We know every word by heart, come on, lets sing our our love song
Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, sha la la, love song we can find the harmony and sing it all night long
Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, sha la la, love song sing it sweet and sing it low, till all the musics gone
Theres no telling what could happen if it happens right
We may just turn the record over and let it play all night
Its got an old familiar feeling made you sing along
Theres no sweeter melody come sing this old love song with me
Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, sha la la, love song we can find the harmony and sing it all night long
Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, sha la la, love song sing it sweet and sing it low, till all the musics gone
Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, sha la la, love song
Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, sha la la, love song
Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh, sha la la, love song.....
song performed by by Roy Orbison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mylo Jones's Wife
'Mylo Jones's wife' was all
I heerd, mighty near, last Fall--
Visitun relations down
T'other side of Morgantown!
Mylo Jones's wife she does
This and that, and 'those' and 'thus'!--
Can't 'bide babies in her sight--
Ner no childern, day and night,
Whoopin' round the premises--
NER NO NOTHIN' ELSE, I guess!
Mylo Jones's wife she 'lows
She's the boss of her own house!--
Mylo--consequences is--
Stays whare things seem SOME like HIS,--
Uses, mostly, with the stock--
Coaxin' 'Old Kate' not to balk,
Ner kick hoss-flies' branes out, ner
Act, I s'pose, so much like HER!
Yit the wimmern-folks tells you
She's PERFECTION.--Yes they do!
Mylo's wife she says she's found
Home hain't home with MEN-FOLKS round
When they's work like HERN to do-
Picklin' pears and BUTCHERN, too,
And a-rendern lard, and then
Cookin' fer a pack of men
To come trackin' up the flore
SHE'S scrubbed TEL she'll scrub no MORE!--
Yit she'd keep things clean ef they
Made her scrub tel Jedgmunt Day!
Mylo Jones's wife she sews
Carpet-rags and patches clothes
Jest year IN and OUT!--and yit
Whare's the livin' use of it?
She asts Mylo that.--And he
Gits back whare he'd ruther be,
With his team;--jest PLOWS--and don't
Never sware--like some folks won't!
Think ef HE'D CUT LOOSE, I gum!
'D he'p his heavenly chances some!
Mylo's wife don't see no use,
Ner no reason ner excuse
Fer his pore relations to
Hang round like they allus do!
Thare 'bout onc't a year--and SHE--
She jest GA'NTS 'em, folks tells me,
On spiced pears!--Pass Mylo one,
He says 'No, he don't chuse none!'
Workin'men like Mylo they
'D ort to have MEAT ev'ry day!
Dad-burn Mylo Jones's wife!
Ruther rake a blame caseknife
'Crost my wizzen than to see
Sich a womern rulin' ME!--
Ruther take and turn in and
Raise a fool mule-colt by hand'
MYLO, though--od-rot the man!--
Jest keeps ca'm--like some folks CAN--
And 'lows sich as her, I s'pose,
Is MAN'S HE'PMEET'--Mercy knows!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
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Songs In A Cornfield
A song in a cornfield
Where corn begins to fall,
Where reapers are reaping,
Reaping one, reaping all.
Sing pretty Lettice,
Sing Rachel, sing May;
Only Marian cannot sing
While her sweetheart's away.
Where is he gone to
And why does he stay?
He came across the green sea
But for a day,
Across the deep green sea
To help with the hay.
His hair was curly yellow
And his eyes were grey,
He laughed a merry laugh
And said a sweet say.
Where is he gone to
That he comes not home?
To-day or to-morrow
He surely will come.
Let him haste to joy
Lest he lag for sorrow,
For one weeps to-day
Who'll not weep to-morrow:
To-day she must weep
For gnawing sorrow,
To-night she may sleep
And not wake to-morrow.
May sang with Rachel
In the waxing warm weather,
Lettice sang with them,
They sang all together:—
'Take the wheat in your arm
Whilst day is broad above,
Take the wheat to your bosom,
But not a false love.
Out in the fields
Summer heat gloweth,
Out in the fields
Summer wind bloweth,
Out in the fields
Summer friend showeth,
Out in the fields
Summer wheat groweth;
But in the winter
When summer heat is dead
And summer wind has veered
And summer friend has fled,
Only summer wheat remaineth,
White cakes and bread.
Take the wheat, clasp the wheat
That's food for maid and dove;
Take the wheat to your bosom,
But not a false false love.'
A silence of full noontide heat
Grew on them at their toil:
The farmer's dog woke up from sleep,
The green snake hid her coil.
