FLORETTY'S MUSICAL CONTRIBUTION 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. BUD'S FAIRY-TALE Some peoples thinks they ain't no Fairies now No more yet!—But they is , I bet! 'Cause ef They wuzn't Fairies, nen I' like to know Who'd w'ite 'bout Fairies in the books, an' tell What Fairies does , an' how their picture looks, An' all an' ever'thing! W'y, ef they don't Be Fairies anymore, nen little boys 'U'd ist sleep when they go to sleep an' wont Have ist no dweams at all,—'Cause Fairies— good Fairies—they're a-purpose to make dweams! But they is Fairies—an' I know they is! 'Cause one time wunst, when its all Summertime, An' don't haf to be no fires in the stove Er fireplace to keep warm wiv—ner don't haf To wear old scwatchy flannen shirts at all, An' aint no fweeze—ner cold—ner snow!—An'—an' Old skweeky twees got all the gween leaves on An' ist keeps noddin', noddin' all the time, Like they 'uz lazy an' a-twyin' to go To sleep an' couldn't, 'cause the wind won't quit A-blowin' in 'em, an' the birds won't stop A-singin' so's they kin .—But twees don't sleep, I guess! But little boys sleeps—an' dweams , too.— An' that's a sign they's Fairies. So, one time, When I ben playin' "Store" wunst over in The shed of their old stable, an' Ed Howard He maked me quit a-bein' pardners, 'cause I dwinked the 'tend-like sody-water up An' et the shore-nuff cwackers.—W'y, nen I Clumbed over in our garden where the gwapes Wuz purt'-nigh ripe: An' I wuz ist a-layin' There on th' old cwooked seat 'at Pa maked in Our arber,—an' so I 'uz layin' there A-whittlin' beets wiv my new dog-knife, an' A-lookin' wite up through the twimbly leaves— An' wuzn't 'sleep at all!—An'-sir!—first thing You know, a little Fairy hopped out there! A leetle-teenty Fairy!—hope-may-die! An' he look' down at me, he did—An' he Ain't bigger'n a yellerbird! —an' he Say "Howdy-do!" he did—an' I could hear Him—ist as plain! Nen I say "Howdy-do!" An' he say " I'm all hunkey, Nibsey; how Is your folks comin' on?" An' nen I say "My name ain't ' Nibsey ,' neever—my name's Bud . An' what's your name?" I says to him. An'he Ist laugh an' say "' Bud's ' awful funny name!" An' he ist laid back on a big bunch o' gwapes An' laugh' an' laugh', he did—like somebody 'Uz tick-el-un his feet! An' nen I say— "What's your name," nen I say, "afore you bust Yo'-se'f a-laughin' 'bout my name?" I says. An' nen he dwy up laughin'—kindo' mad— An' say "W'y, my name's Squidjicum ," he says. An' nen I laugh an' say—" Gee! what a name!" An' when I make fun of his name, like that, He ist git awful mad an' spunky, an' 'Fore you know, he ist gwabbed holt of a vine— A big long vine 'at's danglin' up there, an' He ist helt on wite tight to that, an' down He swung quick past my face, he did, an' ist Kicked at me hard's he could! But I'm too quick Fer Mr. Squidjicum! I ist weached out An' ketched him, in my hand—an' helt him, too, An' squeezed him, ist like little wobins when They can't fly yet an' git flopped out their nest. An' nen I turn him all wound over, an' Look at him clos't, you know—wite clos't,—'cause ef He is a Fairy, w'y, I want to see The wings he's got—But he's dwessed up so fine 'At I can't see no wings.—An' all the time He's twyin' to kick me yet: An' so I take F'esh holts an' squeeze agin—an' harder, too; An' I says, " Hold up, Mr. Squidjicum! — You're kickin' the w'ong man!" I says; an' nen I ist squeeze' him , purt'-nigh my best , I did— An' I heerd somepin' bust!—An' nen he cwied An' says, "You better look out what you're doin'!— You' bust' my spiderweb-suspen'ners, an' You' got my woseleaf-coat all cwinkled up So's I can't go to old Miss Hoodjicum's Tea-party, 's'afternoon!" An' nen I says— "Who's 'old Miss Hoodjicum'?" I says An'he Says "Ef you lemme loose I'll tell you." So I helt the little skeezics 'way fur out In one hand—so's he can't jump down t' th' ground Wivout a-gittin' all stove up: an' nen I says, "You're loose now.—Go ahead an' tell 'Bout the 'tea-party' where you're goin' at So awful fast!" I says. An' nen he say,— "No use to tell you 'bout it, 'cause you won't Believe it, 'less you go there your own se'f An' see it wiv your own two eyes!" he says. An' he says: "Ef you lemme shore-nuff loose, An' p'omise 'at you'll keep wite still, an' won't Tetch nothin' 'at you see—an' never tell Nobody in the world—an' lemme loose— W'y, nen I'll take you there!" But I says, "Yes An' ef I let you loose, you'll run! " I says. An' he says "No, I won't!