Part 4 (1/2)

OLD-FAs.h.i.+ONED ROSES

They ain't no style about 'em, And they're sorto' pale and faded, Yit the doorway here, without 'em, Would be lonesomer, and shaded With a good 'eal blacker shadder Than the morning-glories makes, And the suns.h.i.+ne would look sadder Fer their good old-fas.h.i.+on' sakes,

I like 'em 'cause they kindo'-- Sorto' MAKE a feller like 'em!

And I tell you, when I find a Bunch out whur the sun kin strike 'em, It allus sets me thinkin'

O' the ones 'at used to grow And peek in thro' the c.h.i.n.kin'

O' the cabin, don't you know!

And then I think o' mother, And how she ust to love 'em-- When they wuzn't any other, 'Less she found 'em up above 'em!

And her eyes, afore she shut 'em, Whispered with a smile and said We must pick a bunch and putt 'em In her hand when she wuz dead.

But, as I wuz a-sayin', They ain't no style about 'em Very gaudy er displaying But I wouldn't be without 'em,-- 'Cause I'm happier in these posies, And the hollyhawks and sich, Than the hummin'-bird 'at noses In the roses of the rich.

A COUNTRY PATHWAY

I come upon it suddenly, alone-- A little pathway winding in the weeds That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own, I wander as it leads.

Full wistfully along the slender way, Through summer tan of freckled shade and s.h.i.+ne, I take the path that leads me as it may-- Its every choice is mine.

A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail, Is startled by my step as on I fare-- A garter-snake across the dusty trail Glances and--is not there.

Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos And twos of sallow-yellow b.u.t.terflies, Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose When autumn winds arise.

The trail dips--dwindles--broadens then, and lifts Itself astride a cross-road dubiously, And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts Still onward, beckoning me.

And though it needs must lure me mile on mile Out of the public highway, still I go, My thoughts, far in advance in Indian-file, Allure me even so.

Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars, And was not found again, though Heaven lent His mother all the stars

With which to seek him through that awful night.

O years of nights as vain!--Stars never rise But well might miss their glitter in the light Of tears in mother-eyes!

So--on, with quickened breaths, I follow still-- My avant-courier must be obeyed!

Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will, Invites me to invade

A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide Clambers the steps of an old-fas.h.i.+oned stile, And stumbles down again, the other side, To gambol there awhile

In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead I see it running, while the clover-stalks Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said-- ”You dog our country--walks

”And mutilate us with your walking-stick!-- We will not suffer tamely what you do, And warn you at your peril,--for we'll sic Our b.u.mblebees on you!”

But I smile back, in airy nonchalance,-- The more determined on my wayward quest, As some bright memory a moment dawns A morning in my breast--

Sending a thrill that hurries me along In faulty similes of childish skips, Enthused with lithe contortions of a song Performing on my lips.