Where grass stood thickest, bird and beast
Sought shadows as they could,
The reaping men and women paused
And sat down where they stood;
They ate and drank and were refreshed,
For rest from toil is good.
While the reapers took their ease,
Their sickles lying by,
Rachel sang a second strain,
And singing seemed to sigh:—
'There goes the swallow—
Could we but follow!
Hasty swallow stay,
Point us out the way;
Look back swallow, turn back swallow, stop swallow.
'There went the swallow—
Too late to follow:
Lost our note of way,
Lost our chance to-day;
Good bye swallow, sunny swallow, wise swallow.
'After the swallow
All sweet things follow:
All things go their way,
Only we must stay,
Must not follow; good bye swallow, good swallow.'
Then listless Marian raised her head
Among the nodding sheaves;
Her voice was sweeter than that voice;
She sang like one who grieves:
Her voice was sweeter than its wont
Among the nodding sheaves;
All wondered while they heard her sing
Like one who hopes and grieves:—
'Deeper than the hail can smite,
Deeper than the frost can bite,
Deep asleep through day and night,
Our delight.
'Now thy sleep no pang can break,
No to-morrow bid thee wake,
Not our sobs who sit and ache
For thy sake.
'Is it dark or light below?
Oh, but is it cold like snow?
Dost thou feel the green things grow
Fast or slow?
'Is it warm or cold beneath,
Oh, but is it cold like death?
Cold like death, without a breath,
Cold like death?'
If he comes to-day
He will find her weeping;
If he comes to-morrow
He will find her sleeping;
If he comes the next day
He'll not find her at all,
He may tear his curling hair,
Beat his breast and call.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Confidence
UNCLE JOHN, he makes me tired;
Thinks 'at he's jest so all-fired
Smart, 'at he kin pick up, so,
Ever'thing he wants to know.
Tried to ketch me up last night,
But you bet I wouldn't bite.
I jest kep' the smoothes' face,
But I led him sich a chase,
Couldn't corner me, you bet —
I skipped all the traps he set.
Makin' out he wan'ed to know
Who was this an' that girl's beau;
So's he'd find out, don't you see,
Who was goin' 'long with me.
But I answers jest ez sly,
An' I never winks my eye,
Tell he hollers with a whirl,
'Look here, ain't you got a girl?'
Y' ought 'o seen me spread my eyes,
Like he'd took me by surprise,
An' I said, 'Oh, Uncle John,
Never thought o' havin' one.'
An' somehow that seemed to tickle
Him an' he shelled out a nickel.
Then you ought to seen me leave
Jest a-laffin' in my sleeve.
Fool him — well, I guess I did;
He ain't on to this here kid.
Got a girl! well, I guess yes,
Got a dozen more or less,
But I got one reely one,
Not no foolin' ner no fun;
Fur I'm sweet on her, you see,
An' I ruther guess 'at she
Must be kinder sweet on me,
So we're keepin' company.
Honest Injun! this is true,
Ever' word I'm tellin' you!
But you won't be sich a scab
Ez to run aroun' an' blab.
Mebbe 't ain't the way with you,
But you know some fellers do.
Spoils a girl to let her know
'At you talk about her so.
Don't you know her? her name's Liz,
Nicest girl in town she is.
Purty? oh, git out, you gilly —
Liz 'ud purt 'nigh knock you silly.
Y' ought 'o see her when she's dressed
All up in her Sunday best,
All the fellers nudgin' me,
An' a-whisperin', gemunee!
Betcher life 'at I feel proud
When she passes by the crowd.
'T's kinder nice to be a-goin'
With a girl 'at makes some showin' —
One you know 'at hain't no snide,
Makes you feel so satisfied.
An' I'll tell you she's a trump,
Never even seen her jump
Like some silly girls 'ud do,
When I'd hide and holier 'Boo!'
She'd jest laff an' say 'Git out!
What you hollerin' about?'
When some girls 'ud have a fit
That 'un don't git skeered a bit,
Never makes a bit o' row
When she sees a worm er cow.
Them kind's few an' far between;
Bravest girl I ever seen.
Tell you 'nuther thing she'll do,
Mebbe you won't think it's true,
But if she's jest got a dime
She 'll go halvers ever' time.
Ah, you goose, you needn't laff;
That's the kinder girl to have.
If you knowed her like I do,
Guess you'd kinder like her too.
Tell you somep'n' if you'll swear
You won't tell it anywhere.