—I hope may die!" Nen I says, "Cwoss your heart you won't!" An'he Ist cwoss his heart; an' nen I weach an' set The little feller up on a long vine— An' he 'uz so tickled to git loose agin, He gwab' the vine wiv boff his little hands An' ist take an' turn in, he did, an' skin 'Bout forty-'leven cats! Nen when he git Through whirlin' wound the vine, an' set on top Of it agin, w'y nen his "woseleaf-coat" He bwag so much about, it's ist all tored Up, an' ist hangin' strips an' rags—so he Look like his Pa's a dwunkard. An' so nen When he see what he's done—a-actin' up So smart,—he's awful mad, I guess; an' ist Pout out his lips an' twis' his little face Ist ugly as he kin, an' set an' tear His whole coat off—an' sleeves an' all.—An' nen He wad it all togevver an' ist throw It at me ist as hard as he kin dwive! An' when I weach to ketch him, an' 'uz goin' To give him 'nuvver squeezin', he ist flewed Clean up on top the arber! —'Cause, you know, They wuz wings on him—when he tored his coat Clean off—they wuz wings under there . But they Wuz purty wobbly-like an' wouldn't work Hardly at all—'Cause purty soon, when I Throwed clods at him, an' sticks, an' got him shooed Down off o' there, he come a-floppin' down An' lit k-bang! on our old chicken-coop, An' ist laid there a-whimper'n' like a child! An' I tiptoed up wite clos't, an' I says "What's The matter wiv ye, Squidjicum?" An'he Says: "Dog-gone! when my wings gits stwaight agin, Where you all cwumpled 'em," he says, "I bet I'll ist fly clean away an' won't take you To old Miss Hoodjicum's at all!" he says. An' nen I ist weach out wite quick, I did, An' gwab the sassy little snipe agin— Nen tooked my topstwing an' tie down his wings So's he can't fly, 'less'n I want him to! An' nen I says: "Now, Mr. Squidjicum, You better ist light out," I says, "to old Miss Hoodjicum's, an' show me how to git There, too," I says; "er ef you don't," I says, "I'll climb up wiv you on our buggy-shed An' push you off!" I says. An nen he say All wight, he'll show me there; an' tell me nen To set him down wite easy on his feet, An' loosen up the stwing a little where It cut him under th' arms. An' nen he says, "Come on!" he says; an' went a-limpin' 'long The garden-path—an' limpin' 'long an' 'long Tel—purty soon he come on 'long to where's A grea'-big cabbage-leaf. An' he stoop down An' say "Come on inunder here wiv me!" So I stoop down an' crawl inunder there, Like he say. An' inunder there's a grea' Big clod, they is—a awful grea' big clod! An' nen he says, " Roll this-here clod away! " An' so I roll' the clod away. An' nen It's all wet, where the dew'z inunder where The old clod wuz,—an' nen the Fairy he Git on the wet-place: Nen he say to me "Git on the wet-place, too!" An' nen he say, "Now hold yer breff an' shet yer eyes!" he says, "Tel I say Squinchy-winchy! " Nen he say— Somepin in Dutch , I guess.—An' nen I felt Like we 'uz sinkin' down—an' sinkin' down!— Tel purty soon the little Fairy weach An' pinch my nose an' yell at me an' say, " Squinchy-winchy! Look wherever you please! " Nen when I looked—Oh! they 'uz purtyest place Down there you ever saw in all the World!— They 'uz ist flowers an' woses —yes, an' twees Wiv blossoms on an' big ripe apples boff! An' butterflies, they wuz—an' hummin'-birds— An' yellow birds an' blue birds—yes, an' red! — An' ever'wheres an' all awound 'uz vines Wiv ripe p'serve-pears on 'em!—Yes, an' all An' ever'thing 'at's ever gwowin' in A garden—er canned up—all ripe at wunst!— It wuz ist like a garden—only it 'Uz little tit o' garden—'bout big wound As ist our twun'el-bed is.—An' all wound An' wound the little garden's a gold fence— An' little gold gate, too—an' ash-hopper 'At's all gold, too—an' ist full o' gold ashes! An' wite in th' middle o' the garden wuz A little gold house, 'at's ist 'bout as big As ist a bird-cage is: An' in the house They 'uz whole-lots more Fairies there—'cause I Picked up the little house, an 'peeked in at The winders, an' I see 'em all in there Ist buggin ' wound! An' Mr. Squidjicum He twy to make me quit, but I gwab him , An' poke him down the chimbly, too, I did!— An' y'ort to see him hop out 'mongst 'em there! Ist like he 'uz the boss an' ist got back!— "Hain't ye got on them-air dew-dumplin's yet?" He says. An' they says no. An' nen he says " Better git at 'em nen! " he says, " wite quick— 'Cause old Miss Hoodjicum's a-comin'! " Nen They all set wound a little gold tub—an' All 'menced a-peelin' dewdwops, ist like they 'Uz peaches .—An', it looked so funny, I Ist laugh' out loud, an' dwopped the little house,— An' 't busted like a soap-bubble!—An't skeered Me so, I—I—I—I,—it skeered me so, I—ist waked up.