WILL CARLETON.
AUTHOR OF “BETSY AND I ARE OUT.”
EW writers of homely verse have been more esteemed than Will Carleton. His poems are to be found in almost every book of selections for popular reading. They are well adapted to recitation and are favorites with general audiences. With few exceptions they are portraitures of the humorous side of rural life and frontier scenes; but they are executed with a vividness and truth to nature that does credit to the author and insures their preservation as faithful portraits of social conditions and frontier scenes and provincialisms which the advance of education is fast relegating to the past.
Will Carleton was born in Hudson, Michigan, October 21, 1845. His father was a pioneer settler who came from New Hampshire. Young Carleton remained at home on the farm until he was sixteen years of age, attending the district school in the winters and working on the farm during the summers. At the age of sixteen he became a teacher in a country school and for the next four years divided his time between teaching, attending school and working as a farm-hand, during which time he also contributed articles in both prose and verse to local papers. In 1865 he entered Hillsdale College, Michigan, from which he graduated in 1869. Since 1870 he has been engaged in journalistic and literary work and has also lectured frequently in the West. It was during his early experiences as a teacher in “boarding round” that he doubtless gathered the incidents which are so graphically detailed in his poems.
There is a homely pathos seldom equalled in the two selections “Betsy and I Are Out” and “How Betsy and I Made Up” that have gained for them a permanent place in the affections of the reading public. In other of his poems, like “Makin’ an Editor Outen Him,” “A Lightning Rod Dispenser,” “The Christmas Baby,” etc., there is a rich vein of humor that has given them an enduring popularity. “The First Settler’s Story” is a most graphic picture of pioneer life, portraying the hardships which early settlers frequently endured and in which the depressing homesickness often felt for the scenes of their childhood and the far-away East is pathetically told.
Mr. Carleton’s first volume of poems appeared in 1871, and was printed for private distribution. “Betsy and I Are Out” appeared in 1872 in the “Toledo Blade.” It was copied in “Harper’s Weekly,” and illustrated. This was really the author’s first recognition in literary circles. In 1873 appeared a collection of his poems entitled “Farm Ballads,” including the now famous selections, “Out of the Old House, Nancy,” “Over the Hills to the Poorhouse,” “Gone With a Handsomer Man,” and “How Betsy and I Made Up.” Other well-known volumes by the same author are entitled “Farm Legends,” “Young Folk’s Centennial Rhymes,” “Farm Festivals,” and “City Ballads.”
In his preface to the first volume of his poems Mr. Carleton modestly apologizes for whatever imperfections they may possess in a manner which gives us some insight into his literary methods. “These poems,” he writes, “have been written under various, and in some cases difficult, conditions: in the open air, with team afield; in the student’s den, with ghosts of unfinished lessons hovering gloomily about; amid the rush and roar of railroad travel, which trains of thought are not prone to follow; and in the editor’s sanctum, where the dainty feet of the muses do not often deign to tread.”
But Mr. Carleton does not need to apologize. He has the true poetic instinct. His descriptions are vivid, and as a narrative versifier he has been excelled by few, if indeed any depicter of Western farm life.
Will Carleton has also written considerable prose, which has been collected and published in book form, but it is his poetical works which have entitled him to public esteem, and it is for these that he will be longest remembered in literature.
BETSY AND I ARE OUT.[¹]
RAW up the papers, lawyer, and make ’em good and stout,
For things at home are cross-ways, and Betsy and I are out,—
We who have worked together so long as man and wife
Must pull in single harness the rest of our nat’ral life.
“What is the matter,” says you? I swan it’s hard to tell!
Most of the years behind us we’ve passed by very well;
I have no other woman—she has no other man;
Only we’ve lived together as long as ever we can.
So I have talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me;
And we’ve agreed together that we can never agree;
Not that we’ve catched each other in any terrible crime;
We’ve been a gatherin’ this for years, a little at a time.
There was a stock of temper we both had for a start;
Although we ne’er suspected ’twould take us two apart;
I had my various failings, bred in the flesh and bone,
And Betsy, like all good women, had a temper of her own.
