eyes could say With looks that made her meaning clear as day. And, knowing now the children, you must know The father and the mother they loved so:— The father was a swarthy man, black-eyed, Black-haired, and high of forehead; and, beside The slender little mother, seemed in truth A very king of men—since, from his youth, To his hale manhood
now—(worthy as then— A lawyer and a leading citizen Of the proud little town and county-seat— His hopes his neighbors', and their fealty sweet)— He had known outdoor labor—rain and shine— Bleak Winter, and bland Summer—foul and fine. So Nature had ennobled him and set Her symbol on him like a coronet: His lifted brow, and frank, reliant face.— Superior of stature as of grace, Even the children by the spell were wrought Up to heroics of their simple thought, And saw him, trim of build, and lithe and straight And tall, almost, as at the pasture-gate The towering ironweed the scythe had spared For their sakes, when The Hired Man declared It would grow on till it became a
tree, With cocoanuts and monkeys in—maybe! Yet, though the children, in their pride and awe And admiration of the father, saw A being so exalted—even more Like adoration was the love they bore The gentle mother.—Her mild, plaintive face Was purely fair, and haloed with a grace And sweetness luminous when joy made glad Her features with a smile; or saintly sad As twilight, fell the sympathetic gloom Of any childish grief, or as a room Were darkened suddenly, the curtain drawn Across the window and the sunshine gone. Her brow, below her fair hair's glimmering strands, Seemed meetest resting-place for blessing hands Or holiest touches of soft finger-tips And little roseleaf-cheeks and dewy lips. Though heavy household tasks were pitiless, No little waist or coat or checkered dress But knew her needle's deftness; and no skill Matched hers in shaping pleat or flounce or frill; Or fashioning, in complicate design, All rich embroideries of leaf and vine, With tiniest twining tendril—bud and bloom And fruit, so like, one's fancy caught perfume And dainty touch and taste of them, to see Their semblance wrought in such rare verity. Shrined in her sanctity of home and love, And love's fond service and reward thereof, Restore her thus, O blessed Memory!— Throned in her rocking-chair, and on her knee Her sewing—her workbasket on the floor Beside her—Springtime through the open door Balmily stealing in and all about The room; the bees' dim hum, and the far shout And laughter of the children at their play, And neighbor-children from across the way Calling in gleeful challenge—save alone One boy whose voice sends back no answering tone— The boy, prone on the floor, above a book Of pictures, with a rapt, ecstatic look— Even as the mother's, by the selfsame spell, Is lifted, with a light ineffable— As though her senses caught no mortal cry, But heard, instead, some poem going by. The Child-heart is so strange a little thing— So mild—so timorously shy and small.— When
grown-up hearts throb, it goes scampering Behind the wall, nor dares peer out at all!— It is the veriest mouse That hides in any house— So wild a little thing is any Child-heart!
Child-heart!—mild heart!— Ho, my little wild heart!— Come up here to me out o' the dark, Or let me come to you! So lorn at times the Child-heart needs must be. With never one maturer heart for friend And comrade, whose tear-ripened sympathy And love might lend it comfort to the end— Whose yearnings, aches and stings. Over poor little things Were pitiful as ever any Child-heart.
Child-heart!—mild heart!— Ho, my little wild heart!— Come up here to me out o' the dark, Or let me come to you! Times, too, the little Child-heart must be glad— Being so young, nor knowing, as
we know. The fact from fantasy, the good from bad, The joy from woe, the—
all that hurts us so! What wonder then that thus It hides away from us?— So weak a little thing is any Child-heart!
Child-heart!—mild heart!— Ho, my little wild heart!— Come up here to me out o' the dark, Or let me come to you! Nay, little Child-heart, you have never need To fear
us—we are weaker far than you— Tis
we who should be fearful—we indeed Should hide us, too, as darkly as you do— Safe, as yourself, withdrawn, Hearing the World roar on Too willful, woful, awful for the Child-heart!