Oh, you got to cross yer heart
Earnest, truly, 'fore I start.
Well, one day I kissed her cheek;
Gee, but I felt cheap an' weak,
'Cause at first she kinder flared,
'N', gracious goodness! I was scared.
But I needn't been, fer la!
Why, she never told her ma.
That's what I call grit, don't you?
Sich a girl's worth stickin' to.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Joy in the Woods
There is joy in the woods just now,
The leaves are whispers of song,
And the birds make mirth on the bough
And music the whole day long,
And God! to dwell in the town
In these springlike summer days,
On my brow an unfading frown
And hate in my heart always—
A machine out of gear, aye, tired,
Yet forced to go on—for I’m hired.
Just forced to go on through fear,
For every day I must eat
And find ugly clothes to wear,
And bad shoes to hurt my feet
And a shelter for work-drugged sleep!
A mere drudge! but what can one do?
A man that’s a man cannot weep!
Suicide? A quitter? Oh, no!
But a slave should never grow tired,
Whom the masters have kindly hired.
But oh! for the woods, the flowers
Of natural, sweet perfume,
The heartening, summer showers
And the smiling shrubs in bloom,
Dust-free, dew-tinted at morn,
The fresh and life-giving air,
The billowing waves of corn
And the birds’ notes rich and clear:—
For a man-machine toil-tired
May crave beauty too—though he’s hired
poem by Claude McKay
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Do You Need A More Specific Definition
You may not like my 'tone' of voice.
And how I use it,
To express 'my' feelings.
And your wish to move forward,
With a dismissing of my complaints...
From a prior situation,
That had manifested under someone else's watch.
Sounds good,
To only you!
When you stepped into this kitchen,
With an acceptance of your position.
The kitchen had been heated...
With the oven left on.
You may have been hired to decrease the heat.
But guess what?
I'm one of the pots left hot on that stove.
And whether you like it or not...
You 'will' address my concerns.
And this voice that you hear,
Tone and all...
Is mine.
And however you correct what I've addressed,
Is fine.
As long as it is understood,
You've been hired to meet my taste to satisfy.
And not the other way around.
Do we have clarity?
Or do you need a more specific definition,
Of your position?
With a more detailed job description?
Just let me know,
How we can achieve an agreement.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Rivals
'TWAS three an' thirty year ago,
I When I was ruther young, you know,
I had my last an' only fight
About a gal one summer night.
'Twas me an' Zekel Johnson; Zeke
'N' me 'd be'n spattin' 'bout a week,
Each of us tryin' his best to show
That he was Liza Jones's beau.
We couldn't neither prove the thing,
Fur she was fur too sharp to fling
One over fur the other one
An' by so doin' stop the fun
That we chaps didn't have the sense
To see she got at our expense,
But that's the way a feller does,
Fur boys is fools an' allus was.
An' when they's females in the game
I reckon men's about the same.
Well, Zeke an' me went on that way
An' fussed an' quarrelled day by day;
While Liza, mindin' not the fuss,
Jest kep' a-goin' with both of us,
Tell we pore chaps, that's Zeke an' me,
Was jest plum mad with jealousy.
Well, fur a time we kep' our places,
An' only showed by frownin' faces
An' looks 'at well our meanin' boded
How full o' fight we both was loaded.
At last it come, the thing broke out,
An' this is how it come about.
One night ('t was fair, you'll all agree)
I got Eliza's company,
An' leavin' Zekel in the lurch,
Went trottin' off with her to church.
An' jest as we had took our seat
(Eliza lookin' fair an' sweet),
Why, I jest couldn't help but grin
When Zekel come a-bouncin' in
As furious as the law allows.
He'd jest be'n up to Liza's house,
To find her gone, then come to church
To have this end put to his search.
I guess I laffed that meetin' through,
An' not a mortal word I knew
Of what the preacher preached er read
Er what the choir sung er said.
Fur every time I'd turn my head
I couldn't skeercely help but see
'At Zekel had his eye on me.
An' he 'ud sort o' turn an' twist
An' grind his teeth an' shake his fist.
I laughed, fur la! the hull church seen us,
An' knowed that suthin' was between us.
Well, meetin' out, we started hum,
I sorter feelin' what would come.
We'd jest got out, when up stepped Zeke,
An' said, 'Scuse me, I'd like to speak
To you a minute.' 'Cert,' said I —
A-nudgin' Liza on the sly
An' laughin' in my sleeve with glee,
I asked her, please, to pardon me.
