So, resigned, The ready flutist tossed his hat aside— Glanced at the children, smiled, and thus complied.



COUSIN RUFUS' STORY

My little story, Cousin Rufus said, Is not so much a story as a fact. It is about a certain willful boy— An aggrieved, unappreciated boy, Grown to dislike his own home very much, By reason of his parents being not At all up to his rigid standard and Requirements and exactions as a son And disciplinarian.

So, sullenly He brooded over his disheartening Environments and limitations, till, At last, well knowing that the outside world Would yield him favors never found at home, He rose determinedly one July dawn— Even before the call for breakfast—and, Climbing the alley-fence, and bitterly Shaking his clenched fist at the woodpile, he Evanished down the turnpike.—Yes: he had, Once and for all, put into execution His long low-muttered threatenings—He had Run off!—He had—had run away from home!

His parents, at discovery of his flight, Bore up first-rate—especially his Pa,— Quite possibly recalling his own youth, And therefrom predicating, by high noon, The absent one was very probably Disporting his nude self in the delights Of the old swimmin'-hole, some hundred yards Below the slaughter-house, just east of town. The stoic father, too, in his surmise Was accurate—For, lo! the boy was there!

And there, too, he remained throughout the day— Save at one starving interval in which He clad his sunburnt shoulders long enough To shy across a wheatfield, shadow-like, And raid a neighboring orchard—bitterly, And with spasmodic twitchings of the lip, Bethinking him how all the other boys Had homes to go to at the dinner-hour— While he—alas!—he had no home!—At least These very words seemed rising mockingly, Until his every thought smacked raw and sour And green and bitter as the apples he In vain essayed to stay his hunger with. Nor did he join the glad shouts when the boys Returned rejuvenated for the long Wet revel of the feverish afternoon.— Yet, bravely, as his comrades splashed and swam And spluttered, in their weltering merriment, He tried to laugh, too,—but his voice was hoarse And sounded to him like some other boy's. And then he felt a sudden, poking sort Of sickness at the heart, as though some cold And scaly pain were blindly nosing it Down in the dreggy darkness of his breast. The tensioned pucker of his purple lips Grew ever chillier and yet more tense— The central hurt of it slow spreading till It did possess the little face entire. And then there grew to be a knuckled knot— An aching kind of core within his throat— An ache, all dry and swallowless, which seemed To ache on just as bad when he'd pretend He didn't notice it as when he did. It was a kind of a conceited pain— An overbearing, self-assertive and Barbaric sort of pain that clean outhurt A boy's capacity for suffering— So, many times, the little martyr needs Must turn himself all suddenly and dive From sight of his hilarious playmates and Surreptitiously weep under water.

Thus He wrestled with his awful agony Till almost dark; and then, at last—then, with The very latest lingering group of his Companions, he moved turgidly toward home— Nay, rather oozed that way, so slow he went,— With lothful, hesitating, loitering, Reluctant, late-election-returns air, Heightened somewhat by the conscience-made resolve Of chopping a double-armful of wood As he went in by rear way of the kitchen. And this resolve he executed;—yet The hired girl made no comment whatsoever, But went on washing up the supper-things, Crooning the unutterably sad song, "Then think, Oh, think how lonely this heart must ever be!" Still, with affected carelessness, the boy Ranged through the pantry; but the cupboard-door Was locked. He sighed then like a wet fore-stick And went out on the porch.—At least the pump, He prophesied, would meet him kindly and Shake hands with him and welcome his return! And long he held the old tin dipper up— And oh, how fresh and pure and sweet the draught! Over the upturned brim, with grateful eyes He saw the back-yard, in the gathering night, Vague, dim and lonesome, but it all looked good: The lightning-bugs, against the grape-vines, blinked A sort of sallow gladness over his Home-coming, with this softening of the heart. He did not leave the dipper carelessly In the milk-trough.—No: he hung it back upon Its old nail thoughtfully—even tenderly. All slowly then he turned and sauntered toward The rain-barrel at the corner of the house, And, pausing, peered into it at the few Faint stars reflected there. Then—moved by some Strange impulse new to him—he washed his feet. He then went in the house—straight on into The very room where sat his parents by The evening lamp.—The father all intent Reading his paper, and the mother quite As intent with her sewing. Neither looked Up at his entrance—even reproachfully,— And neither spoke.

