CHAPTER V.
JIMMY THE RHYMER.
James Redmond, the boys used to say, was small for his size and old for his age. He was not exactly humpbacked, but his shoulders came so nearly up to the level of his ears that he seemed so; and he was not exactly an invalid, though we never counted on him in any of the games or enterprises that required strength or fleetness. I have no idea what his age was. He must have been some years older than I, and yet all the boys in my set treated him tenderly and patronizingly, as if he were a little fellow who needed their encouragement and protection.
Jimmy used to make little ballads, generally taking for his subject some incident that had occurred among the boys of the neighborhood, and often sticking to the facts of the case—at the expense of rhyme and rhythm—with a literalness that made him valuable as a historian, whatever he was as a poet. He was called "Jimmy the Rhymer," and the polite thing to do, on meeting him, was to ask him if he had anything new to-day—meaning any new poem. If he had, he was always willing to read it, sometimes accompanying it with remarks in prose that were quite as entertaining as the ballad itself.
"Hello, Jimmy!"
"Hello, boys!"
"Got anything new to-day?"
"Not much."
"That means that you have something."
"Well, yes; a little one. But I don't think very much of it."
This didn't satisfy us. Jimmy, like many greater artists, was a poor judge of his own productions. Some of his ballads of which he had been proudest were so long and dull that we had almost told him they were failures; but it would have required a very hard-hearted boy to say anything unpleasant to Jimmy. Others, which he thought little of, the boys would call for again and again.
"Let us hear it, please," said Ned.
"I'm afraid I've left it at home," said Jimmy, feeling in his pockets. "Oh, no; here it is."
So we sat down on the horse-block in front of the Quaker meeting-house, and while Ned whittled the edge of the block—which had not been rounded off quite enough, by previous jack-knives, to suit his fancy—Jimmy read his newest ballad.
"It is called 'The Unlucky Fishermen,'" said he; "and you will probably recognize some of the characters.
| "Joe Chase and Isaac Holman, They would a-fishing go; They rose at sunrise Friday morn, And called their dog Fido." |
"What!" said Ned, interrupting, "the little yellow cur that Joe bought of Clam Jimmy for a six-pence?"
"Yes, that's the one."
"But his name isn't Fido—it's Prince. Haven't you ever noticed that the smaller and snarlier and more worthless a dog is, the surer it is to be called Prince?"
"Perhaps that's the way with princes," said Jimmy, who had more than once uttered the most extreme democratic sentiments, expressing contempt for all royalty, merely because it was royalty. "But I don't know,—I never saw one. At any rate, I didn't know the dog's name, and I had to call him something. I think you'll find that everything else is correctly stated."
I ventured to suggest that it didn't make much difference whether the dog's name was right or wrong, in a poem.
"Oh, yes, it does," said Jimmy. "I always try to have my poems true to life; and I shall change that, and make it Prince—that is, after I have inquired of Joe, and found out that the dog's name really is Prince. I am glad you spoke about it."
Then he continued the reading.
| "In two small willow baskets— One white, the other brown— Their mothers put the dinners up Which they were to put down. "They'd dug their bait the night before,— The worms were live and thick; Their bamboo poles were long and strong, Their hooks were Limerick." |
"My brother Fay says there isn't a Limerick hook in this whole town," said Ned.
"You can buy plenty of them at Karl's—two for a cent," said Jimmy.
"Oh, no, you can't," said Ned. "Fay says you can't get a Limerick hook this side of New York."
"What is a Limerick hook?" said I, for I was not much of a fisherman.
"Why, don't you know?" said Jimmy. "A hook that's made like a little file on the end where you tie the line, instead of a flat knob."
"A real Limerick hook is one that's made in Limerick," said Ned. "Those you get in this town are made in Connecticut, and are only imitations."
I began to suspect that Ned had been nettled at the failure of his lightning-rod invention, and was venting his spite on poor Jimmy's literary invention.
"I can't see," said I, "that it makes any difference with the poem, whether they were real Limerick hooks, or only imitation. The poetry is just as good."
"Oh, no, it isn't," said Jimmy; "and I'm glad to have my attention called to it. I'll inquire about that, and if I find they were not true Limericks, I'll change that line." Then the reading proceeded.
| "'Now let us make it doubly sure That nothing's left,' said Joe. And 'Totus dexter!' Ike replied— Which means 'All right!' you know. "These jolly boys set off at once When everything was found; Their fathers said, 'We wish good luck!' Their mothers, 'Don't get drowned!'" |
"Holman's father hasn't been at home for four months," said Ned. "He's gone to Missouri to see about an iron mine."
