| Nature, who moved in first—a good long while— |
| Has things already somewhat her own style, |
| And she don't want her woodland splendors battered, |
| Her rustic furniture broke up and scattered, |
| Her paintings, which long years ago were done |
| By that old splendid artist-king, the sun, |
| Torn down and dragged in civilization's gutter, |
| Or sold to purchase settlers' bread and butter. |
| She don't want things exposed from porch to closet, |
| And so she kind o' nags the man who does it. |
| She carries in her pockets bags of seeds, |
| As general agent of the thriftiest weeds; |
| She sends her blackbirds, in the early morn, |
| To superintend his fields of planted corn; |
| She gives him rain past any duck's desire— |
| Then maybe several weeks of quiet fire; |
| She sails mosquitoes—leeches perched on wings— |
| To poison him with blood-devouring stings; |
| She loves her ague-muscle to display, |
| And shake him up—say every other day; |
| With, thoughtful, conscientious care she makes |
| Those travelin' poison-bottles, rattlesnakes; |
| She finds time, 'mongst her other family cares, |
| To keep in stock good wild-cats, wolves, and bears. |
| |
| Well, when I first infested this retreat, |
| Things to my view looked frightful incomplete; |
| But I had come with heart-thrift in my song, |
| And brought my wife and plunder right along; |
| I hadn't a round trip ticket to go back, |
| And if I had there wasn't no railroad track; |
| And drivin' East was what I couldn't endure: |
| I hadn't started on a circular tour. |
| |
| My girl-wife was as brave as she was good, |
| And helped me every blessed way she could; |
| She seemed to take to every rough old tree, |
| As sing'lar as when first she took to me. |
| She kep' our little log-house neat as wax, |
| And once I caught her fooling with my axe. |
| She learned a hundred masculine things to do: |
| She aimed a shot-gun pretty middlin' true, |
| Although in spite of my express desire, |
| She always shut her eyes before she'd fire. |
| She hadn't the muscle (though she had the heart) |
| In out-door work to take an active part; |
| Though in our firm of Duty and Endeavor |
| She wasn't no silent partner whatsoever. |
| When I was logging, burning, choppin' wood, |
| She'd linger round and help me all she could, |
| And keep me fresh-ambitious all the while, |
| And lifted tons just with her voice and smile. |
| With no desire my glory for to rob, |
| She used to stan' around and boss the job; |
| And when first-class success my hands befell, |
| Would proudly say, "We did that pretty well!" |
| She was delicious, both to hear and see— |
| That pretty wife-girl that kep' house for me. |
| |
| Well, neighborhoods meant counties in those days; |
| The roads didn't have accommodating ways; |
| And maybe weeks would pass before she'd see— |
| And much less talk with—any one but me. |
| The Indians sometimes showed their sun-baked faces, |
| But they didn't teem with conversational graces; |
| Some ideas from the birds and trees she stole, |
| But 'twasn't like talking with a human soul; |
| And finally I thought that I could trace |
| A half heart-hunger peering from her face. |
| Then she would drive it back and shut the door; |
| Of course that only made me see it more. |
| 'Twas hard to see her give her life to mine, |
| Making a steady effort not to pine; |
| 'Twas hard to hear that laugh bloom out each minute, |
| And recognize the seeds of sorrow in it. |
| No misery makes a close observer mourn |
| Like hopeless grief with hopeful courage borne; |
| There's nothing sets the sympathies to paining |
| Like a complaining woman uncomplaining. |
| It always draws my breath out into sighs |
| To see a brave look in a woman's eyes. |
| |
| Well, she went on, as plucky as could be, |
| Fighting the foe she thought I did not see, |
| And using her heart-horticultural powers |
| To turn that forest to a bed of flowers. |
| You cannot check an unadmitted sigh, |
| And so I had to soothe her on the sly, |
| And secretly to help her draw her load; |
| And soon it came to be an up-hill road. |
| Hard work bears hard upon the average pulse, |
| Even with satisfactory results; |
| But when effects are scarce, the heavy strain |
| Falls dead and solid on the heart and brain. |
| And when we're bothered, it will oft occur |
| We seek blame-timber; and I lit on her; |
| And looked at her with daily lessening favor, |
| For what I knew she couldn't help, to save her. |
| And Discord, when he once had called and seen us, |
| Came round quite often, and edged in between us. |
| |
| One night, when I came home unusual late, |
| Too hungry and too tired to feel first-rate, |
| Her supper struck me wrong (though I'll allow |
| She hadn't much to strike with, anyhow); |
| And when I went to milk the cows, and found |
| They'd wandered from their usual feeding ground, |
| And maybe'd left a few long miles behind 'em, |
| Which I must copy, if I meant to find 'em, |
| Flash-quick the stay-chains of my temper broke, |
| And in a, trice these hot words I had spoke: |
| "You ought to've kept the animals in view, |
| And drove 'em in; you'd nothing else to do. |
| The heft of all our life on me must fall; |
| You just lie round and let me do it all." |
| |
| That speech—it hadn't been gone a half a minute |
| Before I saw the cold black poison in it; |
| And I'd have given all I had, and more, |
| To've only safely got it back in-door. |