The wistful runaway Drew a long, quavering breath, and then sat down Upon the extreme edge of a chair. And all Was very still there for a long, long while.— Yet everything, someway, seemed restful-like And homey and old-fashioned, good and kind, And sort of kin to him!—Only too still! If somebody would say something—just speak— Or even rise up suddenly and come And lift him by the ear sheer off his chair— Or box his jaws—Lord bless 'em!—anything!— Was he not there to thankfully accept Any reception from parental source Save this incomprehensible voicelessness. O but the silence held its very breath! If but the ticking clock would only strike And for an instant drown the whispering, Lisping, sifting sound the katydids Made outside in the grassy nowhere.

Far Down some back-street he heard the faint halloo Of boys at their night-game of "Town-fox," But now with no desire at all to be Participating in their sport—No; no;— Never again in this world would he want To join them there!—he only wanted just To stay in home of nights—Always—always— Forever and a day!

He moved; and coughed— Coughed hoarsely, too, through his rolled tongue; and yet No vaguest of parental notice or Solicitude in answer—no response— No word—no look. O it was deathly still!— So still it was that really he could not Remember any prior silence that At all approached it in profundity And depth and density of utter hush. He felt that he himself must break it: So, Summoning every subtle artifice Of seeming nonchalance and native ease And naturalness of utterance to his aid, And gazing raptly at the house-cat where She lay curled in her wonted corner of The hearth-rug, dozing, he spoke airily And said: "I see you've got the same old cat!"



BEWILDERING EMOTIONS

The merriment that followed was subdued— As though the story-teller's attitude Were dual, in a sense, appealing quite As much to sorrow as to mere delight, According, haply, to the listener's bent Either of sad or merry temperament.— "And of your two appeals I much prefer The pathos," said "The Noted Traveler,"— "For should I live to twice my present years, I know I could not quite forget the tears That child-eyes bleed, the little palms nailed wide, And quivering soul and body crucified.... But, bless 'em! there are no such children here To-night, thank God!—Come here to me, my dear!" He said to little Alex, in a tone So winning that the sound of it alone Had drawn a child more lothful to his knee:— "And, now-sir, I'll agree if you'll agree,— You tell us all a story, and then I Will tell one."

"But I can't."

"Well, can't you try?" "Yes, Mister: he kin tell one. Alex, tell The one, you know, 'at you made up so well, About the Bear. He allus tells that one," Said Bud,—"He gits it mixed some 'bout the gun An' ax the Little Boy had, an' apples, too."— Then Uncle Mart said—"There, now! that'll do!— Let Alex tell his story his own way!" And Alex, prompted thus, without delay Began.



THE BEAR-STORY

THAT ALEX "IST MAKED UP HIS-OWN-SE'F"

W'y, wunst they wuz a Little Boy went out In the woods to shoot a Bear. So, he went out 'Way in the grea'-big woods—he did.—An' he Wuz goin'along—an'goin'along, you know, An' purty soon he heerd somepin' go "Wooh!"— Ist thataway—"Woo-ooh!" An' he wuz skeered, He wuz. An' so he runned an' clumbed a tree— A grea'-big tree, he did,—a sicka-more tree. An' nen he heerd it agin: an' he looked round, An' 't'uz a Bear!—a grea'-big, shore-nuff Bear!— No: 't'uz two Bears, it wuz—two grea'-big Bears— One of 'em wuz—ist one's a grea'-big Bear.— But they ist boff went "Wooh! "—An' here they come To climb the tree an' git the Little Boy An'eat him up!

An' nen the Little Boy He 'uz skeered worse'n ever! An' here come The grea'-big Bear a-climbin' th' tree to git The Little Boy an' eat him up—Oh, no!— It 'uzn't the Big Bear 'at clumb the tree— It 'uz the Little Bear. So here he come Climbin' the tree—an' climbin' the tree! Nen when He git wite clos't to the Little Boy, w'y nen The Little Boy he ist pulled up his gun An' shot the Bear, he did, an' killed him dead! An' nen the Bear he falled clean on down out The tree—away clean to the ground, he did Spling-splung! he falled plum down, an' killed him, too! An' lit wite side o' where the' Big Bear's at.