—No! I ain't ben asleep An' dream it all, like you think,—but it's shore Fer-certain fact an' cwoss my heart it is! A DELICIOUS INTERRUPTION All were quite gracious in their plaudits of Bud's Fairy; but another stir above That murmur was occasioned by a sweet Young lady-caller, from a neighboring street, Who rose reluctantly to say good-night To all the pleasant friends and the delight Experienced,—as she had promised sure To be back home by nine. Then paused, demure, And wondered was it very dark.—Oh, no! — She had come by herself and she could go Without an escort . Ah, you sweet girls all! What young gallant but comes at such a call, Your most abject of slaves! Why, there were three Young men, and several men of family, Contesting for the honor—which at last Was given to Cousin Rufus; and he cast A kingly look behind him, as the pair Vanished with laughter in the darkness there. As order was restored, with everything Suggestive, in its way, of "romancing," Some one observed that now would be the chance For Noey to relate a circumstance That he —the very specious rumor went— Had been eye-witness of, by accident. Noey turned pippin-crimson; then turned pale As death; then turned to flee, without avail.— " There! head him off! Now! hold him in his chair!— Tell us the Serenade-tale, now, Noey.— There! " NOEY'S NIGHT-PIECE "They ain't much 'tale' about it!" Noey said.— "K'tawby grapes wuz gittin' good-n-red I rickollect; and Tubb Kingry and me 'Ud kindo' browse round town, daytime, to see What neighbers 'peared to have the most to spare 'At wuz git-at-able and no dog there When we come round to git 'em, say 'bout ten O'clock at night when mostly old folks then Wuz snorin' at each other like they yit Helt some old grudge 'at never slep' a bit. Well, at the Pars'nige —ef ye'll call to mind,— They's 'bout the biggest grape-arber you'll find 'Most anywheres.—And mostly there, we knowed They wuz k'tawbies thick as ever growed— And more'n they'd p'serve .—Besides I've heerd Ma say k'tawby-grape-p'serves jes 'peared A waste o' sugar, anyhow!—And so My conscience stayed outside and lem me go With Tubb, one night, the back-way, clean up through That long black arber to the end next to The house, where the k'tawbies, don't you know, Wuz thickest. And t'uz lucky we went slow ,— Fer jest as we wuz cropin' tords the gray- End, like, of the old arber—heerd Tubb say In a skeered whisper, 'Hold up! They's some one Jes slippin' in here!—and looks like a gun He's carryin'!' I golly! we both spread Out flat aginst the ground! "'What's that?' Tubb said.— And jest then—' plink! plunk! plink! ' we heerd something Under the back-porch-winder.—Then, i jing! Of course we rickollected 'bout the young School-mam 'at wuz a-boardin' there, and sung, And played on the melodium in the choir.— And she 'uz 'bout as purty to admire As any girl in town!—the fac's is, she Jest wuz , them times, to a dead certainty, The belle o' this-here bailywick!—But—Well,— I'd best git back to what I'm tryin' to tell:— It wuz some feller come to serenade Miss Wetherell: And there he plunked and played His old guitar, and sung, and kep' his eye Set on her winder, blacker'n the sky!— And black it stayed .—But mayby she wuz 'way From home, er wore out—bein' Saturday! "It seemed a good-'eal longer , but I know He sung and plunked there half a' hour er so Afore, it 'peared like, he could ever git His own free qualified consents to quit And go off 'bout his business. When he went I bet you could a-bought him fer a cent! "And now, behold ye all!—as Tubb and me Wuz 'bout to raise up,—right in front we see A feller slippin' out the arber, square Smack under that-air little winder where The other feller had been standin'.—And The thing he wuz a-carryin' in his hand Wuzn't no gun at all!—It wuz a flute ,— And whoop-ee! how it did git up and toot And chirp and warble, tel a mockin'-bird 'Ud dast to never let hisse'f be heerd Ferever, after sich miracalous, high Jim-cracks and grand skyrootics played there by Yer Cousin Rufus!—Yes-sir; it wuz him!— And what's more,—all a-suddent that-air dim Dark winder o' Miss Wetherell's wuz lit Up like a' oyshture-sign, and under it We see him sort o' wet his lips and smile Down 'long his row o' dancin' fingers, while He kindo' stiffened up and kinked his breath And everlastin'ly jest blowed the peth Out o' that-air old one-keyed flute o' his. And, bless their hearts, that's all the 'tale' they is!" And even as Noey closed, all radiantly The unconscious hero of the history, Returning, met a perfect driving storm Of welcome—a reception strangely warm And unaccountable , to him , although Most gratifying ,—and he told them so. "I only urge," he said, "my right to be Enlightened." And a voice said: " Certainly: — During your absence we agreed that you Should tell us all a story, old or new, Just in the