Child-heart!—mild heart!— Ho, my little wild heart!— Come up here to me out o' the dark, Or let me come to you! The clock chats on confidingly; a rose Taps at the window, as the sunlight throws A brilliant, jostling checkerwork of shine And shadow, like a Persian-loom design, Across the homemade carpet—fades—and then The dear old colors are themselves again. Sounds drop in visiting from everywhere— The bluebird's and the robin's trill are there, Their sweet liquidity diluted some By dewy orchard spaces they have come: Sounds of the town, too, and the great highway— The Mover-wagons' rumble, and the neigh Of overtraveled horses, and the bleat Of sheep and low of cattle through the street— A Nation's thoroughfare of hopes and fears, First blazed by the heroic pioneers Who gave up old-home idols and set face Toward the unbroken West, to found a race And tame a wilderness now mightier than All peoples and all tracts American. Blent with all outer sounds, the sounds within:— In mild remoteness falls the household din Of porch and kitchen: the dull jar and thump Of churning; and the "glung-glung" of the pump, With sudden pad and skurry of bare feet Of little outlaws, in from field or street: The clang of kettle—rasp of damper-ring And bang of cookstove-door—and everything That jingles in a busy kitchen lifts Its individual wrangling voice and drifts In sweetest tinny, coppery, pewtery tone Of music hungry ear has ever known In wildest famished yearning and conceit Of youth, to just cut loose and eat and eat!— The zest of hunger still incited on To childish desperation by long-drawn Breaths of hot, steaming, wholesome things that stew And blubber, and up-tilt the pot-lids, too, Filling the sense with zestful rumors of The dear old-fashioned dinners children love: Redolent savorings of home-cured meats, Potatoes, beans, and cabbage; turnips, beets And parsnips—rarest composite entire That ever pushed a mortal child's desire To madness by new-grated fresh, keen, sharp Horseradish—tang that sets the lips awarp And watery, anticipating all The cloyed sweets of the glorious festival.— Still add the cinnamony, spicy scents Of clove, nutmeg, and myriad condiments In like-alluring whiffs that prophesy Of sweltering pudding, cake, and custard pie— The swooning-sweet aroma haunting all The house—upstairs and down—porch, parlor, hall And sitting-room—invading even where The Hired Man sniffs it in the orchard-air, And pauses in his pruning of the trees To note the sun minutely and to—sneeze. Then Cousin Rufus comes—the children hear His hale voice in the old hall, ringing clear As any bell. Always he came with song Upon his lips and all the happy throng Of echoes following him, even as the crowd Of his admiring little kinsmen—proud To have a cousin
grown—and yet as young Of soul and cheery as the songs he sung. He was a student of the law—intent Soundly to win success, with all it meant; And so he studied—even as he played— With all his heart: And so it was he made His gallant fight for fortune—through all stress Of battle bearing him with cheeriness And wholesome valor. And the children had Another relative who kept them glad And joyous by his very merry ways— As blithe and sunny as the summer days— Their father's youngest brother—Uncle Mart. The old "Arabian Nights" he knew by heart— "Baron Munchausen," too; and likewise "The Swiss Family Robinson."—And when these three Gave out, as he rehearsed them, he could go Straight on in the same line—a steady flow Of arabesque invention that his good Old mother never clearly understood. He
was to be a
printer—wanted, though, To be an
actor.—But the world was "show" Enough for
him—theatric, airy, gay— Each day to him was jolly as a play. And some poetic symptoms, too, in sooth, Were certain.—And, from his apprentice youth, He joyed in verse-quotations—which he took Out of the old "Type Foundry Specimen Book." He craved and courted most the favor of The children.—They were foremost in his love; And pleasing
them, he pleased his own boy-heart And kept it young and fresh in every part. So was it he devised for them and wrought To life his quaintest, most romantic thought:— Like some lone castaway in alien seas, He built a house up in the apple-trees, Out in the corner of the garden, where No man-devouring native, prowling there, Might pounce upon them in the dead o' night— For lo, their little ladder, slim and light, They drew up after them. And it was known That Uncle Mart slipped up sometimes alone And drew the ladder in, to lie and moon Over some novel all the afternoon. And one time Johnty, from the crowd below— Outraged to find themselves deserted so— Threw bodily their old black cat up in The airy fastness, with much yowl and din. Resulting, while a wild periphery Of cat went circling to another tree, And, in impassioned outburst, Uncle Mart Loomed up, and thus relieved his tragic heart: "'
Hence, long-tailed, ebon-eyed, nocturnal ranger! What led