An' nen the Big Bear's awful mad, you bet!— 'Cause—'cause the Little Boy he shot his gun An' killed the Little Bear.—'Cause the Big Bear He—he 'uz the Little Bear's Papa.—An' so here He come to climb the big old tree an' git The Little Boy an' eat him up! An' when The Little Boy he saw the grea'-big Bear A-comin', he 'uz badder skeered, he wuz, Than any time! An' so he think he'll climb Up higher—'way up higher in the tree Than the old Bear kin climb, you know.—But he— He can't climb higher 'an old Bears kin climb,— 'Cause Bears kin climb up higher in the trees Than any little Boys In all the Wo-r-r-ld!

An' so here come the grea'-big Bear, he did,— A-climbin' up—an' up the tree, to git The Little Boy an' eat him up! An' so The Little Boy he clumbed on higher, an' higher. An' higher up the tree—an' higher—an' higher— An' higher'n iss-here house is!—An' here come Th' old Bear—clos'ter to him all the time!— An' nen—first thing you know,—when th' old Big Bear Wuz wite clos't to him—nen the Little Boy Ist jabbed his gun wite in the old Bear's mouf An' shot an' killed him dead!—No; I fergot,— He didn't shoot the grea'-big Bear at all— 'Cause they 'uz no load in the gun, you know— 'Cause when he shot the Little Bear, w'y, nen No load 'uz anymore nen in the gun!

But th' Little Boy clumbed higher up, he did— He clumbed lots higher—an' on up higher—an' higher An' higher—tel he ist can't climb no higher, 'Cause nen the limbs 'uz all so little, 'way Up in the teeny-weeny tip-top of The tree, they'd break down wiv him ef he don't Be keerful! So he stop an' think: An' nen He look around—An' here come th' old Bear! An' so the Little Boy make up his mind He's got to ist git out o' there some way!— 'Cause here come the old Bear!—so clos't, his bref's Purt 'nigh so's he kin feel how hot it is Aginst his bare feet—ist like old "Ring's" bref When he's ben out a-huntin' an's all tired. So when th' old Bear's so clos't—the Little Boy Ist gives a grea'-big jump fer 'nother tree— No!—no he don't do that!—I tell you what The Little Boy does:—W'y, nen—w'y, he—Oh, yes— The Little Boy he finds a hole up there 'At's in the tree—an' climbs in there an' hides— An' nen the old Bear can't find the Little Boy Ut-tall!—But, purty soon th' old Bear finds The Little Boy's gun 'at's up there—'cause the gun It's too tall to tooked wiv him in the hole. So, when the old Bear find' the gun, he knows The Little Boy ist hid 'round somers there,— An' th' old Bear 'gins to snuff an' sniff around, An' sniff an' snuff around—so's he kin find Out where the Little Boy's hid at.—An' nen—nen— Oh, yes!—W'y, purty soon the old Bear climbs 'Way out on a big limb—a grea'-long limb,— An' nen the Little Boy climbs out the hole An' takes his ax an' chops the limb off!... Nen The old Bear falls k-splunge! clean to the ground An' bust an' kill hisse'f plum dead, he did!