immediate happy frame of mind We knew you would return in." So, resigned, The ready flutist tossed his hat aside— Glanced at the children, smiled, and thus complied. COUSIN RUFUS' STORY My little story, Cousin Rufus said, Is not so much a story as a fact. It is about a certain willful boy— An aggrieved, unappreciated boy, Grown to dislike his own home very much, By reason of his parents being not At all up to his rigid standard and Requirements and exactions as a son And disciplinarian. So, sullenly He brooded over his disheartening Environments and limitations, till, At last, well knowing that the outside world Would yield him favors never found at home, He rose determinedly one July dawn— Even before the call for breakfast—and, Climbing the alley-fence, and bitterly Shaking his clenched fist at the woodpile, he Evanished down the turnpike.—Yes: he had, Once and for all, put into execution His long low-muttered threatenings—He had Run off! —He had—had run away from home! His parents, at discovery of his flight, Bore up first-rate—especially his Pa,— Quite possibly recalling his own youth, And therefrom predicating, by high noon, The absent one was very probably Disporting his nude self in the delights Of the old swimmin'-hole, some hundred yards Below the slaughter-house, just east of town. The stoic father, too, in his surmise Was accurate—For, lo! the boy was there! And there, too, he remained throughout the day— Save at one starving interval in which He clad his sunburnt shoulders long enough To shy across a wheatfield, shadow-like, And raid a neighboring orchard—bitterly, And with spasmodic twitchings of the lip, Bethinking him how all the other boys Had homes to go to at the dinner-hour— While he —alas!— he had no home! —At least These very words seemed rising mockingly, Until his every thought smacked raw and sour And green and bitter as the apples he In vain essayed to stay his hunger with. Nor did he join the glad shouts when the boys Returned rejuvenated for the long Wet revel of the feverish afternoon.— Yet, bravely, as his comrades splashed and swam And spluttered, in their weltering merriment, He tried to laugh, too,—but his voice was hoarse And sounded to him like some other boy's. And then he felt a sudden, poking sort Of sickness at the heart, as though some cold And scaly pain were blindly nosing it Down in the dreggy darkness of his breast. The tensioned pucker of his purple lips Grew ever chillier and yet more tense— The central hurt of it slow spreading till It did possess the little face entire. And then there grew to be a knuckled knot— An aching kind of core within his throat— An ache, all dry and swallowless, which seemed To ache on just as bad when he'd pretend He didn't notice it as when he did. It was a kind of a conceited pain— An overbearing, self-assertive and Barbaric sort of pain that clean outhurt A boy's capacity for suffering— So, many times, the little martyr needs Must turn himself all suddenly and dive From sight of his hilarious playmates and Surreptitiously weep under water. Thus He wrestled with his awful agony Till almost dark; and then, at last—then, with The very latest lingering group of his Companions, he moved turgidly toward home— Nay, rather oozed that way, so slow he went,— With lothful, hesitating, loitering, Reluctant, late-election-returns air, Heightened somewhat by the conscience-made resolve Of chopping a double-armful of wood As he went in by rear way of the kitchen. And this resolve he executed;—yet The hired girl made no comment whatsoever, But went on washing up the supper-things, Crooning the unutterably sad song, " Then think, Oh, think how lonely this heart must ever be! " Still, with affected carelessness, the boy Ranged through the pantry; but the cupboard-door Was locked. He sighed then like a wet fore-stick And went out on the porch.—At least the pump, He prophesied, would meet him kindly and Shake hands with him and welcome his return! And long he held the old tin dipper up— And oh, how fresh and pure and sweet the draught! Over the upturned brim, with grateful eyes He saw the back-yard, in the gathering night, Vague, dim and lonesome, but it all looked good: The lightning-bugs, against the grape-vines, blinked A sort of sallow gladness over his Home-coming, with this softening of the heart. He did not leave the dipper carelessly In the milk-trough.—No: he hung it back upon Its old nail thoughtfully—even tenderly. All slowly then he turned and sauntered toward The rain-barrel at the corner of the house, And, pausing, peered into it at the few Faint stars reflected there. Then—moved by some Strange impulse new to him—he washed his feet. He then went in the house—straight on into The very room where sat his parents by The evening lamp.