| I'm now what most folks "well-to-do" would call |
| I feel to-day as if I'd give it all, |
| Provided I through fifty years might reach |
| And kill and bury that half-minute speech. |
| |
| She handed back no words, as I could hear; |
| She didn't frown; she didn't shed a tear; |
| Half proud, half crushed, she stood and looked me o'er, |
| Like some one she had never seen before! |
| But such a sudden anguish-lit surprise |
| I never viewed before in human eyes. |
| (I've seen it oft enough since in a dream; |
| It sometimes wakes me like a midnight scream.) |
| |
| Next morning, when, stone-faced, but heavy-hearted, |
| With dinner pail and sharpened axe I started |
| Away for my day's work—she watched the door. |
| And followed me half way to it or more; |
| And I was just a-turning round at this, |
| And asking for my usual good-by kiss; |
| But on her lip I saw a proudish curve, |
| And in her eye a shadow of reserve; |
| And she had shown—perhaps half unawares— |
| Some little independent breakfast airs; |
| And so the usual parting didn't occur, |
| Although her eyes invited me to her! |
| Or rather half invited me, for she |
| Didn't advertise to furnish kisses free; |
| You always had—that is, I had—to pay |
| Full market price, and go more'n half the way. |
| So, with a short "Good-by," I shut the door, |
| And left her as I never had before. |
| But when at noon my lunch I came to eat. |
| Put up by her so delicately neat— |
| Choicer, somewhat, than yesterday's had been, |
| And some fresh, sweet-eyed pansies she'd put in— |
| "Tender and pleasant thoughts," I knew they meant— |
| It seemed as if her kiss with me she'd sent; |
| Then I became once more her humble lover, |
| And said, "To-night I'll ask forgiveness of her." |
| |
| I went home over-early on that eve, |
| Having contrived to make myself believe, |
| By various signs I kind o' knew and guessed, |
| A thunder-storm was coming from the west. |
| ('Tis strange, when one sly reason fills the heart, |
| How many honest ones will take its part: |
| A dozen first-class reasons said 'twas right |
| That I should strike home early on that night.) |
| |
| Half out of breath, the cabin door I swung, |
| With tender heart-words trembling on my tongue; |
| But all within looked desolate and bare: |
| My house had lost its soul,—she was not there! |
| A penciled note was on the table spread, |
| And these are something like the words it said: |
| "The cows have strayed away again, I fear; |
| I watched them pretty close; don't scold me, dear. |
| And where they are, I think I nearly know: |
| I heard the bell not very long ago.... |
| I've hunted for them all the afternoon; |
| I'll try once more—I think I'll find them soon. |
| Dear, if a burden I have been to you, |
| And haven't helped you as I ought to do. |
| Let old-time memories my forgiveness plead; |
| I've tried to do my best—I have indeed. |
| Darling, piece out with love the strength I lack, |
| And have kind words for me when I get back." |
| |
| Scarce did I give this letter sight and tongue— |
| Some swift-blown rain-drops to the window clung, |
| And from the clouds a rough, deep growl proceeded: |
| My thunder-storm had come, now 'twasn't needed. |
| I rushed out-door. The air was stained with black: |
| Night had come early, on the storm-cloud's back: |
| And everything kept dimming to the sight, |
| Save when the clouds threw their electric light; |
| When for a flash, so clean-cut was the view, |
| I'd think I saw her—knowing 'twas not true. |
| Through my small clearing dashed wide sheets of spray, |
| As if the ocean waves had lost their way; |
| Scarcely a pause the thunder-battle made, |
| In the bold clamor of its cannonade. |
| And she, while I was sheltered, dry, and warm, |
| Was somewhere in the clutches of this storm! |
| She who, when storm-frights found her at her best, |
| Had always hid her white face on my breast! |
| |
| My dog, who'd skirmished round me all the day, |
| Now crouched and whimpering, in a corner lay; |
| I dragged him by the collar to the wall, |
| I pressed his quivering muzzle to a shawl— |
| "Track her, old boy!" I shouted; and he whined, |
| Matched eyes with me, as if to read my mind, |
| Then with a yell went tearing through the wood, |
| I followed him, as faithful as I could. |
| No pleasure-trip was that, through flood and flame; |
| We raced with death: we hunted noble game. |
| All night we dragged the woods without avail; |
| The ground got drenched—we could not keep the trail, |
| Three times again my cabin home I found, |
| Half hoping she might be there, safe and sound; |
| But each time 'twas an unavailing care: |
| My house had lost its soul; she was not there! |
| |
| When, climbing—the wet trees, next morning-sun. |
| Laughed at the ruin that the night had done, |
| Bleeding and drenched, by toil and sorrow bent, |
| Back to what used to be my home I went. |
| But as I neared our little clearing-ground— |
| Listen!—I heard the cow-bell's tinkling sound. |
| The cabin door was just a bit ajar; |
| It gleamed upon my glad eyes like a star, |
| "Brave heart," I said, "for such a fragile form! |
| She made them guide her homeward through the storm!" |
| Such pangs of joy I never felt before. |
| "You've come!" I shouted and rushed through the door. |
| |
| Yes, she had come—and gone again. She lay |
| With all her young life crushed and wrenched away— |
| Lay, the heart-ruins of oar home among, |