An' nen the Little Boy he git his gun An' 'menced a-climbin' down the tree agin— No!—no, he didn't git his gun—'cause when The Bear falled, nen the gun falled, too—An' broked It all to pieces, too!—An' nicest gun!— His Pa ist buyed it!—An' the Little Boy Ist cried, he did; an' went on climbin' down The tree—an' climbin' down—an' climbin' down!— An'-sir! when he 'uz purt'-nigh down,—w'y, nen The old Bear he jumped up agin!—an he Ain't dead ut-tall—ist 'tendin' thataway, So he kin git the Little Boy an' eat Him up! But the Little Boy he 'uz too smart To climb clean down the tree.—An' the old Bear He can't climb up the tree no more—'cause when He fell, he broke one of his—He broke all His legs!—an' nen he couldn't climb! But he Ist won't go 'way an' let the Little Boy Come down out of the tree. An' the old Bear Ist growls 'round there, he does—ist growls an' goes "Wooh! woo-ooh!" all the time! An' Little Boy He haf to stay up in the tree—all night— An' 'thout no supper neever!—Only they Wuz apples on the tree!—An' Little Boy Et apples—ist all night—an' cried—an' cried! Nen when 'tuz morning th' old Bear went "Wooh!" Agin, an' try to climb up in the tree An' git the Little Boy.—But he can't Climb t'save his soul, he can't!—An' oh! he's mad!— He ist tear up the ground! an' go "Woo-ooh!" An'—Oh,yes!—purty soon, when morning's come All light—so's you kin see, you know,—w'y, nen The old Bear finds the Little Boy's gun, you know, 'At's on the ground.—(An' it ain't broke ut-tall— I ist said that!) An' so the old Bear think He'll take the gun an' shoot the Little Boy:— But Bears they don't know much 'bout shootin' guns: So when he go to shoot the Little Boy, The old Bear got the other end the gun Agin his shoulder, 'stid o' th'other end— So when he try to shoot the Little Boy, It shot the Bear, it did—an' killed him dead! An' nen the Little Boy dumb down the tree An' chopped his old wooly head off:—Yes, an' killed The other Bear agin, he did—an' killed All boff the bears, he did—an' tuk 'em home An' cooked 'em, too, an' et 'em!

—An' that's



THE PATHOS OF APPLAUSE

The greeting of the company throughout Was like a jubilee,—the children's shout And fusillading hand-claps, with great guns And detonations of the older ones, Raged to such tumult of tempestuous joy, It even more alarmed than pleased the boy; Till, with a sudden twitching lip, he slid Down to the floor and dodged across and hid His face against his mother as she raised Him to the shelter of her heart, and praised His story in low whisperings, and smoothed The "amber-colored hair," and kissed, and soothed And lulled him back to sweet tranquillity— "And 'ats a sign 'at you're the Ma fer me!" He lisped, with gurgling ecstasy, and drew Her closer, with shut eyes; and feeling, too, If he could only purr now like a cat, He would undoubtedly be doing that!

"And now"—the serious host said, lifting there A hand entreating silence;—"now, aware Of the good promise of our Traveler guest To add some story with and for the rest, I think I favor you, and him as well, Asking a story I have heard him tell, And know its truth,in each minute detail:" Then leaning on his guest's chair, with a hale Hand-pat by way of full indorsement, he Said, "Yes—the Free-Slave story—certainly."

The old man, with his waddy notebook out, And glittering spectacles, glanced round about The expectant circle, and still firmer drew His hat on, with a nervous cough or two: And, save at times the big hard words, and tone Of gathering passion—all the speaker's own,— The tale that set each childish heart astir Was thus told by "The Noted Traveler."



TOLD BY "THE NOTED TRAVELER"

Coming, clean from the Maryland-end Of this great National Road of ours, Through your vast West; with the time to spend, Stopping for days in the main towns, where Every citizen seemed a friend, And friends grew thick as the wayside flowers,— I found no thing that I might narrate More singularly strange or queer Than a thing I found in your sister-state Ohio,—at a river-town—down here In my notebook: Zanesville—situate On the stream Muskingum—broad and clear, And navigable, through half the year, North, to Coshocton; south, as far As Marietta.—But these facts are Not of the story, but the scene Of the simple little tale I mean To tell directly—from this, straight through To the end that is best worth listening to:

Eastward of Zanesville, two or three Miles from the town, as our stage drove in, I on the driver's seat, and he Pointing out this and that to me,— On beyond us—among the rest— A grovey slope, and a fluttering throng Of little children, which he "guessed" Was a picnic, as we caught their thin High laughter, as we drove along, Clearer and clearer. Then suddenly He turned and asked, with a curious grin, What were my views on Slavery? "Why?" I asked, in return, with a wary eye. "Because," he answered, pointing his whip At a little, whitewashed house and shed On the edge of the road by the grove ahead,— "Because there are two slaves there," he said— "Two Black slaves that I've passed each trip For eighteen years.—Though they've been set free, They have been slaves ever since!" said he. And, as our horses slowly drew Nearer the little house in view, All briefly I heard the history Of this little old Negro woman and Her husband, house and scrap of land; How they were slaves and had been made free By their dying master, years ago In old Virginia; and then had come North here into a free state—so, Safe forever, to found a home— For themselves alone?—for they left South there Five strong sons, who had, alas! All been sold ere it came to pass This first old master with his last breath Had freed the parents.—(He went to death Agonized and in dire despair That the poor slave children might not share Their parents' freedom. And wildly then He moaned for pardon and died. Amen!)