We walked away a step er two,
Jest to git out o' Liza's view,
An' then Zeke said, 'I want to know
Ef you think you're Eliza's beau,
An' 'at I'm goin' to let her go
Hum with sich a chap as you?'
An' I said bold, 'You bet I do.'
Then Zekel, sneerin', said 'at he
Didn't want to hender me.
But then he 'lowed the gal was his
An' 'at he guessed he knowed his biz,
An' wasn't feared o' all my kin
With all my friends an' chums throwed in.
Some other things he mentioned there
That no born man could no ways bear
Er think o' ca'mly tryin' to stan'
Ef Zeke had be'n the bigges' man
In town, an' not the leanest runt
'At time an' labor ever stunt.
An' so I let my fist go 'bim,'
I thought I'd mos' nigh finished him.
But Zekel didn't take it so.
He jest ducked down an' dodged my blow
An' then come back at me so hard,
I guess I must 'a' hurt the yard,
Er spilet the grass plot where I fell,
An' sakes alive it hurt me; well,
It wouldn't be'n so bad, you see,
But he jest kep' a-hittin' me.
An' I hit back an' kicked an' pawed,
But 't seemed 'twas mostly air I clawed,
While Zekel used his science well
A-makin' every motion tell.
He punched an' hit, why, goodness lands,
Seemed like he had a dozen hands.
Well, afterwhile they stopped the fuss,
An' some one kindly parted us.
All beat an' cuffed an' clawed an' scratched,
An' needin' both our faces patched,
Each started hum a different way;
An' what o' Liza, do you say,
Why, Liza — little humbug — dern her,
Why, she'd gone home with Hiram Turner.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Before The Beginning
Written by peter green.
So many nights I lay awake
Cant sleep
I lay here thinkin bout a woman
I used to love
Cant sleep but no good to count sheep
Ill just count the worries
That Ive got plenty of
And how many times
Must I be the fool
Before I can make it
Oh make it on home
Ive got to find a place to sing my words
Is there nobody listening to my song?
You talk about a life
Been searching for the key
But cant find an answer
To comfort me
I ask myself about love
Cant even find the door
To take me to a place
Ive never seen before
But how many times
Must I be the fool
Before I can make it
Oh make it on home
Ive got to find a place to sing my words
Is there nobody listening to my song?
song performed by by Fleetwood Mac
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Night Of The Swallow
The night doesnt like it.
Looks just like your face on the moon, to me.
And I wont let you do
What you want to do.
Its funny how, even now,
Youre laughing.
I wont let you do it.
If you go, Ill let the law know,
And theyll head you off when you touch the ground.
Ooh, please, dont go through with this.
I dont like the sound of it.
Its funny how, even now,
Youre miles away.
I wont let you do it.
I wont let you do it.
I wont let you go through with it.
Meet them over at dover.
Ill just pilot the motor,
Take them over the water
With a hired plane,
And no names mentioned.
Tonights the night of the flight.
Before you know,
Ill be over the water
Like a swallow.
Theres no risk.
Ill whisk them up in no moonlight.
And though pigs can fly,
Theyll never find us
Posing as the night,
And Im home before the morning.
In malta, catch a swallow,
For all of the guilty--to set them free.
Wings fill the window,
And they beat and bleed.
They hold the sky on the other side
Of borderlines.
Meet them over at dover.
Ill just pilot the motor,
Take them over the water,
Like a swallow flying to malta,
With a hired plane,
And no names mentioned.
Tonights the night of the flight.
Before you know,
Ill be over the water
Like a swallow.
Theres no risk.
Ill whisk them up in no moonlight.
And though pigs can fly,
Theyll never find us
Posing as the night,
And Im home before the morning.
Give me a break!
Ooh, let me try!
Give me something to show
For my miserable life!
Give me something to take!
Would you break even my wings,
Just like a swallow?
Let me--let me go
With a hired plane,
And no names mentioned.
Tonights the night of the flight.
Before you know,
Ill be over the water
Like a swallow.
(let me--let me go!)
Theres no risk.
Ill whisk them up in no moonlight.
And though pigs can fly,
Theyll never find us
Posing as the night,
And Im home before the morning.
(let me--let me go!)
With a hired plane,
And no names mentioned.
Tonights the night of the flight.
Before you know,
Ill be over the water
Like a swallow.
(let me--let me go!)
Theres no risk.
Ill whisk them up in no moonlight.