The first thing, I remember, whereon we disagreed,
Was somethin’ concerning heaven—a difference in our creed;
We arg’ed the thing at breakfast—we arg’ed the thing at tea—
And the more we arg’ed the question, the more we couldn’t agree.
And the next that I remember was when we lost a cow;
She had kicked the bucket, for certain—the question was only—How?
I held my opinion, and Betsy another had;
And when we were done a talkin’, we both of us was mad.
And the next that I remember, it started in a joke;
But for full a week it lasted and neither of us spoke.
And the next was when I fretted because she broke a bowl;
And she said I was mean and stingy, and hadn’t any soul.
And so the thing kept workin’, and all the self-same way;
Always somethin’ to ar’ge and something sharp to say,—
And down on us came the neighbors, a couple o’ dozen strong,
And lent their kindest sarvice to help the thing along.
And there have been days together—and many a weary week—
When both of us were cross and spunky, and both too proud to speak;
And I have been thinkin’ and thinkin’, the whole of the summer and fall,
If I can’t live kind with a woman, why, then I won’t at all.
And so I’ve talked with Betsy, and Betsy has talked with me;
And we have agreed together that we can never agree;
And what is hers shall be hers, and what is mine shall be mine;
And I’ll put it in the agreement, and take it to her to sign.
Write on the paper, lawyer—the very first paragraph—
Of all the farm and live stock, she shall have her half;
For she has helped to earn it through many a weary day,
And it’s nothin’ more than justice that Betsy has her pay.
Give her the house and homestead; a man can thrive and roam,
But women are wretched critters, unless they have a home.
And I have always determined, and never failed to say,
That Betsy never should want a home, if I was taken away.
There’s a little hard money besides, that’s drawin’ tol’rable pay,
A couple of hundred dollars laid by for a rainy day,—
Safe in the hands of good men, and easy to get at;
Put in another clause there, and give her all of that.
I see that you are smiling, sir, at my givin’ her so much;
Yes, divorce is cheap, sir, but I take no stock in such;
True and fair I married her, when she was blythe and young,
And Betsy was always good to me exceptin’ with her tongue.
When I was young as you, sir, and not so smart, perhaps,
For me she mittened a lawyer, and several other chaps;
And all of ’em was flustered, and fairly taken down,
And for a time I was counted the luckiest man in town.
Once when I had a fever—I won’t forget it soon—
I was hot as a basted turkey and crazy as a loon—
Never an hour went by me when she was out of sight;
She nursed me true and tender, and stuck to me day and night.
And if ever a house was tidy, and ever a kitchen clean,
Her house and kitchen was tidy as any I ever seen,
And I don’t complain of Betsy or any of her acts,
Exceptin’ when we’ve quarreled, and told each other facts.
So draw up the paper, lawyer; and I’ll go home to-night,
And read the agreement to her, and see if it’s all right;
And then in the morning I’ll sell to a tradin’ man I know—
And kiss the child that was left to us, and out in the world I’ll go.
And one thing put in the paper, that first to me didn’t occur;
That when I am dead at last she will bring me back to her,
And lay me under the maple we planted years ago,
When she and I was happy, before we quarreled so.
And when she dies, I wish that she would be laid by me;
And lyin’ together in silence, perhaps we’ll then agree;
And if ever we meet in heaven, I wouldn’t think it queer
If we loved each other the better because we’ve quarreled here.
[¹] From “Farm Ballads.” Copyright 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers.
GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN.[¹]
(FROM “FARM BALLADS.”)
John.
’VE worked in the field all day, a plowin’ the “stony streak;”
I’ve scolded my team till I’m hoarse; I’ve tramped till my legs are weak;
I’ve choked a dozen swears, (so’s not to tell Jane fibs,)
When the plow-pint struck a stone, and the handles punched my ribs.
I’ve put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats;
I’ve fed ’em a heap of hay and half a bushel of oats;
And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin’ feel,
And Jane won’t say to-night that I don’t make out a meal.
