An' he led me 'cross the fallow, underneath some picnic trees,
Where my gal an' that wheel fellow sat as cosy as you please;
An' she'd put some flowers an' ribbons on the wheel, to make a show,
An' they'd been a-shakin' hands there, an' forgotten to let go;
An' she sort o' made a chair-back of the fellow's other arm,
With no 'parent recollection of Josiah Baker's farm.
Then we walked around front of 'em, an' I says, "Your very fine;
But this gal that you are courtin' is Josiah's gal an' mine;
You're a mighty breechy critter, an' are trespassin' all round;
Why, this very grove you sit in is Josiah's father's ground."
Then he rose up, stiff an' civil, an' helped Belle across the stile,
Also put the masheen over, with a queer but quiet smile;
An' he stood there, like a colonel, with her tremblin' on his arm,
An' remarked, "I beg your pardon, if I've done you any harm.
But so far as 'trespass' matters, I've relieved you of that load,
Since the place I now am standing is, I think, the public road.
And this very sweet young lady, you in one sense yours may call,
But she's mine, sir, in another—and Josiah's not at all.
"I'll escort this lady home, sir, leave my wheel here in your care,
And come back in fifteen minutes to arrange the whole affair.
And please do not touch the 'cycle'—'tis as yet without a flaw,
And I do not want a quarrel with my future father-in-law;
If this Mr. Baker junior follows up his glances, though,
With his fingers, I will thrash him till he thinks his cake is dough."
Then he left us both suspectin' that he'd rather got the start,
An' the acres of the daddies seemed increasin'ly apart;
An' we didn't wait to see him; but, with one impatient jerk,
We shook our heads in concert, an' went back unto our work;
An' I couldn't help reflectin'—"He is steady like, an' cool,
An' that wheel may be a folly, but it didn't bring a fool."
III.
I was on my stoop a-restin', on a hazy autumn day,
Rather drowsy from a dinner that had just been stowed away,
And regrettin'—when old Baker's an' my homestead jined in one.
That he wasn't to furnish daughter, an' I wasn't to furnish son,
So's to have my name continued, 'stead of letting it go down,
When Josiah Baker junior came a drivin' home from town.
An' a little ways behind him came that wheel scamp, ridin' hard,
An' they both to once alighted, an' come walkin' through the yard;
When, as fate was bound to have it, also came my daughter Belle,
From a visit in some neighbor's, lookin' very sweet an' well;
An' they stood there all together—that 'ere strange, dissimilar three,
An' remained in one position—lookin' steady down at me.
Then Josiah spoke up loudly, in a kind o' sudden pet,
"If this gal an' I's to marry, it is time the day was set;
For that one-wheel feller's always 'round here courtin', on the fly,
An' they say she rides out with him, in the night-time, on the sly.
Father'll give us board an' victuals, you can give her land an' dower,
Wherefore, if she wants to have me, please to set the day an' hour."
Then the wheel scamp spoke up quiet, but as if the words he meant,
"I would like to wed your daughter, an' have come for your consent.
She is very dear to me, sir, when we walk or when we ride,
And, I think, is not unwilling to become my cherished bride.
I can give her love and honor, and I ask of you no dower;
Wherefore, please bestow your blessing; we have set the day and hour."