And though pigs can fly,
Theyll never find us
Posing as the night,
And Im home before the morning--
But youre not a swallow!
song performed by by Kate Bush
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Belong with Me
You're on the phone with your girlfriend, she's upset
She's going off about something that you said
'Cause she doesn't get your humor like I do
I'm in the room, it's a typical Tuesday night
I'm listening to the kind of music she doesn't like
And she'll never know your story like I do
But she wears short skirts, I wear T-shirts
She's Cheer Captain and I'm on the bleachers
Dreaming about the day when you wake up and find
That what you're looking for has been here the whole time
If you could see that I'm the one who understands you
Been here all along, so why can't you see?
You, you belong with me, you belong with me
Walking the streets with you and your worn-out jeans
I can't help thinking this is how it ought to be
Laughing on a park bench, thinking to myself
Hey, isn't this easy?
And you've got a smile that could light up this whole town
I haven't seen it in a while since she brought you down
You say you're fine, I know you better than that
Hey, what ya doing with a girl like that?
She wears high heels, I wear sneakers
She's Cheer Captain and I'm on the bleachers
Dreaming about the day when you wake up and find
That what you're looking for has been here the whole time
If you could see that I'm the one who understands you
Been here all along, so why can't you see?
You belong with me
Standing by and waiting at your back door
All this time how could you not know?
Baby, you belong with me, you belong with me
Oh, I remember you driving to my house in the middle of the night
I'm the one who makes you laugh when you know you're 'bout to cry
And I know your favorite songs and you tell me 'bout your dreams
Think I know where you belong, think I know it's with me
Can't you see that I'm the one who understands you?
Been here all along, so why can't you see?
You belong with me
Standing by and waiting at your back door
All this time, how could you not know?
Baby, you belong with me, you belong with me
You belong with me
Have you ever thought just maybe
You belong with me?
You belong with me
(This is actually a song written by Taylor Swift)
How John Quit The Farm
Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,
Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time come on--
And then, I want to say to you, we _needed_ he'p about,
As you'd admit, ef you'd a-seen the way the crops turned out!
A better quarter-section, ner a richer soil warn't found
Than this-here old-home place o' ourn fer fifty miles around!--
The house was small--but plenty-big we found it from the day
That John--our only livin' son--packed up and went way.
You see, we tuck sich pride in John--his mother more 'n me--
That's natchurul; but _both_ of us was proud as proud could be;
Fer the boy, from a little chap, was most oncommon bright,
And seemed in work as well as play to take the same delight.
He allus went a-whistlin' round the place, as glad at heart
As robins up at five o'clock to git an airly start;
And many a time 'fore daylight Mother's waked me up to say--
'Jest listen, David!--listen!--Johnny's beat the birds to-day!'
High-sperited from boyhood, with a most inquirin' turn,--
He wanted to learn ever'thing on earth they was to learn:
He'd ast more plaguey questions in a mortal-minute here
Than his grandpap in Paradise could answer in a year!
And read! w'y, his own mother learnt him how to read and spell;
And 'The Childern of the Abbey'--w'y, he knowed that book as well
At fifteen as his parents!--and 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' too--
Jest knuckled down, the shaver did, and read 'em through and through!
At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a better chance--
That we ort to educate him, under any circumstance;
And John he j'ined his mother, and they ding-donged and kep' on,
Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he was gone.
But--I missed him--w'y of course I did!--The Fall and Winter through
I never built the kitchen-fire, er split a stick in two,
Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrel-pin,
But what I thought o' John, and wished that he was home agin.
He'd come, sometimes--on Sund'ys most--and stay the Sund'y out;
And on Thanksgivin'-Day he 'peared to like to be about:
But a change was workin' on him--he was stiller than before,
And did n't joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle any more.
And his talk was all so proper; and I noticed, with a sigh,
He was tryin' to raise side-whiskers, and had on a striped tie,
And a standin'-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as bone;
And a breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat of his own.
But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was to come home
And he'p me through the season, I was glad to see him come;
But my happiness, that evening, with the settin' sun went down,
When he bragged of 'a position' that was offered him in town.
'But,' says I, 'you'll not accept it?' 'W'y, of course
I will,' says he.--
'This drudgin' on a farm,' he says, 'is not the life fer me;
I've set my stakes up higher,' he continued, light and gay,
'And town's the place fer me, and I'm a-goin' right away!'
And go he did!--his mother clingin' to him at the gate,
A-pleadin' and a-cryin'; but it hadn't any weight.
I was tranquiller, and told her 'twarn't no use to worry so,
And onclasped her arms from round his neck round mine--and let him go!
