A CHILD-WORLD

The Child-World—long and long since lost to view— A Fairy Paradise!— How always fair it was and fresh and new— How every affluent hour heaped heart and eyes With treasures of surprise! Enchantments tangible: The under-brink Of dawns that launched the sight Up seas of gold: The dewdrop on the pink, With all the green earth in it and blue height Of heavens infinite: The liquid, dripping songs of orchard-birds— The wee bass of the bees,— With lucent deeps of silence afterwards; The gay, clandestine whisperings of the breeze And glad leaves of the trees.

O Child-World: After this world—just as when I found you first sufficed My soulmost need—if I found you again, With all my childish dream so realised, I should not be surprised.

CONTENTS

A CHILD-WORLD

THE CHILD-WORLD

THE OLD-HOME FOLKS

ALMON KEEFER

NOEY BIXLER

"A NOTED TRAVELER"

A PROSPECTIVE VISIT

AT NOEY'S HOUSE

"THAT LITTLE DOG"

THE LOEHRS AND THE HAMMONDS

THE HIRED MAN AND FLORETTY

THE EVENING COMPANY

MAYMIE'S STORY OF RED RIDING HOOD

LIMITATIONS OF GENIUS

MR. HAMMOND'S PARABLE

FLORETTY'S MUSICAL CONTRIBUTION

BUD'S FAIRY-TALE

A DELICIOUS INTERRUPTION

NOEY'S NIGHT-PIECE

COUSIN RUFUS' STORY

BEWILDERING EMOTIONS

THE BEAR-STORY

THE PATHOS OF APPLAUSE

TOLD BY "THE NOTED TRAVELER"

HEAT-LIGHTNING

UNCLE MART'S POEM

"LITTLE JACK JANITOR"

THE CHILD-WORLD

A Child-World, yet a wondrous world no less, To those who knew its boundless happiness. A simple old frame house—eight rooms in all— Set just one side the center of a small But very hopeful Indiana town,— The upper-story looking squarely down Upon the main street, and the main highway From East to West,—historic in its day, Known as The National Road—old-timers, all Who linger yet, will happily recall It as the scheme and handiwork, as well As property, of "Uncle Sam," and tell Of its importance, "long and long afore Railroads wuz ever dreamp' of!"—Furthermore, The reminiscent first Inhabitants Will make that old road blossom with romance Of snowy caravans, in long parade Of covered vehicles, of every grade From ox-cart of most primitive design, To Conestoga wagons, with their fine Deep-chested six-horse teams, in heavy gear, High names and chiming bells—to childish ear And eye entrancing as the glittering train Of some sun-smitten pageant of old Spain. And, in like spirit, haply they will tell You of the roadside forests, and the yell

Of "wolfs" and "painters," in the long night-ride, And "screechin' catamounts" on every side.— Of stagecoach-days, highwaymen, and strange crimes, And yet unriddled mysteries of the times Called "Good Old." "And why 'Good Old'?" once a rare Old chronicler was asked, who brushed the hair Out of his twinkling eyes and said,—"Well John, They're 'good old times' because they're dead and gone!" The old home site was portioned into three Distinctive lots. The front one—natively Facing to southward, broad and gaudy-fine With lilac, dahlia, rose, and flowering vine— The dwelling stood in; and behind that, and Upon the alley north and south, left hand, The old wood-house,—half, trimly stacked with wood, And half, a work-shop, where a workbench stood Steadfastly through all seasons.—Over it, Along the wall, hung compass, brace-and-bit, And square, and drawing-knife, and smoothing-plane— And little jack-plane, too—the children's vain Possession by pretense—in fancy they Manipulating it in endless play, Turning out countless curls and loops of bright,

Fine satin shavings—Rapture infinite! Shelved quilting-frames; the toolchest; the old box Of refuse nails and screws; a rough gun-stock's Outline in "curly maple"; and a pair Of clamps and old krout-cutter hanging there. Some "patterns," in thin wood, of shield and scroll, Hung higher, with a neat "cane-fishing-pole" And careful tackle—all securely out Of reach of children, rummaging about. Beside the wood-house, with broad branches free Yet close above the roof, an apple-tree Known as "The Prince's Harvest"—Magic phrase! That was a boy's own tree, in many ways!— Its girth and height meet both for the caress Of his bare legs and his ambitiousness: And then its apples, humoring his whim, Seemed just to fairly hurry ripe for him— Even in June, impetuous as he, They dropped to meet him, halfway up the tree. And O their bruised sweet faces where they fell!— And ho! the lips that feigned to "kiss them well"! "The Old Sweet-Apple-Tree," a stalwart, stood In fairly sympathetic neighborhood Of this wild princeling with his early gold To toss about so lavishly nor hold