Thus, with their freedom, and little sum Of money left them, these two had come North, full twenty long years ago; And, settling there, they had hopefully Gone to work, in their simple way, Hauling—gardening—raising sweet Corn, and popcorn.—Bird and bee In the garden-blooms and the apple-tree Singing with them throughout the slow Summer's day, with its dust and heat— The crops that thirst and the rains that fail; Or in Autumn chill, when the clouds hung low, And hand-made hominy might find sale In the near town-market; or baking pies And cakes, to range in alluring show At the little window, where the eyes Of the Movers' children, driving past, Grew fixed, till the big white wagons drew Into a halt that would sometimes last Even the space of an hour or two— As the dusty, thirsty travelers made Their noonings there in the beeches' shade By the old black Aunty's spring-house, where, Along with its cooling draughts, were found Jugs of her famous sweet spruce-beer, Served with her gingerbread-horses there, While Aunty's snow-white cap bobbed 'round Till the children's rapture knew no bound, As she sang and danced for them, quavering clear And high the chant of her old slave-days—

"Oh, Lo'd, Jinny! my toes is so', Dancin' on yo' sandy flo'!"

Even so had they wrought all ways To earn the pennies, and hoard them, too,— And with what ultimate end in view?— They were saving up money enough to be Able, in time, to buy their own Five children back.

Ah! the toil gone through! And the long delays and the heartaches, too, And self-denials that they had known! But the pride and glory that was theirs When they first hitched up their shackly cart For the long, long journey South.—The start In the first drear light of the chilly dawn, With no friends gathered in grieving throng,— With no farewells and favoring prayers; But, as they creaked and jolted on, Their chiming voices broke in song—

"'Hail, all hail! don't you see the stars a-fallin'? Hail, all hail! I'm on my way. Gideon[1] am A healin' ba'm— I belong to the blood-washed army. Gideon am A healin' ba'm— On my way!'"

And their return!—with their oldest boy Along with them! Why, their happiness Spread abroad till it grew a joy Universal—It even reached And thrilled the town till the Church was stirred Into suspecting that wrong was wrong!— And it stayed awake as the preacher preached A Real "Love"-text that he had not long To ransack for in the Holy Word.

And the son, restored, and welcomed so, Found service readily in the town; And, with the parents, sure and slow, He went "saltin' de cole cash down."

So with the next boy—and each one In turn, till four of the five at last Had been bought back; and, in each case, With steady work and good homes not Far from the parents, they chipped in To the family fund, with an equal grace. Thus they managed and planned and wrought, And the old folks throve—Till the night before They were to start for the lone last son In the rainy dawn—their money fast Hid away in the house,—two mean, Murderous robbers burst the door. ...Then, in the dark, was a scuffle—a fall— An old man's gasping cry—and then A woman's fife-like shriek.

...Three men Splashing by on horseback heard The summons: And in an instant all Sprung to their duty, with scarce a word. And they were in time—not only to save The lives of the old folks, but to bag Both the robbers, and buck-and-gag And land them safe in the county-jail— Or, as Aunty said, with a blended awe And subtlety,—"Safe in de calaboose whah De dawgs caint bite 'em!"

—So prevail The faithful!—So had the Lord upheld His servants of both deed and prayer,— HIS the glory unparalleled— Theirs the reward,—their every son Free, at last, as the parents were! And, as the driver ended there In front of the little house, I said, All fervently, "Well done! well done!" At which he smiled, and turned his head And pulled on the leaders' lines and—"See!" He said,—"'you can read old Aunty's sign?" And, peering down through these specs of mine On a little, square board-sign, I read:

"Stop, traveler, if you think it fit, And quench your thirst for a-fip-and-a-bit. The rocky spring is very clear, And soon converted into beer."