Well said! the door is locked! out here she’s left the key,
Under the step, in a place known only to her and me;
I wonder who’s dyin’ or dead, that she’s hustled off pell-mell;
But here on the table’s a note, and probably this will tell.
Good God! my wife is gone! my wife is gone astray!
The letter it says, “Good-bye, for I’m a going away;
I’ve lived with you six months, John, and so far I’ve been true;
But I’m going away to-day with a handsomer man than you.”
A han’somer man than me! Why, that ain’t much to say;
There’s han’somer men than me go past here every day.
There’s han’somer men than me—I ain’t of the han’some kind;
But a loven’er man than I was, I guess she’ll never find.
Curse her! curse her! I say, and give my curses wings!
May the words of love I’ve spoken be changed to scorpion stings!
Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of doubt,
And now, with a scratch of a pen, she lets my heart’s blood out!
Curse her! curse her! say I, she’ll some time rue this day;
She’ll some time learn that hate is a game that two can play;
And long before she dies she’ll grieve she ever was born,
And I’ll plow her grave with hate, and seed it down to scorn.
As sure as the world goes on, there’ll come a time when she
Will read the devilish heart of that han’somer man than me;
And there’ll be a time when he will find, as others do,
That she who is false to one, can be the same with two.
And when her face grows pale, and when her eyes grow dim,
And when he is tired of her and she is tired of him,
She’ll do what she ought to have done, and coolly count the cost;
And then she’ll see things clear, and know what she has lost.
And thoughts that are now asleep will wake up in her mind,
And she will mourn and cry for what she has left behind;
And maybe she’ll sometimes long for me—for me—but no!
I’ve blotted her out of my heart, and I will not have it so.
And yet in her girlish heart there was somethin’ or other she had
That fastened a man to her, and wasn’t entirely bad;
And she loved me a little, I think, although it didn’t last;
But I mustn’t think of these things—I’ve buried ’em in the past.
I’ll take my hard words back, nor make a bad matter worse;
She’ll have trouble enough; she shall not have my curse;
But I’ll live a life so square—and I well know that I can,—
That she always will sorry be that she went with that han’somer man.
Ah, here is her kitchen dress! it makes my poor eyes blur;
It seems when I look at that, as if ’twas holdin’ her.
And here are her week-day shoes, and there is her week-day hat,
And yonder’s her weddin’ gown; I wonder she didn’t take that.
’Twas only this mornin’ she came and called me her “dearest dear,”
And said I was makin’ for her a regular paradise here;
O God! if you want a man to sense the pains of hell,
Before you pitch him in just keep him in heaven a spell!
Good-bye! I wish that death had severed us two apart.
You’ve lost a worshiper here, you’ve crushed a lovin’ heart.
I’ll worship no woman again; but I guess I’ll learn to pray,
And kneel as you used to kneel, before you run away.
And if I thought I could bring my words on Heaven to bear,
And if I thought I had some little influence there,
I would pray that I might be, if it only could be so,
As happy and gay as I was a half-hour ago.
Jane (entering).
Why, John, what a litter here! you’ve thrown things all around!
Come, what’s the matter now? and what have you lost or found?
And here’s my father here, a waiting for supper, too;
I’ve been a riding with him—he’s that “handsomer man than you.”
Ha! ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on,
And get things ready for tea, and kiss my dear old John.
Why, John, you look so strange! come, what has crossed your track?
I was only a joking, you know; I’m willing to take it back.
John (aside).
Well, now, if this ain’t a joke, with rather a bitter cream!
It seems as if I’d woke from a mighty ticklish dream;
And I think she “smells a rat,” for she smiles at me so queer,
I hope she don’t; good gracious! I hope that they didn’t hear!
’Twas one of her practical drives—she thought I’d understand!
But I’ll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land.
But one thing’s settled with me—to appreciate heaven well,
’Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell.
[¹] Copyright, 1873, 1882, by Harper & Brothers.
