Farmers and hussifs and maids, bosses and field-hands and niggers,
Colonels and jedges galore from corn-fields and mint-beds and thickets.
All that had voices to voice, all to those parts appertaining.
Came to engage in the search, gathered and bellowed for Peter.
The Taylors, the Dorseys, the Browns, the Wallers, the Mitchells, the
Logans.
The Yenowines, Crittendens, Dukes, the Hickmans, the Hobbses, the
Morgans;
The Ormsbys, the Thompsons, the Hikes, the Williamsons, Murrays and
Hardins,
The Beynroths, the Sherlays, the Hokes, the Haldermans, Harneys and
Slaughters—
All famed in Kentucky of old for prowess prodigious at farming.
Now surged from their prosperous homes to join in the hunt for the
truant.
To ascertain where he was at, to help out the chorus for Peter.
Still on these prosperous farms were heirs and assigns of the people
Specified hereinabove and proved by the records of probate—
Still on these farms shall you hear (and still on the turnpikes adjacent)
That pitiful, petulant call, that pleading, expostulant wailing,
That hopeless, monotonous moan, that crooning and droning for Peter.
Some say the witch in her wrath transmogrified all those good people;
That, wakened from slumber that day by the calling and bawling for Peter,
She out of her cave in a trice, and, waving the foot of a rabbit
(Crossed with the caul of a coon and smeared with the blood of a
chicken),
She changed all these folks into birds and shrieking with demoniac
venom:
"Fly away over the land, moaning your Peter forever,
Croaking of Peter, the boy who didn't believe there were hoodoos,
Crooning of Peter the fool who scouted at stories of witches.
Crying for Peter for aye, forever outcalling for Peter!"
This is the story they tell; so in good sooth saith the legend:
As I have told, so tell the folk and the legend,
That it is true I believe, for on the breeze of the morning
Come the shrill voices of birds calling and calling for Peter;
Out of the maple and beech glitter the eyes of the wailers,
Peeping and peering for him who formerly lived in these places—
Peter, the heretic lad, lazy and careless and dreaming,
Sorely afflicted with books and with pubescent paresis.
Hating the things of the farm, care of the barn and the garden.
Always neglecting his chores—given to books and to reading,
Which, as all people allow, turn the young person to mischief,
Harden his heart against toil, wean his affections from tillage.
This is the legend of yore told in the state of Kentucky
When in the springtime the birds call from the beeches and maples,
Call from the petulant thorn, call from the acrid persimmon;
When from the woods by the creek and from the pastures and meadows,
When from the spring-house and lane and from the mint-bed and orchard,
When from the redbud and gum and from redolent lilac,
When from the dirt roads and pikes comes that calling for Peter;
Cometh the dolorous cry, cometh that weird iteration
Of "Peter" and "Peter" for aye, of "Peter" and "Peter" forever!
This is the legend of old, told in the tumtitty meter
Which the great poets prefer, being less labor than rhyming
(My first attempt at the same, my last attempt, too, I reckon,)
Nor have I further to say, for the sad story is ended.
DIBDIN'S GHOST.
Dear wife, last midnight while I read
The tomes you so despise,
A specter rose beside the bed
And spoke in this true wise;
"From Canaan's beatific coast
I've come to visit thee,
For I'm Frognall Dibdin's ghost!"
Says Dibdin's ghost to me.
I bade him welcome and we twain
Discussed with buoyant hearts
The various things that appertain
To bibliomaniac arts.
"Since you are fresh from t'other side,
Pray tell me of that host
That treasured books before they died,"
Says I to Dibdin's ghost.
"They've entered into perfect rest,
For in the life they've won
There are no auctions to molest,
No creditors to dun;
Their heavenly rapture has no bounds
Beside that jasper sea—
It is a joy unknown to Lowndes!"
Says Dibdin's ghost to me.
Much I rejoiced to hear him speak
Of biblio-bliss above,
For I am one of those who seek
What bibliomaniacs love;
"But tell me—for I long to hear
What doth concern me most—
Are wives admitted to that sphere?"
Says I to Dibdin's ghost.
"The women folk are few up there,
For 'twere not fair you know
That they our heavenly joy should share
Who vex us here below!
The few are those who have been kind
To husbands such as we—
They knew our fads, and didn't mind,"
Says Dibdin's ghost to me.