And, though I read aloud, I could Scarce hear myself for laugh and shout Of children—a glad multitude Of little people, swarming out Of the picnic-grounds I spoke about.— And in their rapturous midst, I see Again—through mists of memory— A black old Negress laughing up At the driver, with her broad lips rolled Back from her teeth, chalk-white, and gums Redder than reddest red-ripe plums. He took from her hand the lifted cup Of clear spring-water, pure and cold, And passed it to me: And I raised my hat And drank to her with a reverence that My conscience knew was justly due The old black face, and the old eyes, too— The old black head, with its mossy mat Of hair, set under its cap and frills White as the snows on Alpine hills; Drank to the old black smile, but yet Bright as the sun on the violet,— Drank to the gnarled and knuckled old Black hands whose palms had ached and bled And pitilessly been worn pale And white almost as the palms that hold Slavery's lash while the victim's wail Fails as a crippled prayer might fail.— Aye, with a reverence infinite, I drank to the old black face and head— The old black breast with its life of light— The old black hide with its heart of gold.



HEAT-LIGHTNING

There was a curious quiet for a space Directly following: and in the face Of one rapt listener pulsed the flush and glow Of the heat-lightning that pent passions throw Long ere the crash of speech.—He broke the spell— The host:—The Traveler's story, told so well, He said, had wakened there within his breast A yearning, as it were, to know the rest— That all unwritten sequence that the Lord Of Righteousness must write with flame and sword, Some awful session of His patient thought— Just then it was, his good old mother caught His blazing eye—so that its fire became But as an ember—though it burned the same. It seemed to her, she said, that she had heard It was the Heavenly Parent never erred, And not the earthly one that had such grace: "Therefore, my son," she said, with lifted face And eyes, "let no one dare anticipate The Lord's intent. While He waits, we will wait" And with a gust of reverence genuine Then Uncle Mart was aptly ringing in—

"'If the darkened heavens lower, Wrap thy cloak around thy form; Though the tempest rise in power, God is mightier than the storm!'"

Which utterance reached the restive children all As something humorous. And then a call For him to tell a story, or to "say A funny piece." His face fell right away: He knew no story worthy. Then he must Declaim for them: In that, he could not trust His memory. And then a happy thought Struck some one, who reached in his vest and brought Some scrappy clippings into light and said There was a poem of Uncle Mart's he read Last April in "The Sentinel." He had It there in print, and knew all would be glad To hear it rendered by the author.

And, All reasons for declining at command Exhausted, the now helpless poet rose And said: "I am discovered, I suppose. Though I have taken all precautions not To sign my name to any verses wrought By my transcendent genius, yet, you see, Fame wrests my secret from me bodily; So I must needs confess I did this deed Of poetry red-handed, nor can plead One whit of unintention in my crime— My guilt of rhythm and my glut of rhyme.—

"Maenides rehearsed a tale of arms, And Naso told of curious metatmurphoses; Unnumbered pens have pictured woman's charms, While crazy I've made poetry on purposes!"

In other words, I stand convicted—need I say—by my own doing, as I read.



UNCLE MART'S POEM

THE OLD SNOW-MAN

Ho! the old Snow-Man That Noey Bixler made! He looked as fierce and sassy As a soldier on parade!— 'Cause Noey, when he made him, While we all wuz gone, you see, He made him, jist a-purpose, Jist as fierce as he could be!— But when we all got ust to him, Nobody wuz afraid Of the old Snow-Man That Noey Bixler made!

'Cause Noey told us 'bout him And what he made him fer:— He'd come to feed, that morning He found we wuzn't here; And so the notion struck him, When we all come taggin' home 'Tud s'prise us ef a' old Snow-Man 'Ud meet us when we come! So, when he'd fed the stock, and milked, And ben back home, and chopped His wood, and et his breakfast, he Jist grabbed his mitts and hopped Right in on that-air old Snow-Man That he laid out he'd make Er bust a trace a-tryin'—jist Fer old-acquaintance sake!— But work like that wuz lots more fun. He said, than when he played! Ho! the old Snow-Man That Noey Bixler made!

He started with a big snow-ball, And rolled it all around; And as he rolled, more snow 'ud stick And pull up off the ground.— He rolled and rolled all round the yard— 'Cause we could see the track, All wher' the snow come off, you know, And left it wet and black. He got the Snow-Man's legs-part rolled— In front the kitchen-door,— And then he hat to turn in then And roll and roll some more!— He rolled the yard all round agin, And round the house, at that— Clean round the house and back to wher' The blame legs-half wuz at! He said he missed his dinner, too— Jist clean fergot and stayed There workin'. Ho! the old Snow-Man That Noey Bixler made!

