| God makes sech nights, all white an' still |
| Fur 'z you can look or listen, |
| Moonshine an' snow on field an' hill, |
| All silence an' all glisten. |
| |
| Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown |
| An' peeked in thru the winder. |
| An' there sot Huldy all alone, |
| 'ith no one nigh to hender. |
| |
| A fireplace filled the room's one side |
| With half a cord o' wood in— |
| There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) |
| To bake ye to a puddin'. |
| |
| The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out |
| Towards the pootiest, bless her, |
| An' leetle flames danced all about |
| The chiny on the dresser. |
| |
| Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, |
| An' in amongst 'em rusted |
| The ole queen's-arm thet gran'ther Young |
| Fetched back from Concord busted. |
| |
| The very room, coz she was in, |
| Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', |
| An' she looked full ez rosy agin |
| Ez the apples she was peelin'. |
| |
| 'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look |
| On sech a blessed cretur, |
| A dogrose blushin' to a brook |
| Ain't modester nor sweeter. |
| |
| He was six foot o' man, A 1, |
| Clear grit an' human natur'; |
| None couldn't quicker pitch a ton |
| Nor dror a furrer straighter, |
| |
| He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, |
| Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, |
| Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells— |
| All is, he couldn't love 'em, |
| |
| But long o' her his veins 'ould run |
| All crinkly like curled maple, |
| The side she breshed felt full o' sun |
| Ez a south slope in Ap'il. |
| |
| She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing |
| Ez hisn in the choir; |
| My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, |
| She knowed the Lord was nigher. |
| |
| An' she'd blush scarlet, right in prayer, |
| When her new meetin'-bunnit |
| Felt somehow thru its crown a pair |
| O' blue eyes sot upun it. |
| |
| Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! |
| She seemed to 've gut a new soul, |
| For she felt sartin-sure he'd come, |
| Down to her very shoe-sole. |
| |
| She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, |
| A-raspin' on the scraper,— |
| All ways to once her feelin's flew |
| Like sparks in burnt-up paper. |
| |
| He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, |
| Some doubtfle o' the sekle, |
| His heart kep' goin' pity-pat, |
| But hern went pity Zekle. |
| |
| An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk |
| Ez though she wished him furder, |
| An' on her apples kep' to work, |
| Parin' away like murder. |
| |
| "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" |
| "Wal—no—I come dasignin'"— |
| "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es |
| Agin to-morrer's i'nin'." |
| |
| To say why gals acts so or so, |
| Or don't, 'ould be presumin'; |
| Mebby to mean yes an' say no |
| Comes nateral to women. |
| |
| He stood a spell on one foot fust, |
| Then stood a spell on t'other, |
| An' on which one he felt the wust |
| He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. |
| |
| Says he, "I'd better call agin"; |
| Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; |
| Thet last work pricked him like a pin, |
| An'—Wal, he up an' kist her. |
| |
| When Ma bimeby upon 'em slips, |
| Huldy sot pale ez ashes, |
| All kin' o' smily roun' the lips |
| An' teary roun' the lashes. |
| |
| For she was jes' the quiet kind |
| Whose naturs never vary, |
| Like streams that keep a summer mind |
| Snowhid in Jenooary. |
| |
| The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued |
| Too tight for all expressin', |
| Tell mother see how metters stood, |
| An' gin 'em both her blessin'. |
| |
| Then her red come back like the tide |
| Down to the Bay o' Fundy. |
| An' all I know is they was cried |
| In meetin' come nex' Sunday. |
| |
| James Russell Lowell. |
| It was the twilight hour; |
| Behind the western hill the sun had sunk, |
| Leaving the evening sky aglow with crimson light. |
| The air is filled with fragrance and with sound; |
| High in the tops of shadowy vine-wreathed trees, |
| Grave parent-birds were twittering good-night songs, |
| To still their restless brood. |
| Across the way |
| A noisy little brook made pleasant |
| Music on the summer air, |
| And farther on, the sweet, faint sound |
| Of Whippoorwill Falls rose on the air, and fell |
| Like some sweet chant at vespers. |
| The air is heavy |
| With the scent of mignonette and rose, |
| And from the beds of flowers the tall |
| White lilies point like angel fingers upward, |
| Casting on the air an incense sweet, |
| That brings to mind the old, old story |
| Of the alabaster box that loving Mary |
| Broke upon the Master's feet. |
| |
| Upon his vine-wreathed porch |
| An old white-headed man sits dreaming |
| Happy, happy dreams of days that are no more; |
| And listening to the quaint old song |
| With which his daughter lulled her child to rest: |
| |
| "Abide with me," she says; |
| "Fast falls the eventide; |
| The darkness deepens,— |
| Lord, with me abide." |
| |
| And as he listens to the sounds that fill the |
| Summer air, sweet, dreamy thoughts |
| Of his "lost youth" come crowding thickly up; |
| And, for a while, he seems a boy again. |
| With feet all bare |
| He wades the rippling brook, and with a boyish shout |
| Gathers the violets blue, and nodding ferns, |
| That wave a welcome from the other side. |
| With those he wreathes |
| The sunny head of little Nell, a neighbor's child, |
| Companion of his sorrows and his joys. |
| Sweet, dainty Nell, whose baby life |
| Seemed early linked with his, |
| And whom he loved with all a boy's devotion. |
| |
| Long years have flown. |
| No longer boy and girl, but man and woman grown, |
| They stand again beside the brook, that murmurs |
| Ever in its course, nor stays for time nor man, |
| And tell the old, old story, |
| And promise to be true till life for them shall end. |
| |
| Again the years roll on, |
| And they are old. The frost of age |
| Has touched the once-brown hair, |
| And left it white as are the chaliced lilies. |
| Children, whose rosy lips once claimed |
| A father's blessing and a mother's love, |
| Have grown to man's estate, save two |
| Whom God called early home to wait |
| For them in heaven. |
| |
| And then the old man thinks |
| How on a night like this, when faint |
| And sweet as half-remembered dreams |
| Old Whippoorwill Falls did murmur soft |
| Its evening psalms, when fragrant lilies |
| Pointed up the way her Christ had gone, |
| God called the wife and mother home, |
| And bade him wait. |
| Oh! why is it so hard for |
| Man to wait? to sit with folded hands, |
| Apart, amid the busy throng, |
| And hear the buzz and hum of toil around; |
| To see men reap and bind the golden sheaves |
| Of earthly fruits, while he looks idly on, |
| And knows he may not join, |
| But only wait till God has said, "Enough!" |
| And calls him home! |
| |
| And thus the old man dreams, |
| And then awakes; awakes to hear |
| The sweet old song just dying |
| On the pulsing evening air: |
| |
| "When other helpers fail, |
| And comforts flee, |
| Lord of the helpless, |
| Oh, abide with me!" |
| |
| Eliza M. Sherman. |