—The father all intent Reading his paper, and the mother quite As intent with her sewing. Neither looked Up at his entrance—even reproachfully,— And neither spoke. The wistful runaway Drew a long, quavering breath, and then sat down Upon the extreme edge of a chair. And all Was very still there for a long, long while.— Yet everything, someway, seemed restful -like And homey and old-fashioned, good and kind, And sort of kin to him!—Only too still! If somebody would say something—just speak — Or even rise up suddenly and come And lift him by the ear sheer off his chair— Or box his jaws—Lord bless 'em!— any thing!— Was he not there to thankfully accept Any reception from parental source Save this incomprehensible voicelessness . O but the silence held its very breath! If but the ticking clock would only strike And for an instant drown the whispering, Lisping, sifting sound the katydids Made outside in the grassy nowhere. Far Down some back-street he heard the faint halloo Of boys at their night-game of "Town-fox," But now with no desire at all to be Participating in their sport—No; no;— Never again in this world would he want To join them there!—he only wanted just To stay in home of nights—Always—always— Forever and a day! He moved; and coughed— Coughed hoarsely, too, through his rolled tongue; and yet No vaguest of parental notice or Solicitude in answer—no response— No word—no look. O it was deathly still!— So still it was that really he could not Remember any prior silence that At all approached it in profundity And depth and density of utter hush. He felt that he himself must break it: So, Summoning every subtle artifice Of seeming nonchalance and native ease And naturalness of utterance to his aid, And gazing raptly at the house-cat where She lay curled in her wonted corner of The hearth-rug, dozing, he spoke airily And said: "I see you've got the same old cat!" BEWILDERING EMOTIONS The merriment that followed was subdued— As though the story-teller's attitude Were dual, in a sense, appealing quite As much to sorrow as to mere delight, According, haply, to the listener's bent Either of sad or merry temperament.— "And of your two appeals I much prefer The pathos," said "The Noted Traveler,"— "For should I live to twice my present years, I know I could not quite forget the tears That child-eyes bleed, the little palms nailed wide, And quivering soul and body crucified.... But, bless 'em! there are no such children here To-night, thank God!—Come here to me, my dear!" He said to little Alex, in a tone So winning that the sound of it alone Had drawn a child more lothful to his knee:— "And, now-sir, I'll agree if you'll agree,— You tell us all a story, and then I Will tell one." " But I can't. " "Well, can't you try? " "Yes, Mister: he kin tell one . Alex, tell The one, you know, 'at you made up so well, About the Bear . He allus tells that one," Said Bud,—"He gits it mixed some 'bout the gun An' ax the Little Boy had, an' apples , too."— Then Uncle Mart said—"There, now! that'll do!— Let Alex tell his story his own way!" And Alex, prompted thus, without delay Began. THE BEAR-STORY THAT ALEX "IST MAKED UP HIS-OWN-SE'F" W'y, wunst they wuz a Little Boy went out In the woods to shoot a Bear. So, he went out 'Way in the grea'-big woods—he did.—An' he Wuz goin'along—an'goin'along, you know, An' purty soon he heerd somepin' go " Wooh! "— Ist thataway—" Woo-ooh! " An' he wuz skeered , He wuz. An' so he runned an' clumbed a tree— A grea'-big tree, he did,—a sicka- more tree. An' nen he heerd it agin: an' he looked round, An' 't'uz a Bear!—a grea'-big, shore-nuff Bear! — No: 't'uz two Bears, it wuz—two grea'-big Bears— One of 'em wuz—ist one's a grea'-big Bear.— But they ist boff went " Wooh! "—An' here they come To climb the tree an' git the Little Boy An'eat him up! An' nen the Little Boy He 'uz skeered worse'n ever! An' here come The grea'-big Bear a-climbin' th' tree to git The Little Boy an' eat him up—Oh, no! — It 'uzn't the Big Bear 'at clumb the tree— It 'uz the Little Bear. So here he come Climbin' the tree—an' climbin' the tree! Nen when He git wite clos't to the Little Boy, w'y nen The Little Boy he ist pulled up his gun An' shot the Bear, he did, an' killed him dead! An' nen the Bear he falled clean on down out The tree—away clean to the ground, he did Spling-splung! he falled plum down, an' killed him, too! An' lit wite side o' where the' Big Bear's at. An' nen the Big Bear's awful mad, you bet!— 'Cause—'cause the Little Boy he shot his gun An' killed the Little Bear.