And Noey said he hat to hump To git the top-half on The legs-half!—When he did, he said, His wind wuz purt'-nigh gone.— He said, I jucks! he jist drapped down There on the old porch-floor And panted like a dog!—And then He up! and rolled some more!— The last batch—that wuz fer his head,— And—time he'd got it right And clumb and fixed it on, he said— He hat to quit fer night!— And then, he said, he'd kep' right on Ef they'd ben any moon To work by! So he crawled in bed— And could a-slep' tel noon, He wuz so plum wore out! he said,— But it wuz washin'-day, And hat to cut a cord o' wood 'Fore he could git away!

But, last, he got to work agin,— With spade, and gouge, and hoe, And trowel, too—(All tools 'ud do What Noey said, you know!) He cut his eyebrows out like cliffs— And his cheekbones and chin Stuck furder out—and his old nose Stuck out as fur-agin! He made his eyes o' walnuts, And his whiskers out o' this Here buggy-cushion stuffin'—moss, The teacher says it is. And then he made a' old wood'-gun, Set keerless-like, you know, Acrost one shoulder—kindo' like Big Foot, er Adam Poe— Er, mayby, Simon Girty, The dinged old Renegade! Wooh! the old Snow-Man That Noey Bixler made!

And there he stood, all fierce and grim, A stern, heroic form: What was the winter blast to him, And what the driving storm?— What wonder that the children pressed Their faces at the pane And scratched away the frost, in pride To look on him again?— What wonder that, with yearning bold, Their all of love and care Went warmest through the keenest cold To that Snow-Man out there!

But the old Snow-Man— What a dubious delight He grew at last when Spring came on And days waxed warm and bright.— Alone he stood—all kith and kin Of snow and ice were gone;— Alone, with constant teardrops in His eyes and glittering on His thin, pathetic beard of black— Grief in a hopeless cause!— Hope—hope is for the man that dies— What for the man that thaws! O Hero of a hero's make!— Let marble melt and fade, But never you—you old Snow-Man That Noey Bixler made!



"LITTLE JACK JANITOR"

And there, in that ripe Summer-night, once more A wintry coolness through the open door And window seemed to touch each glowing face Refreshingly; and, for a fleeting space, The quickened fancy, through the fragrant air, Saw snowflakes whirling where the roseleaves were, And sounds of veriest jingling bells again Were heard in tinkling spoons and glasses then.

Thus Uncle Mart's old poem sounded young And crisp and fresh and clear as when first sung, Away back in the wakening of Spring When his rhyme and the robin, chorusing, Rumored, in duo-fanfare, of the soon Invading johnny-jump-ups, with platoon On platoon of sweet-williams, marshaled fine To bloomed blarings of the trumpet-vine.

The poet turned to whisperingly confer A moment with "The Noted Traveler." Then left the room, tripped up the stairs, and then An instant later reappeared again, Bearing a little, lacquered box, or chest, Which, as all marked with curious interest, He gave to the old Traveler, who in One hand upheld it, pulling back his thin Black lustre coat-sleeves, saying he had sent Up for his "Magic Box," and that he meant To test it there—especially to show The Children. "It is empty now, you know."— He humped it with his knuckles, so they heard The hollow sound—"But lest it be inferred It is not really empty, I will ask Little Jack Janitor, whose pleasant task It is to keep it ship-shape."

Then he tried And rapped the little drawer in the side, And called out sharply "Are you in there, Jack?" And then a little, squeaky voice came back,— "Of course I'm in here—ain't you got the key Turned on me!"

Then the Traveler leisurely Felt through his pockets, and at last took out The smallest key they ever heard about!— It,wasn't any longer than a pin: And this at last he managed to fit in The little keyhole, turned it, and then cried, "Is everything swept out clean there inside?" "Open the drawer and see!—Don't talk to much; Or else," the little voice squeaked, "talk in Dutch— You age me, asking questions!"

Then the man Looked hurt, so that the little folks began To feel so sorry for him, he put down His face against the box and had to frown.— "Come, sir!" he called,—"no impudence to me!— You've swept out clean?"

