Part 4 (1/2)
THE HOOSIER FOLK-CHILD.
The Hoosier Folk-Child--all unsung-- Unlettered all of mind and tongue; Unmastered, unmolested--made Most wholly frank and unafraid: Untaught of any school--unvexed Of law or creed--all unperplexed-- Unsermoned, aye, and undefiled, An all imperfect-perfect child-- A type which (Heaven forgive us!) you And I do tardy honor to, And so, profane the sanct.i.ties Of our most sacred memories.
Who, growing thus from boy to man, That dares not be American?
Go, Pride, with prudent underbuzz-- Go _whistle_! as the Folk-Child does.
The Hoosier Folk-Child's world is not Much wider than the stable-lot Between the house and highway fence That bounds the home his father rents.
His playmates mostly are the ducks And chickens, and the boy that ”shucks Corn by the shock,” and talks of town, And whether eggs are ”up” or ”down,”
And prophesies in boastful tone Of ”owning horses of his own,”
And ”being his own man,” and ”when He gets to be, what he'll do then.”-- Takes out his jack-knife dreamily And makes the Folk-Child two or three Crude corn-stalk figures,--a wee span Of horses and a little man.
The Hoosier Folk-Child's eyes are wise And wide and round as Brownies' eyes: The smile they wear is ever blent With all-expectant wonderment,-- On homeliest things they bend a look As rapt as o'er a picture-book, And seem to ask, whate'er befall, The happy reason of it all:-- Why gra.s.s is all so glad a green, And leaves--and what their lispings mean;-- Why buds grow on the boughs, and why They burst in blossom by and by-- As though the orchard in the breeze Had shook and popped its _popcorn-trees_, To lure and whet, as well they might, Some seven-league giant's appet.i.te!
The Hoosier Folk-Child's chubby face Has scant refinement, caste or grace,-- From crown to chin, and cheek to cheek, It bears the grimy water-streak Of rinsings such as some long rain Might drool across the window-pane Wherethrough he peers, with troubled frown, As some lorn team drives by for town.
His brow is elfed with wispish hair, With tangles in it here and there, As though the warlocks snarled it so At midmirk when the moon sagged low, And boughs did toss and skreek and shake, And children moaned themselves awake, With fingers clutched, and starting sight Blind as the blackness of the night!
The Hoosier Folk-Child!--Rich is he In all the wealth of poverty!
He owns nor t.i.tle nor estate, Nor speech but half articulate,-- He owns nor princely robe nor crown;-- Yet, draped in patched and faded brown, He owns the bird-songs of the hills-- The laughter of the April rills; And his are all the diamonds set.
In Morning's dewy coronet,-- And his the Dusk's first minted stars That twinkle through the pasture-bars, And litter all the skies at night With glittering sc.r.a.ps of silver light;-- The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim, In beaten gold, belongs to him.
JACK THE GIANT KILLER.
_Bad Boy's Version_.
Tell you a story--an' it's a fac':-- Wunst wuz a little boy, name wuz Jack, An' he had sword an' buckle an' strap Maked of gold, an' a ”'visibul cap;”
An' he killed Gi'nts 'at et whole cows-- Th' horns an' all--an' pigs an' sows!
But Jack, his golding sword wuz, oh!
So awful sharp 'at he could go An' cut th' ole Gi'nts clean in two Fore 'ey knowed what he wuz goin' to do!
An' _one_ ole Gi'nt, he had four Heads, and name wuz ”b.u.mblebore”-- An' he wuz feered o' Jack--'cause he, _Jack_, he killed six--five--ten--three, An' all o' th' uther ole Gi'nts but him: An' thay wuz a place Jack haf to swim 'Fore he could git t' ole ”b.u.mblebore”-- Nen thay was ”griffuns” at the door: But Jack, he thist plunged in an' swum Clean acrost; an' when he come To th' uther side, he thist put on His ”'visibul cap,” an' nen, dog-gone!
You could n't see him at all!--An' so He slewed the ”griffuns”--_boff_, you know!
Nen wuz a horn hunged over his head High on th' wall, an' words 'at read,-- ”Whoever kin this trumput blow Shall cause the Gi'nt's overth'ow!”
An' Jack, he thist reached up an' blowed The stuffin' out of it! an' th'owed Th' castul-gates wide open, an'
Nen tuck his gold sword in his han', An' thist marched in t' ole ”b.u.mblebore,”
An', 'fore he knowed, he put 'bout four Heads on him--an' chopped 'em off, too!-- Wisht 'at _I'd_ been Jack!--don't you?
WHILE THE MUSICIAN PLAYED.