In bounteous hoard to overbrim at once All Nature's lap when came the Autumn months. Under the spacious shade of this the eyes Of swinging children saw swift-changing skies Of blue and green, with sunshine shot between, And "when the old cat died" they saw but green. And, then, there was a cherry-tree.—We all And severally will yet recall From our lost youth, in gentlest memory, The blessed fact—There was a cherry-tree. There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows Cool even now the fevered sight that knows No more its airy visions of pure joy— As when you were a boy. There was a cherry-tree. The Bluejay set His blue against its white—O blue as jet He seemed there then!—But now—Whoever knew He was so pale a blue! There was a cherry-tree—Our child-eyes saw The miracle:—Its pure white snows did thaw Into a crimson fruitage, far too sweet But for a boy to eat. There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy!— There was a bloom of snow—There was a boy— There was a Bluejay of the realest blue— And fruit for both of you. Then the old garden, with the apple-trees

Grouped 'round the margin, and "a stand of bees" By the "white-winter-pearmain"; and a row Of currant-bushes; and a quince or so. The old grape-arbor in the center, by The pathway to the stable, with the sty Behind it, and upon it, cootering flocks Of pigeons, and the cutest "martin-box"!— Made like a sure-enough house—with roof, and doors And windows in it, and veranda-floors And balusters all 'round it—yes, and at Each end a chimney—painted red at that And penciled white, to look like little bricks; And, to cap all the builder's cunning tricks, Two tiny little lightning-rods were run Straight up their sides, and twinkled in the sun. Who built it? Nay, no answer but a smile.— It may be you can guess who, afterwhile. Home in his stall, "Old Sorrel" munched his hay And oats and corn, and switched the flies away, In a repose of patience good to see, And earnest of the gentlest pedigree. With half pathetic eye sometimes he gazed Upon the gambols of a colt that grazed Around the edges of the lot outside, And kicked at nothing suddenly, and tried

To act grown-up and graceful and high-bred, But dropped, k'whop! and scraped the buggy-shed, Leaving a tuft of woolly, foxy hair Under the sharp-end of a gate-hinge there. Then, all ignobly scrambling to his feet And whinneying a whinney like a bleat, He would pursue himself around the lot And—do the whole thing over, like as not!... Ah! what a life of constant fear and dread And flop and squawk and flight the chickens led! Above the fences, either side, were seen The neighbor-houses, set in plots of green Dooryards and greener gardens, tree and wall Alike whitewashed, and order in it all: The scythe hooked in the tree-fork; and the spade And hoe and rake and shovel all, when laid Aside, were in their places, ready for The hand of either the possessor or Of any neighbor, welcome to the loan Of any tool he might not chance to own.

THE OLD-HOME FOLKS

Such was the Child-World of the long-ago— The little world these children used to know:— Johnty, the oldest, and the best, perhaps, Of the five happy little Hoosier chaps Inhabiting this wee world all their own.— Johnty, the leader, with his native tone Of grave command—a general on parade Whose each punctilious order was obeyed By his proud followers. But Johnty yet— After all serious duties—could forget The gravity of life to the extent, At times, of kindling much astonishment About him: With a quick, observant eye, And mind and memory, he could supply The tamest incident with liveliest mirth; And at the most unlooked-for times on earth Was wont to break into some travesty On those around him—feats of mimicry Of this one's trick of gesture—that one's walk— Or this one's laugh—or that one's funny talk,— The way "the watermelon-man" would try His humor on town-folks that wouldn't buy;— How he drove into town at morning—then At dusk (alas!) how he drove out again. Though these divertisements of Johnty's were Hailed with a hearty glee and relish, there

Appeared a sense, on his part, of regret— A spirit of remorse that would not let Him rest for days thereafter.—Such times he, As some boy said, "jist got too overly Blame good fer common boys like us, you know, To 'sociate with—less'n we 'ud go And jine his church!" Next after Johnty came His little tow-head brother, Bud by name.— And O how white his hair was—and how thick His face with freckles,—and his ears, how quick And curious and intrusive!—And how pale The blue of his big eyes;—and how a tale Of Giants, Trolls or Fairies, bulged them still Bigger and bigger!—and when "Jack" would kill The old "Four-headed Giant," Bud's big eyes Were swollen truly into giant-size. And Bud was apt in make-believes—would hear His Grandma talk or read, with such an ear And memory of both subject and big words, That he would take the book up afterwards And feign to "read aloud," with such success As caused his truthful elders real distress. But he must have big words—they seemed to give Extremer range to the superlative— That was his passion. "My Gran'ma," he said,

