OVER THE HILL FROM THE POOR-HOUSE.
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I, who was always counted, they say, Rather a bad stick any way, Splintered all over with dodges and tricks, Known as "the worst of the Deacon's six;" I, the truant, saucy and bold, The one black sheep in my father's fold, "Once on a time," as the stories say, Went over the hill on a winter's day— Over the hill to the poor-house. Tom could save what twenty could earn; But givin' was somethin' he ne'er would learn; Isaac could half o' the Scriptur's speak— Committed a hundred verses a week; Never forgot, an' never slipped; But "Honor thy father and mother" he skipped; So over the hill to the poor-house. As for Susan, her heart was kind An' good—what there was of it, mind; Nothin' too big, an' nothin' too nice, Nothin' she wouldn't sacrifice For one she loved; an' that 'ere one Was herself, when all was said an' done. An' Charley an' 'Becca meant well, no doubt, But any one could pull 'em about; An' all o' our folks ranked well, you see, Save one poor fellow, and that was me; An' when, one dark an' rainy night, A neighbor's horse went out o' sight, They hitched on me, as the guilty chap That carried one end o' the halter-strap. An' I think, myself, that view of the case Wasn't altogether out o' place; My mother denied it, as mothers do, But I am inclined to believe 'twas true. Though for me one thing might be said— That I, as well as the horse, was led; And the worst of whisky spurred me on, Or else the deed would have never been done. But the keenest grief I ever felt Was when my mother beside me knelt, An' cried an' prayed, till I melted down, As I wouldn't for half the horses in town. I kissed her fondly, then an' there, An' swore henceforth to be honest and square. I served my sentence—a bitter pill Some fellows should take who never will; And then I decided to go "out West," Concludin' 'twould suit my health the best; Where, how I prospered, I never could tell, But Fortune seemed to like we [me] well, An' somehow every vein I struck Was always bubblin' over with luck. An', better than that, I was steady an' true, An' put my good resolutions through. But I wrote to a trusty old neighbor, an' said, "You tell 'em, old fellow, that I am dead, An' died a Christian; 'twill please 'em more, Than if I had lived the same as before." But when this neighbor he wrote to me, "Your mother's in the poor-house," says he, I had a resurrection straightway, An' started for her that very day. And when I arrived where I was grown, I took good care that I shouldn't be known; But I bought the old cottage, through and through, Of some one Charley had sold it to; And held back neither work nor gold, To fix it up as it was of old. The same big fire-place wide an' high, Flung up its cinders toward the sky; The old clock ticked on the corner-shelf— I wound it an' set it agoin' myself; An' if every thing wasn't just the same, Neither I nor money was to blame; Then—over the hill to the poor-house! One blowin', blusterin' winter's day, With a team an' cutter I started away; My fiery nags was as black as coal; (They some'at resembled the horse I stole); I hitched, an' entered the poor-house door— A poor old woman was scrubbin' the floor; She rose to her feet in great surprise, And looked, quite startled, into my eyes; I saw the whole of her trouble's trace In the lines that marred her dear old face; "Mother!" I shouted, "your sorrows is done! You're adopted along o' your horse-thief son, Come over the hill from the poor-house!" She didn't faint; she knelt by my side, An' thanked the Lord, till I fairly cried. An' maybe our ride wasn't pleasant an' gay, An' maybe she wasn't wrapped up that day; An' maybe our cottage wasn't warm an' bright, An' maybe it wasn't a pleasant sight, To see her a-gettin' the evenin's tea, An' frequently stoppin' and kissin' me; An' maybe we didn't live happy for years, In spite of my brothers' and sisters' sneers, Who often said, as I have heard, That they wouldn't own a prison-bird; (Though they're gettin' over that, I guess, For all of 'em owe me more or less); But I've learned one thing; an' it cheers a man In always a-doin' the best he can; That whether, on the big book, a blot Gets over a fellow's name or not, Whenever he does a deed that's white, It's credited to him fair and right. An' when you hear the great bugle's notes, An' the Lord divides his sheep an' goats; However they may settle my case, Wherever they may fix my place, My good old Christian mother, you'll see, Will be sure to stand right up for me, With over the hill from the poor-house. |
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UNCLE SAMMY.