| Not far from where I killed her with my tongue. |
| The rain-drops glittered 'mid her hair's long strands, |
| The forest thorns had torn her feet and hands, |
| And 'midst the tears—brave tears—that one could trace |
| Upon the pale but sweetly resolute face, |
| I once again the mournful words could read, |
| "I have tried to do my best—I have, indeed." |
| |
| And now I'm mostly done; my story's o'er; |
| Part of it never breathed the air before. |
| 'Tisn't over-usual, it must be allowed, |
| To volunteer heart-history to a crowd, |
| And scatter 'mongst them confidential tears, |
| But you'll protect an old man with his years; |
| And wheresoe'er this story's voice can reach, |
| This is the sermon I would have it preach: |
| |
| Boys flying kites haul in their white-winged birds: |
| You can't do that way when you're flying words. |
| "Careful with fire," is good advice we know: |
| "Careful with words," is ten times doubly so. |
| Thoughts unexpressed may sometimes fall back dead, |
| But God himself can't kill them when they're said! |
| Yon have my life-grief: do not think a minute |
| 'Twas told to take up time. There's business in it. |
| It sheds advice: whoe'er will take and live it, |
| Is welcome to the pain it cost to give it. |
| |
| Will Carleton. |
| Oh, The Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa; |
| An' he's the goodest man ever you saw! |
| He comes to our house every day, |
| An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay; |
| An' he opens the shed—an' we all ist laugh |
| When he drives out our little old wobblely calf; |
| An' nen—ef our hired girl says he can— |
| He milks the cows fer 'Lizabuth Ann.— |
| Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man? |
| Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! |
| |
| W'y, The Raggedy Man—he's ist so good, |
| He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood; |
| An' nen he spades in our garden, too, |
| An' does most things 'at boys can't do.— |
| He clumbed clean up in our big tree |
| An' shocked a' apple down fer me— |
| An' 'nother 'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann— |
| An' 'nother 'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man.— |
| Ain't he a' awful kind Raggedy Man? |
| Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! |
| |
| An' The Raggedy Man one time say he |
| Pick' roast' rambos from a' orchard-tree, |
| An' et 'em—all ist roas' an' hot! |
| An' it's so, too!—'cause a corn-crib got |
| Afire one time an' all burn' down |
| On "The Smoot Farm," 'bout four mile from town— |
| On "The Smoot Farm"! Yes—an' the hired han' |
| 'At worked there nen 'uz The Raggedy Man! |
| Ain't he the beanin'est Raggedy Man? |
| Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! |
| |
| The Raggedy Man's so good an' kind |
| He'll be our "horsey," an' "Haw" an' mind |
| Ever'thing 'at you make him do— |
| An' won't run off—'less you want him to! |
| I drived him wunst 'way down our lane |
| An' he got skeered, when it 'menced to rain, |
| An' ist rared up an' squealed and run |
| Purt' nigh away!—An' it's all in fun! |
| Nen he skeered ag'in at a' old tin can. |
| Whoa! y' old runaway Raggedy Man! |
| Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! |
| |
| An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes, |
| An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes: |
| Knows 'bout Giants, an' Griffuns, an' Elves, |
| An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers the'rselves! |
| An', wite by the pump la our pasture-lot, |
| He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got, |
| 'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can |
| Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann! |
| Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man! |
| Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man? |
| Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! |
| |
| An' wunst when The Raggedy Man come late, |
| An' pigs ist root' thue the garden-gate, |
| He 'tend like the pigs 'uz bears an' said, |
| "Old Bear-shooter'll shoot 'em dead!" |
| An' race' an' chase' em, an' they'd ist run |
| When he pint his hoe at 'em like it's a gun |
| An' go "Bang!-Bang!" nen 'tend he stan' |
| An' load up his gun ag'in! Raggedy Man! |
| He's an old Bear-Shooter Raggedy Man! |
| Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! |
| |
| An' sometimes The Raggedy Man lets on |
| We're little prince-children, an' old king's gone |
| To get more money, an' lef us there— |
| And Robbers is ist thick ever'where; |
| An' nen-ef we all won't cry, fer shore— |
| The Raggedy Man he'll come and "splore |
| The Castul-halls," an' steal the "gold"— |
| And steal us, too, an' grab an' hold |
| An' pack us off to his old "Cave"!-An' |
| Haymow's the "Cave" o' The Raggedy Man!— |
| Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! |
| |
| The Raggedy Man—one time, when he |
| Wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me, |
| Says "When you're big like your Pa is, |
| Air you go' to keep a fine store like his— |
| An' be a rich merchunt—an' wear fine clothes?— |
| Er what air you go' to be, goodness knows?" |
| An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann, |
| An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man!— |
| I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!" |
| Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! |
| |
| James Whitcomb Riley. |