One evening, after listening as she read Some heavy old historical review— With copious explanations thereunto Drawn out by his inquiring turn of mind,— "My Gran'ma she's read all books—ever' kind They is, 'at tells all 'bout the land an' sea An' Nations of the Earth!—An' she is the Historicul-est woman ever wuz!" (Forgive the verse's chuckling as it does In its erratic current.—Oftentimes The little willowy waterbrook of rhymes Must falter in its music, listening to The children laughing as they used to do.) Who shall sing a simple ditty all about the Willow, Dainty-fine and delicate as any bending spray That dandles high the happy bird that flutters there to trill a Tremulously tender song of greeting to the May. Ah, my lovely Willow!—Let the Waters lilt your graces,— They alone with limpid kisses lave your leaves above, Flashing back your sylvan beauty, and in shady places Peering up with glimmering pebbles, like the eyes of love. Next, Maymie, with her hazy cloud of hair, And the blue skies of eyes beneath it there. Her dignified and "little lady" airs

Of never either romping up the stairs Or falling down them; thoughtful everyway Of others first—The kind of child at play That "gave up," for the rest, the ripest pear Or peach or apple in the garden there Beneath the trees where swooped the airy swing— She pushing it, too glad for anything! Or, in the character of hostess, she Would entertain her friends delightfully In her play-house,—with strips of carpet laid Along the garden-fence within the shade Of the old apple-trees—where from next yard Came the two dearest friends in her regard, The little Crawford girls, Ella and Lu— As shy and lovely as the lilies grew In their idyllic home,—yet sometimes they Admitted Bud and Alex to their play, Who did their heavier work and helped them fix To have a "Festibul"—and brought the bricks And built the "stove," with a real fire and all, And stovepipe-joint for chimney, looming tall And wonderfully smoky—even to Their childish aspirations, as it blew And swooped and swirled about them till their sight Was feverish even as their high delight.

Then Alex, with his freckles, and his freaks Of temper, and the peach-bloom of his cheeks, And "amber-colored hair"—his mother said 'Twas that, when others laughed and called it "red" And Alex threw things at them—till they'd call A truce, agreeing "'t'uz n't red ut-tall!" But Alex was affectionate beyond The average child, and was extremely fond Of the paternal relatives of his Of whom he once made estimate like this:— "I'm only got two brothers,—but my Pa He's got most brothers'n you ever saw!— He's got seben brothers!—Yes, an' they're all my Seben Uncles!—Uncle John, an' Jim,—an' I' Got Uncle George, an' Uncle Andy, too, An' Uncle Frank, an' Uncle Joe.—An' you Know Uncle Mart.—An', all but him, they're great Big mens!—An' nen s Aunt Sarah—she makes eight!— I'm got eight uncles!—'cept Aunt Sarah can't Be ist my uncle 'cause she's ist my aunt!" Then, next to Alex—and the last indeed Of these five little ones of whom you read— Was baby Lizzie, with her velvet lisp,— As though her Elfin lips had caught some wisp

Of floss between them as they strove with speech, Which ever seemed just in yet out of reach— Though what her lips missed, her dark eyes could say With looks that made her meaning clear as day. And, knowing now the children, you must know The father and the mother they loved so:— The father was a swarthy man, black-eyed, Black-haired, and high of forehead; and, beside The slender little mother, seemed in truth A very king of men—since, from his youth, To his hale manhood now—(worthy as then,— A lawyer and a leading citizen Of the proud little town and county-seat— His hopes his neighbors', and their fealty sweet)— He had known outdoor labor—rain and shine— Bleak Winter, and bland Summer—foul and fine. So Nature had ennobled him and set Her symbol on him like a coronet: His lifted brow, and frank, reliant face.— Superior of stature as of grace, Even the children by the spell were wrought Up to heroics of their simple thought, And saw him, trim of build, and lithe and straight And tall, almost, as at the pasture-gate The towering ironweed the scythe had spared