I felt a little bitter feelin' foolin' round about
The aidges of my conscience; but I didn't let it out;--
I simply retch out, trimbly-like, and tuck the boy's hand,
And though I did n't say a word, I knowed he'd understand.
And--well!--sence then the old home here was mighty lonesome, shore!
With me a-workin' in the field, and Mother at the door,
Her face ferever to'rds the town, and fadin' more and more---
Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin' in a store!
The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes the boy would write
A letter to his mother, savin' that his work was light,
And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit--
Though his business was confinin', he was gittin' used to it.
And sometimes he would write and ast how _I_ was gittin' on,
And ef I had to pay out much fer he'p sence he was gone;
And how the hogs was doin', and the balance of the stock,
And talk on fer a page er two jest like he used to talk.
And he wrote, along 'fore harvest, that he guessed he would git home,
Fer business would, of course be dull in town.--But _didn't_ come:--
We got a postal later, sayin' when they had no trade
They filled the time 'invoicin' goods,' and that was why he staid.
And then he quit a-writin' altogether: Not a word--
Exceptin' what the neighbors brung who'd been to town and heard
What store John was clerkin' in, and went round to inquire
If they could buy their goods there less and sell their produce higher.
And so the Summer faded out, and Autumn wore away,
And a keener Winter never fetched around Thanksgivin'-Day!
The night before that day of thanks I'll never quite fergit,
The wind a-howlin' round the house--it makes me creepy yit!
And there set me and Mother--me a-twistin' at the prongs
Of a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair of tongs,
And Mother sayin', '_David! David!_' in a' undertone,
As though she thought that I was thinkin' bad-words unbeknown.
'I've dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow,' Mother said,
A-tryin' to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubborn head,--
'And the mince-meat I'm a-mixin' is perfection mighty nigh;
And the pound-cake is delicious-rich--' 'Who'll eat 'em?' I-says-I.
'The cramberries is drippin-sweet,' says Mother, runnin' on,
P'tendin' not to hear me;--'and somehow I thought of John
All the time they was a-jellin'--fer you know they allus was
His favour--he likes 'em so!' Says I, 'Well, s'pose he does?'
'Oh, nothin' much!' says Mother, with a quiet sort o' smile--
'This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you after while!'
And as I turned and looked around, some one riz up and leant
And put his arms round Mother's neck, and laughed in low content.
'It's _me_,' he says--'your fool-boy John, come back to shake your hand;
Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you understand
How dearer yit than all the world is this old home that we
Will spend Thanksgivin' in fer life--jest Mother, you and me!'
* * * * * *
Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,
Except of course the extry he'p, when harvest-time comes on;
And then, I want to say to you, we _need_ sich he'p about,
As you'd admit, ef you could see the way the crops turns out!
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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!--
Far ever'thing 'pears like adzackly
It '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 grayer
Right 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 there in the furries
A-wishin' far evening to come,
And a-whisperin' over and over
Them words, 'Do They Miss Me at Home?'
You see, Marthy Ellen she sung it
The first time I heerd it; and so,
As she was my very first sweetheart,
It reminds of her, don't you know,--
How her face ust to look, in the twilight,
As I tuck her to spellin'; and she
Kep' 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 grass
Is as sweet as the scent of the lilies
Of Eden of old, as we pass.
'Do They Miss Me at Home?' Sing it lower--
And softer--and sweet as the breeze
That powdered our path with the snowy
White bloom of the old locus'-trees!
Let the whippoorwills he'p you to sing it,
And the echoes 'way over the hill,
'Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus
Of stars, and our voices is still.
But, oh! 'They's a chord in the music
That'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'ards
And on through the heavenly dome,
With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin'
The words, 'Do They Miss Me at Home?'
poem by James Whitcomb Riley
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Night Song
Listen
The city is singin' its night song
A city of shadows and fading starlight
Mixed with bar light
Listen
The empty streets echo the right song
A melody I used to think was only for the
Lonely
Night song
I hear you
Now as the night disappears
But this time
Your blues
Is music to my ears
The rumble of the train
The rustle of the wind
The rhythm of the footsteps
The blarin' of a horn
The murmur of a voice
The echo of a siren
Night song!
You used to find me cryin' in my beer
Now you remind me tomorrow she'll be here
She'll be here!
Oh, night song
You sing of a train from New Orleans
And deep in the music I hear her hummin'
Now she's coming home!
The city is singin' its night song
Listen
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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