"I admit," said Jimmy, "that there I drew a little on my imagination. I didn't know what they said, and so I put in what I thought they would be likely to say. But if Holman's father wasn't at home, of course he couldn't have said anything at all. However, I think you'll find that the rest of the poem is entirely true to nature.
| "When they unto the river came, Where they should cast the lead, The dew still glistened under foot, The robin sang o'erhead." |
"I doubt if any robin sings so late in the season as this," said Ned.
"Still," said Jimmy, "if one did sing, it would certainly be overhead, and not on the ground. No robin ever sings when he's on the ground. You admit that?"
"Oh, certainly," said Ned.
"Then I think that line may stand as it is," said Jimmy.
| "All down the road and through the woods They had a lovely walk; The dog did frisk, and chase the birds, And they did laugh and talk." |
"He's been anything but a frisky dog when I've seen him," said Ned.
"Perhaps so," said Jimmy; "but there are exceptions to all rules.
| "But here their luck all left them— The case seemed very sad: For everything was good before— Now everything was bad. "Their sinkers were not large enough, The current was so strong, And so they tied on pebble-stones, To help the thing along. "And bitterly they did regret They bought their lines at Karl's; For every time they hauled them out, They found them full of snarls." |
"Of course they did," said Ned. "There's not a thing in Karl's store that's not a cheat—all imitation."
"I am glad to hear you say so," said Jimmy. "I thought you would see that the rest of the poem was true to nature.
| "When little fish got on the hooks, They soon flopped off again; When big ones bit, they gave a jerk, And snapped the line in twain." |
"Isaac told me," said Jimmy, interrupting himself, "that that thing happened every time with him, and every time but once with Joe."
"He probably said that as an excuse for coming home with no fish," said Ned.
"Oh, no,—Ike wouldn't lie about it," said Jimmy. "He's one of the most truthful boys I ever knew."
"Everybody lies about fishing," said Ned. "It's considered the proper thing to do. That's what they mean by a fish-story."
"But I saw the lines myself," said Jimmy. And then he hurried on with the reading.
| "The dog lay by the dinners, And was told to guard them well— To let no stranger, man or beast, Come near, touch, taste, or smell. "But Fido—of course I mean Prince—fell asleep, and kicked The baskets in a dream; The contents tumbled o'er the bank, And floated down the stream. "And once a bass robbed Isaac's hook, Just as he tried to haul; Which made him nervous, and in haste He let the bait-box fall." |
"How could he know what kind of fish it was that robbed his hook?" said I.
"I didn't think to ask," said Jimmy. "But, at any rate, he said it was a bass, and Isaac is generally pretty correct.
| "It fell between two rugged rocks, Where out of reach it lay; And when with sticks they fished it up, The worms had crawled away. "Now when the golden setting sun Was shining down the glen, They sadly turned their steps toward home, These luckless fishermen. "And when they came upon the road, All tired in foot and side, They said, 'Let's hide our poles away, And try to catch a ride.' "They caught upon an omnibus— They did not stir or talk; But some one cried out, 'Whip behind!' And so they had to walk." |
"That must have been a Dublin boy," said Ned. "Nobody on our side of the river is mean enough to holler 'whip behind!'"
"I think it was a Dublin boy," said Jimmy. "If I can find out for certain, I shall state it so in the poem.
| "They came up slowly from the gate, And Fido—that is to say, Prince—walked behind; Their parents sat about the door, Or on the grass reclined. "Their fathers said—at least Joe's father did—'It grieves us much That you no luck have found.' Their mothers said, 'Our precious boys, We're glad you are not drowned.'" |
"That's a good poem," said I, as we rose from the horse-block. "I like that."
"Yes," said Ned; "it ought to be printed."
"I'm glad to hear you say so," said Jimmy. "But I think I can improve it in a few spots, if I can get at the facts. At any rate, I shall try."
Jimmy continued his walk up the street, while we sauntered toward home.
"I think you were too severe in your criticisms on the poem," said I. "I'm afraid Jimmy felt hurt."
"Do you think so?" said Ned. "Well, now, I didn't mean to be. I wouldn't hurt that boy's feelings for the world. I suppose I must have been a little cross on account of my lightning-rod. But I shouldn't have played it off on Jimmy, that's a fact."
"I think he has great genius," said I, "and it ought to be encouraged."
"Yes, it ought," said Ned. "I've often thought so, myself, and wished I could do something for him. Perhaps I can, now that I have capital. Father says nothing can be done without capital."
"Jimmy's folks are very poor," said I.
"That's so," said Ned. "I don't suppose his father ever had fifteen dollars at one time in his life. Do you think of any good way in which I could help him with a little capital?"
"I don't know of any way, unless it is to print his poems. I should think if his poems could once be published, he might make a great deal of money out of them, and be able to support himself, and perhaps help his mother a little."
"That's so," said Ned. "I'll publish his poems for him. Come over after supper, and we'll talk it up."