For their sakes, when The Hired Man declared It would grow on till it became a tree, With cocoanuts and monkeys in—maybe! Yet, though the children, in their pride and awe And admiration of the father, saw A being so exalted—even more Like adoration was the love they bore The gentle mother.—Her mild, plaintive face Was purely fair, and haloed with a grace And sweetness luminous when joy made glad Her features with a smile; or saintly sad As twilight, fell the sympathetic gloom Of any childish grief, or as a room Were darkened suddenly, the curtain drawn Across the window and the sunshine gone. Her brow, below her fair hair's glimmering strands, Seemed meetest resting-place for blessing hands Or holiest touches of soft finger-tips And little roseleaf-cheeks and dewy lips. Though heavy household tasks were pitiless, No little waist or coat or checkered dress But knew her needle's deftness; and no skill Matched hers in shaping pleat or flounce or frill; Or fashioning, in complicate design, All rich embroideries of leaf and vine, With tiniest twining tendril,—bud and bloom

And fruit, so like, one's fancy caught perfume And dainty touch and taste of them, to see Their semblance wrought in such rare verity. Shrined in her sanctity of home and love, And love's fond service and reward thereof, Restore her thus, O blessed Memory!— Throned in her rocking-chair, and on her knee Her sewing—her workbasket on the floor Beside her,—Springtime through the open door Balmily stealing in and all about The room; the bees' dim hum, and the far shout And laughter of the children at their play, And neighbor-children from across the way Calling in gleeful challenge—save alone One boy whose voice sends back no answering tone— The boy, prone on the floor, above a book Of pictures, with a rapt, ecstatic look— Even as the mother's, by the selfsame spell, Is lifted, with a light ineffable— As though her senses caught no mortal cry, But heard, instead, some poem going by. The Child-heart is so strange a little thing— So mild—so timorously shy and small.— When grown-up hearts throb, it goes scampering Behind the wall, nor dares peer out at all!—

It is the veriest mouse That hides in any house— So wild a little thing is any Child-heart! Child-heart!—mild heart!— Ho, my little wild heart!— Come up here to me out o' the dark, Or let me come to you! So lorn at times the Child-heart needs must be. With never one maturer heart for friend And comrade, whose tear-ripened sympathy And love might lend it comfort to the end,— Whose yearnings, aches and stings. Over poor little things Were pitiful as ever any Child-heart. Child-heart!—mild heart!— Ho, my little wild heart!— Come up here to me out o' the dark, Or let me come to you! Times, too, the little Child-heart must be glad— Being so young, nor knowing, as we know. The fact from fantasy, the good from bad, The joy from woe, the—all that hurts us so! What wonder then that thus It hides away from us?— So weak a little thing is any Child-heart! Child-heart!—mild heart!— Ho, my little wild heart!— Come up here to me out o' the dark, Or let me come to you! Nay, little Child-heart, you have never need To fear us,—we are weaker far than you—

Tis we who should be fearful—we indeed Should hide us, too, as darkly as you do,— Safe, as yourself, withdrawn, Hearing the World roar on Too willful, woful, awful for the Child-heart! Child-heart!—mild heart!— Ho, my little wild heart!— Come up here to me out o' the dark, Or let me come to you! The clock chats on confidingly; a rose Taps at the window, as the sunlight throws A brilliant, jostling checkerwork of shine And shadow, like a Persian-loom design, Across the homemade carpet—fades,—and then The dear old colors are themselves again. Sounds drop in visiting from everywhere— The bluebird's and the robin's trill are there, Their sweet liquidity diluted some By dewy orchard spaces they have come: Sounds of the town, too, and the great highway— The Mover-wagons' rumble, and the neigh Of overtraveled horses, and the bleat Of sheep and low of cattle through the street— A Nation's thoroughfare of hopes and fears, First blazed by the heroic pioneers Who gave up old-home idols and set face Toward the unbroken West, to found a race

And tame a wilderness now mightier than All peoples and all tracts American. Blent with all outer sounds, the sounds within:— In mild remoteness falls the household din Of porch and kitchen: the dull jar and thump Of churning; and the "glung-glung" of the pump, With sudden pad and skurry of bare feet Of little outlaws, in from field or street: The clang of kettle,—rasp of damper-ring And bang of cookstove-door—and everything That jingles in a busy kitchen lifts Its individual wrangling voice and drifts In sweetest tinny, coppery, pewtery tone Of music hungry ear has ever known In wildest famished yearning and conceit Of youth, to just cut loose and eat and eat!— The zest of hunger still incited on To childish desperation by long-drawn Breaths of hot, steaming, wholesome things that stew And blubber, and up-tilt the pot-lids, too, Filling the sense with zestful rumors of The dear old-fashioned dinners children love: Redolent savorings of home-cured meats, Potatoes, beans, and cabbage; turnips, beets And parsnips—rarest composite entire