"Open the drawer and see!" And so he drew the drawer out: Nothing there, But just the empty drawer, stark and bare. He shoved it back again, with a shark click.—

"Ouch!" yelled the little voice—"un-snap it—quick!— You've got my nose pinched in the crack!"

And then The frightened man drew out the drawer again, The little voice exclaiming, "Jeemi-nee!— Say what you want, but please don't murder me!"

"Well, then," the man said, as he closed the drawer With care, "I want some cotton-batting for My supper! Have you got it?"

And inside, All muffled like, the little voice replied, "Open the drawer and see!"

And, sure enough, He drew it out, filled with the cotton stuff. He then asked for a candle to be brought And held for him: and tuft by tuft he caught And lit the cotton, and, while blazing, took It in his mouth and ate it, with a look Of purest satisfaction.

"Now," said he, "I've eaten the drawer empty, let me see What this is in my mouth:" And with both hands He began drawing from his lips long strands Of narrow silken ribbons, every hue And tint;—and crisp they were and bright and new As if just purchased at some Fancy-Store. "And now, Bub, bring your cap," he said, "before Something might happen!" And he stuffed the cap Full of the ribbons. "There, my little chap, Hold tight to them," he said, "and take them to The ladies there, for they know what to do With all such rainbow finery!"

He smiled Half sadly, as it seemed, to see the child Open his cap first to his mother..... There Was not a ribbon in it anywhere! "Jack Janitor!" the man said sternly through The Magic Box—"Jack Janitor, did you Conceal those ribbons anywhere?"

"Well, yes," The little voice piped—"but you'd never guess The place I hid 'em if you'd guess a year!"

"Well, won't you tell me?"

"Not until you clear Your mean old conscience" said the voice, "and make Me first do something for the Children's sake."

"Well, then, fill up the drawer," the Traveler said, "With whitest white on earth and reddest red!— Your terms accepted—Are you satisfied?"

"Open the drawer and see!" the voice replied.

"Why, bless my soul!"—the man said, as he drew The contents of the drawer into view— "It's level-full of candy!—Pass it 'round— Jack Janitor shan't steal that, I'll be bound!"— He raised and crunched a stick of it and smacked His lips.—"Yes, that is candy, for a fact!— And it's all yours!"

And how the children there Lit into it!—O never anywhere Was such a feast of sweetness!

"And now, then," The man said, as the empty drawer again Slid to its place, he bending over it,— "Now, then, Jack Janitor, before we quit Our entertainment for the evening, tell Us where you hid the ribbons—can't you?"

"Well," The squeaky little voice drawled sleepily— "Under your old hat, maybe.—Look and see!"

All carefully the man took off his hat: But there was not a ribbon under that.— He shook his heavy hair, and all in vain The old white hat—then put it on again: "Now, tell me, honest, Jack, where did you hide The ribbons?"

"Under your hat" the voice replied.— "Mind! I said 'under' and not 'in' it.—Won't You ever take the hint on earth?—or don't You want to show folks where the ribbons at?— Law! but I'm sleepy!—Under—unner your hat!"

Again the old man carefully took off The empty hat, with an embarrassed cough, Saying, all gravely to the children: "You Must promise not to laugh—you'll all want to— When you see where Jack Janitor has dared To hide those ribbons—when he might have spared My feelings.—But no matter!—Know the worst— Here are the ribbons, as I feared at first."— And, quick as snap of thumb and finger, there The old man's head had not a sign of hair, And in his lap a wig of iron-gray Lay, stuffed with all that glittering array Of ribbons ... "Take 'em to the ladies—Yes. Good-night to everybody, and God bless The Children."

In a whisper no one missed The Hired Man yawned: "He's a vantrilloquist"

* * * * *

So gloried all the night Each trundle-bed And pallet was enchanted—each child-head Was packed with happy dreams. And long before The dawn's first far-off rooster crowed, the snore Of Uncle Mart was stilled, as round him pressed The bare arms of the wakeful little guest That he had carried home with him....

"I think," An awed voice said—"(No: I don't want a dwink.— Lay still.)—I think 'The Noted Traveler' he 'S the inscrutibul-est man I ever see!"

[Footnote 1: Gilead—evidently.—[Editor.]

THE END