—'Cause the Big Bear He—he 'uz the Little Bear's Papa.—An' so here He come to climb the big old tree an' git The Little Boy an' eat him up! An' when The Little Boy he saw the grea'-big Bear A-comin', he 'uz badder skeered, he wuz, Than any time! An' so he think he'll climb Up higher —'way up higher in the tree Than the old Bear kin climb, you know.—But he— He can't climb higher 'an old Bears kin climb,— 'Cause Bears kin climb up higher in the trees Than any little Boys In all the Wo-r-r-ld! An' so here come the grea'-big Bear, he did,— A-climbin' up—an' up the tree, to git The Little Boy an' eat him up! An' so The Little Boy he clumbed on higher, an' higher. An' higher up the tree—an' higher—an' higher— An' higher'n iss-here house is!—An' here come Th' old Bear—clos'ter to him all the time!— An' nen—first thing you know,—when th' old Big Bear Wuz wite clos't to him—nen the Little Boy Ist jabbed his gun wite in the old Bear's mouf An' shot an' killed him dead!—No; I fergot ,— He didn't shoot the grea'-big Bear at all— 'Cause they 'uz no load in the gun , you know— 'Cause when he shot the Little Bear, w'y, nen No load 'uz anymore nen in the gun! But th' Little Boy clumbed higher up, he did— He clumbed lots higher—an' on up higher —an' higher An' higher —tel he ist can't climb no higher, 'Cause nen the limbs 'uz all so little, 'way Up in the teeny-weeny tip-top of The tree, they'd break down wiv him ef he don't Be keerful! So he stop an' think: An' nen He look around—An' here come th' old Bear! An' so the Little Boy make up his mind He's got to ist git out o' there some way!— 'Cause here come the old Bear!—so clos't, his bref's Purt 'nigh so's he kin feel how hot it is Aginst his bare feet—ist like old "Ring's" bref When he's ben out a-huntin' an's all tired. So when th' old Bear's so clos't—the Little Boy Ist gives a grea'-big jump fer ' nother tree— No!—no he don't do that!—I tell you what The Little Boy does:—W'y, nen—w'y, he—Oh, yes — The Little Boy he finds a hole up there 'At's in the tree —an' climbs in there an' hides — An' nen the old Bear can't find the Little Boy Ut-tall!—But, purty soon th' old Bear finds The Little Boy's gun 'at's up there—'cause the gun It's too tall to tooked wiv him in the hole. So, when the old Bear find' the gun , he knows The Little Boy ist hid 'round somers there,— An' th' old Bear 'gins to snuff an' sniff around, An' sniff an' snuff around—so's he kin find Out where the Little Boy's hid at.—An' nen—nen— Oh, yes! —W'y, purty soon the old Bear climbs 'Way out on a big limb—a grea'-long limb,— An' nen the Little Boy climbs out the hole An' takes his ax an' chops the limb off!... Nen The old Bear falls k-splunge! clean to the ground An' bust an' kill hisse'f plum dead, he did! An' nen the Little Boy he git his gun An' 'menced a-climbin' down the tree agin— No!—no, he didn't git his gun —'cause when The Bear falled, nen the gun falled, too—An' broked It all to pieces, too!—An' nicest gun!— His Pa ist buyed it!—An' the Little Boy Ist cried, he did; an' went on climbin' down The tree—an' climbin' down—an' climbin' down!— An'-sir! when he 'uz purt'-nigh down,—w'y, nen The old Bear he jumped up agin! —an he Ain't dead ut-tall— ist 'tendin' thataway, So he kin git the Little Boy an' eat Him up! But the Little Boy he 'uz too smart To climb clean down the tree.—An' the old Bear He can't climb up the tree no more—'cause when He fell, he broke one of his—He broke all His legs!—an' nen he couldn't climb! But he Ist won't go 'way an' let the Little Boy Come down out of the tree. An' the old Bear Ist growls 'round there, he does—ist growls an' goes " Wooh! woo-ooh! " all the time! An' Little Boy He haf to stay up in the tree—all night— An' 'thout no supper neever!—Only they Wuz apples on the tree!—An' Little Boy Et apples—ist all night—an' cried—an' cried! Nen when 'tuz morning th' old Bear went " Wooh! " Agin, an' try to climb up in the tree An' git the Little Boy.—But he can't Climb t'save his soul , he can't!—An' oh! he's mad! — He ist tear up the ground! an' go " Woo-ooh! " An'— Oh,yes! —purty soon, when morning's come All light —so's you kin see , you know,—w'y, nen The old Bear finds the Little Boy's gun , you know, 'At's on the ground.