OLD “FIGGER-FOUR”
He played when summer sunsets glowed and
twilight deepened down,
His shrilling flute throbbed out and out in the
ears of the little town;
When the chores were done and his cattle fed
and the old horse munched his oats,
He took his flute to his racked old porch and
chirped his wavering notes.
And far and wide on the evening breeze from
the old house on the hill,
Went trinkling off the thin, long strains, like
the cry of the whip-poor-will.
And the women paused with the supper things
and harkened at the door,
And to the questioning stranger said, “Why,
that’s old Figger-Four.”
He bobbed to his work in his little field and
tidied his lonesome home;
He’d the light of peace in his quiet face, though
his shape was that of a gnome.
One knee was angled, hooked and stiff, the
mark of a fever sore,
And the saucy wits of the countryside had
dubbed him “Figger-Four.”
Yet those who knew him never thought of the
twist in the poor, bent limb,
And only strangers had a smile for the name
bestowed on him.
For if ever a man was a neighbor true, that
man, my friend, was he,
And the name he bore of “Figger-Four” was
our symbol of constancy.
’Twas he who came to the stricken homes and
closed the dead men’s eyes;
’Twas he who watched by the poor men’s biers
with a care no money buys;
’Twas he who sat by the fretful sick, and ne’er
could rash complaint
Disturb the placid soul and smile of the gnarled
old village saint.
And all came straight from out his heart, for
when one spoke of pay,
He simply smiled a wistful smile and said:
“That ain’t my way.”
A glistening eye was prized by him above a
golden store;
An. earnest clasp of neighbor’s hand paid every
debt and more.
And when there was no call for him from Tom,
or Dick or Jim,
He took his lip-stained flute and played a good
old gospel hymn.
So, when the placid, sunset skies were banked
above the town,
To every home and every ear those notes came
softly down.
And truly, friend, it used to seem the good old
man would play,
As if, for lack of else to do, to pipe our cares
away.
And tongues were hushed and heads were bent,
and angry home dispute
Gave way to silence, then to smiles, when
“Figger-Four’s” old flute
Sent down its long-drawn, mild reproach from
off the little hill—
Expostulation in its notes, a pleading in its
thrill.
And somehow, though the hearts were hot and
tongues were stirring fray,
Those dripping tones came down like balm and
cooled the wrath away.
He’d lived his lesson in our gaze; he was not
one who talked;
His life was straight, although, alas, he bobbed
so when he walked!
And though we’ve lost our richest men, we
mourn far more, far more,
The man we loved and who loved us, poor bent
old “Figger-Four.”