Part 9 (1/2)
And thare, beyent the covered bridge, ”The Counter-fitters' Nest”-- Whare they claimed the house was ha'nted--that a man was murdered thare, And burried underneath the floor, er 'round the place somewhare.
And the old Plank-road they laid along in Fifty-one er two-- You know we talked about the times when that old road was new: How ”Uncle Sam” put down that road and never taxed the State Was a problem, don't you rickollect, we couldn't _dim_-onstrate?
Ways was devius, William Leachman, that me and you has past; But as I found you true at first, I find you true at last; And, now the time's a-comin' mighty nigh our jurney's end, I want to throw wide open all my soul to you, my friend.
With the stren'th of all my bein', and the heat of hart and brane, And ev'ry livin' drop of blood in artery and vane, I love you and respect you, and I venerate your name, Fer the name of William Leachman and True Manhood's jest the same!
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A BACKWARD LOOK
As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday, And lazily leaning back in my chair, Enjoying myself in a general way-- Allowing my thoughts a holiday From weariness, toil and care,-- My fancies--doubtless, for ventilation-- Left ajar the gates of my mind,-- And Memory, seeing the situation, Slipped out in street of ”Auld Lang Syne.”
Wandering ever with tireless feet Through scenes of silence, and jubilee Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet Were thronging the shadowy side of the street As far as the eye could see; Dreaming again, in antic.i.p.ation, The same old dreams of our boyhood's days That never come true, from the vague sensation Of walking asleep in the world's strange ways.
Away to the house where I was born!
And there was the selfsame clock that ticked From the close of dusk to the burst of morn, When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn And helped when the apples were picked.
And the ”chany-dog” on the mantel-shelf, With the gilded collar and yellow eyes, Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself Sound asleep with the dear surprise.
And down to the swing in the locust tree, Where the gra.s.s was worn from the trampled ground And where ”Eck” Skinner, ”Old” Carr, and three Or four such other boys used to be Doin' ”sky-sc.r.a.pers,” or ”whirlin' round:”
And again Bob climbed for the bluebird's nest, And again ”had shows” in the buggy-shed Of Guymon's barn, where still, unguessed, The old ghosts romp through the best days dead!
And again I gazed from the old school-room With a wistful look of a long June day, When on my cheek was the hectic bloom Caught of Mischief, as I presume-- He had such a ”partial” way, It seemed, toward me.--And again I thought Of a probable likelihood to be Kept in after school--for a girl was caught Catching a note from me.
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And down through the woods to the swimming-hole-- Where the big, white, hollow, old sycamore grows,-- And we never cared when the water was cold.
And always ”clucked” the boy that told On the fellow that tied the clothes.-- When life went so like a dreamy rhyme That it seems to me now that then The world was having a jollier time Than it ever will have again.
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AT SEA
O we go down to sea in s.h.i.+ps-- But Hope remains behind, And Love, with laughter on his lips, And Peace, of pa.s.sive mind; While out across the deeps of night, With lifted sails of prayer, We voyage off in quest of light, Nor find it anywhere.
O Thou who wroughtest earth and sea, Yet keepest from our eyes The sh.o.r.es of an eternity In calms of Paradise, Blow back upon our foolish quest With all the driving rain Of blinding tears and wild unrest, And waft us home again.
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