—(An' it ain't broke ut-tall— I ist said that!) An' so the old Bear think He'll take the gun an' shoot the Little Boy:— But Bears they don't know much 'bout shootin' guns: So when he go to shoot the Little Boy, The old Bear got the other end the gun Agin his shoulder, 'stid o' th'other end— So when he try to shoot the Little Boy, It shot the Bear , it did—an' killed him dead! An' nen the Little Boy dumb down the tree An' chopped his old wooly head off:—Yes, an' killed The other Bear agin, he did—an' killed All boff the bears, he did—an' tuk 'em home An' cooked 'em, too, an' et 'em! —An' that's THE PATHOS OF APPLAUSE The greeting of the company throughout Was like a jubilee,—the children's shout And fusillading hand-claps, with great guns And detonations of the older ones, Raged to such tumult of tempestuous joy, It even more alarmed than pleased the boy; Till, with a sudden twitching lip, he slid Down to the floor and dodged across and hid His face against his mother as she raised Him to the shelter of her heart, and praised His story in low whisperings, and smoothed The "amber-colored hair," and kissed, and soothed And lulled him back to sweet tranquillity— "And 'ats a sign 'at you're the Ma fer me!" He lisped, with gurgling ecstasy, and drew Her closer, with shut eyes; and feeling, too, If he could only purr now like a cat, He would undoubtedly be doing that! "And now"—the serious host said, lifting there A hand entreating silence;—"now, aware Of the good promise of our Traveler guest To add some story with and for the rest, I think I favor you, and him as well, Asking a story I have heard him tell, And know its truth,in each minute detail:" Then leaning on his guest's chair, with a hale Hand-pat by way of full indorsement, he Said, "Yes—the Free-Slave story—certainly." The old man, with his waddy notebook out, And glittering spectacles, glanced round about The expectant circle, and still firmer drew His hat on, with a nervous cough or two: And, save at times the big hard words, and tone Of gathering passion—all the speaker's own,— The tale that set each childish heart astir Was thus told by "The Noted Traveler." TOLD BY "THE NOTED TRAVELER" Coming, clean from the Maryland-end Of this great National Road of ours, Through your vast West; with the time to spend, Stopping for days in the main towns, where Every citizen seemed a friend, And friends grew thick as the wayside flowers,— I found no thing that I might narrate More singularly strange or queer Than a thing I found in your sister-state Ohio,—at a river-town—down here In my notebook: Zanesville—situate On the stream Muskingum—broad and clear, And navigable, through half the year, North, to Coshocton; south, as far As Marietta. —But these facts are Not of the story , but the scene Of the simple little tale I mean To tell directly —from this, straight through To the end that is best worth listening to: Eastward of Zanesville, two or three Miles from the town, as our stage drove in, I on the driver's seat, and he Pointing out this and that to me,— On beyond us—among the rest— A grovey slope, and a fluttering throng Of little children, which he "guessed" Was a picnic, as we caught their thin High laughter, as we drove along, Clearer and clearer. Then suddenly He turned and asked, with a curious grin, What were my views on Slavery? "Why?" I asked, in return, with a wary eye. "Because," he answered, pointing his whip At a little, whitewashed house and shed On the edge of the road by the grove ahead,— "Because there are two slaves there ," he said— "Two Black slaves that I've passed each trip For eighteen years.—Though they've been set free, They have been slaves ever since!" said he. And, as our horses slowly drew Nearer the little house in view, All briefly I heard the history Of this little old Negro woman and Her husband, house and scrap of land; How they were slaves and had been made free By their dying master, years ago In old Virginia; and then had come North here into a free state—so, Safe forever, to found a home— For themselves alone?—for they left South there Five strong sons, who had, alas! All been sold ere it came to pass This first old master with his last breath Had freed the parents .—(He went to death Agonized and in dire despair That the poor slave children might not share Their parents' freedom. And wildly then He moaned for pardon and died. Amen!) Thus, with their freedom, and little sum Of money left them, these two had come North, full twenty long years ago; And, settling there, they had hopefully Gone to work, in their simple way, Hauling—gardening—raising sweet Corn, and popcorn.