Some men were born for great things, Some were born for small; Some—it is not recorded Why they were born at all; But Uncle Sammy was certain he had a legitimate call. Some were born with a talent, Some with scrip and land; Some with a spoon of silver, And some with a different brand; But Uncle Sammy came holding an argument in each hand. Arguments sprouted within him, And twinked in his little eye; He lay and calmly debated When average babies cry, And seemed to be pondering gravely whether to live or to die. But prejudiced on that question He grew from day to day, And finally he concluded 'Twas better for him to stay; And so into life's discussion he reasoned and reasoned his way. Through childhood, through youth, into manhood Argued and argued he; And he married a simple maiden, Though scarcely in love was she; But he reasoned the matter so clearly she hardly could help but agree. And though at first she was blooming, And the new firm started strong, And though Uncle Sammy loved her, And tried to help her along, She faded away in silence, and 'twas evident something was wrong. Now Uncle Sammy was faithful, And various remedies tried; He gave her the doctor's prescriptions, And plenty of logic beside; But logic and medicine failed him, and so one day she died. He laid her away in the church-yard, So haggard and crushed and wan; And reared her a costly tombstone With all of her virtues on; And ought to have added, "A victim to arguments pro and con." For many a year Uncle Sammy Fired away at his logical forte: Discussion was his occupation, And altercation his sport; He argued himself out of churches, he argued himself into court. But alas for his peace and quiet, One day, when he went it blind, And followed his singular fancy, And slighted his logical mind, And married a ponderous widow that wasn't of the arguing kind! Her sentiments all were settled, Her habits were planted and grown, Her heart was a starved little creature That followed a will of her own; And she raised a high hand with Sammy, and proceeded to play it alone. Then Sammy he charged down upon her With all of his strength and his wit, And many a dextrous encounter, And many a fair shoulder-hit; But vain were his blows and his blowing: he never could budge her a bit. He laid down his premises round her, He scraped at her with his saws; He rained great facts upon her, And read her the marriage laws; But the harder he tried to convince her, the harder and harder she was. She brought home all her preachers, As many as ever she could— With sentiments terribly settled, And appetites horribly good— Who sat with him long at his table, and explained to him where he stood. |
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And Sammy was not long in learning To follow the swing of her gown, And came to be faithful in watching The phase of her smile and her frown; And she, with the heel of assertion, soon tramped all his arguments down. And so, with his life-aspirations Thus suddenly brought to a check— And so, with the foot of his victor Unceasingly pressing his neck— He wrote on his face, "I'm a victim," and drifted—a logical wreck. And farmers, whom he had argued To corners tight and fast, Would wink at each other and chuckle, And grin at him as he passed, As to say, "My ambitious old fellow, your whiffletree's straightened at last." Old Uncle Sammy one morning Lay down on his comfortless bed, And Death and he had a discussion, And Death came out ahead; And the fact that SHE failed to start him was only because he was dead. The neighbors laid out their old neighbor, With homely but tenderest art; And some of the oldest ones faltered, And tearfully stood apart; For the crusty old man had often unguardedly shown them his heart. But on his face an expression Of quizzical study lay, As if he were sounding the angel Who traveled with him that day, And laying the pipes down slyly for an argument on the way. And one new-fashioned old lady Felt called upon to suggest That the angel might take Uncle Sammy, And give him a good night's rest, And then introduce him to Solomon, and tell him to do his best. |
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TOM WAS GOIN' FOR A POET.
The Farmer Discourses of his Son.
Tom was goin' for a poet, an' said he'd a poet be; One of these long-haired fellers a feller hates to see; One of these chaps forever fixin' things cute and clever; Makin' the world in gen'ral step 'long to tune an' time, An' cuttin' the earth into slices an' saltin' it down into rhyme. Poets are good for somethin', so long as they stand at the head: But poetry's worth whatever it fetches in butter an' bread. An' many a time I've said it: it don't do a fellow credit, To starve with a hole in his elbow, an' be considered a fool, So after he's dead, the young ones 'll speak his pieces in school. An' Tom, he had an opinion that Shakspeare an' all the rest, With all their winter clothin', couldn't make him a decent vest; But that didn't ease my labors, or help him among the neighbors, Who watched him from a distance, an' held his mind in doubt, An' wondered if Tom wasn't shaky, or knew what he was about. Tom he went a-sowin', to sow a field of grain; But half of that 'ere sowin' was altogether in vain. For he was al'ays a-stoppin', and gems of poetry droppin'; And metaphors, they be pleasant, but much too thin to eat; And germs of thought be handy, but never grow up to wheat. Tom he went a-mowin', one broilin' summer's day, An' spoke quite sweet concernin' the smell of the new-mowed hay. But all o' his useless chatter didn't go to help the matter, Or make the grief less searchin' or the pain less hard to feel, When he made a clip too suddent, an' sliced his brother's heel. Tom he went a-drivin' the hills an' dales across; But, scannin' the lines of his poetry, he dropped the lines of his hoss. The nag ran fleet and fleeter, in quite irregular metre; An' when we got Tom's leg set, an' had fixed him so he could speak, He muttered that that adventur' would keep him a-writin' a week. Tom he went a-ploughin', and couldn't have done it worse; He sat down on the handles, an' went to spinnin' verse. He wrote it nice and pretty—an agricultural ditty; But all o' his pesky measures didn't measure an acre more, Nor his p'ints didn't turn a furrow that wasn't turned before. Tom he went a-courtin';—she liked him, I suppose; But certain parts of courtin' a feller must do in prose. He rhymed her each day a letter, but that didn't serve to get her; He waited so long, she married another man from spite, An' sent him word she'd done it, an' not to forget to write. Tom at last got married; his wife was smart and stout, An' she shoved up the window and slung his poetry out. An' at each new poem's creation she gave it circulation; An' fast as he would write 'em, she seen to their puttin' forth, An' sent 'em east an westward, an' also south an' north. Till Tom he struck the opinion that poetry didn't pay, An' turned the guns of his genius, an' fired 'em another way. He settled himself down steady, an' is quite well off already; An' all of his life is verses, with his wife the first an' best, An' ten or a dozen childr'n to constitute the rest. |