—Bird and bee In the garden-blooms and the apple-tree Singing with them throughout the slow Summer's day, with its dust and heat— The crops that thirst and the rains that fail; Or in Autumn chill, when the clouds hung low, And hand-made hominy might find sale In the near town-market; or baking pies And cakes, to range in alluring show At the little window, where the eyes Of the Movers' children, driving past, Grew fixed, till the big white wagons drew Into a halt that would sometimes last Even the space of an hour or two— As the dusty, thirsty travelers made Their noonings there in the beeches' shade By the old black Aunty's spring-house, where, Along with its cooling draughts, were found Jugs of her famous sweet spruce-beer, Served with her gingerbread-horses there, While Aunty's snow-white cap bobbed 'round Till the children's rapture knew no bound, As she sang and danced for them, quavering clear And high the chant of her old slave-days— "Oh, Lo'd, Jinny! my toes is so', Dancin' on yo' sandy flo'!" Even so had they wrought all ways To earn the pennies, and hoard them, too,— And with what ultimate end in view?— They were saving up money enough to be Able, in time, to buy their own Five children back. Ah! the toil gone through! And the long delays and the heartaches, too, And self-denials that they had known! But the pride and glory that was theirs When they first hitched up their shackly cart For the long, long journey South.—The start In the first drear light of the chilly dawn, With no friends gathered in grieving throng,— With no farewells and favoring prayers; But, as they creaked and jolted on, Their chiming voices broke in song— "'Hail, all hail! don't you see the stars a-fallin'? Hail, all hail! I'm on my way. Gideon [1] am A healin' ba'm— I belong to the blood-washed army. Gideon am A healin' ba'm— On my way!'" And their return! —with their oldest boy Along with them! Why, their happiness Spread abroad till it grew a joy Universal —It even reached And thrilled the town till the Church was stirred Into suspecting that wrong was wrong!— And it stayed awake as the preacher preached A Real "Love"-text that he had not long To ransack for in the Holy Word. And the son, restored, and welcomed so, Found service readily in the town; And, with the parents, sure and slow, He went "saltin' de cole cash down." So with the next boy—and each one In turn, till four of the five at last Had been bought back; and, in each case, With steady work and good homes not Far from the parents, they chipped in To the family fund, with an equal grace. Thus they managed and planned and wrought, And the old folks throve—Till the night before They were to start for the lone last son In the rainy dawn—their money fast Hid away in the house,—two mean, Murderous robbers burst the door. ...Then, in the dark, was a scuffle—a fall— An old man's gasping cry—and then A woman's fife-like shriek. ...Three men Splashing by on horseback heard The summons: And in an instant all Sprung to their duty, with scarce a word. And they were in time —not only to save The lives of the old folks, but to bag Both the robbers, and buck-and-gag And land them safe in the county-jail— Or, as Aunty said, with a blended awe And subtlety,—"Safe in de calaboose whah De dawgs caint bite 'em!" —So prevail The faithful!—So had the Lord upheld His servants of both deed and prayer,— HIS the glory unparalleled— Theirs the reward,—their every son Free, at last, as the parents were! And, as the driver ended there In front of the little house, I said, All fervently, "Well done! well done!" At which he smiled, and turned his head And pulled on the leaders' lines and—"See!" He said,—"'you can read old Aunty's sign?" And, peering down through these specs of mine On a little, square board-sign, I read: "Stop, traveler, if you think it fit, And quench your thirst for a-fip-and-a-bit. The rocky spring is very clear, And soon converted into beer." And, though I read aloud, I could Scarce hear myself for laugh and shout Of children—a glad multitude Of little people, swarming out Of the picnic-grounds I spoke about.— And in their rapturous midst, I see Again—through mists of memory— A black old Negress laughing up At the driver, with her broad lips rolled Back from her teeth, chalk-white, and gums Redder than reddest red-ripe plums. He took from her hand the lifted cup Of clear spring-water, pure and cold, And passed it to me: And I raised my hat And drank to her with a reverence that My conscience knew was justly due The old black face, and the old eyes, too— The old black head, with its mossy mat Of hair, set under its cap and frills White as the snows on Alpine hills; Drank to the old black smile, but yet Bright as the sun on the violet,— Drank to the gnarled and knuckled old Black hands whose palms had ached and bled And pitilessly been worn pale And white almost as the palms that hold Slavery's lash while the victim's wail Fails as a crippled prayer might fail.— Aye, with a reverence infinite, I drank to the old black face and head— The old black breast with its life of light— The old black hide with its heart of gold.