HOMER WILBUR. by James Russell Lowell

Once git a smell o' musk into a draw, An' it clings hold like precerdents in law: Your gra'ma'am put it there,--when, goodness knows,-- To jes' this-worldify her Sunday-clo'es; But the old chist wun't sarve her gran'son's wife, (For, 'thout new funnitoor, wut good in life?) An' so ole clawfoot, from the precinks dread O' the spare chamber, slinks into the shed, Where, dim with dust, it fust or last subsides To holdin' seeds an' fifty things besides; 10 But better days stick fast in heart an' husk, An' all you keep in 't gits a scent o' musk. Jes' so with poets: wut they've airly read Gits kind o' worked into their heart an' head, So's't they can't seem to write but jest on sheers With furrin countries or played-out ideers, Nor hev a feelin', ef it doosn't smack O' wut some critter chose to feel 'way back: This makes 'em talk o' daisies, larks, an' things, Ez though we'd nothin' here that blows an' sings,-- 20 (Why, I'd give more for one live bobolink Than a square mile o' larks in printer's ink,)-- This makes 'em think our fust o' May is May, Which 'tain't, for all the almanicks can say. O little city-gals, don't never go it Blind on the word o' noospaper or poet! They're apt to puff, an' May-day seldom looks Up in the country ez it doos in books; They're no more like than hornets'-nests an' hives, Or printed sarmons be to holy lives. 30 I, with my trouses perched on cowhide boots, Tuggin' my foundered feet out by the roots, Hev seen ye come to fling on April's hearse Your muslin nosegays from the milliner's, Puzzlin' to find dry ground your queen to choose, An' dance your throats sore in morocker shoes: I've seen ye an' felt proud, thet, come wut would, Our Pilgrim stock wuz pethed with hardihood. Pleasure doos make us Yankees kind o' winch, Ez though 'twuz sunthin' paid for by the inch; 40 But yit we du contrive to worry thru, Ef Dooty tells us thet the thing's to du, An' kerry a hollerday, ef we set out, Ez stiddily ez though 'twuz a redoubt. I, country-born an' bred, know where to find Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind, An' seem to metch the doubtin' bluebird's notes,-- Half-vent'rin' liverworts in furry coats, Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef you oncurl, Each on 'em's cradle to a baby-pearl,-- 50 But these are jes' Spring's pickets; sure ez sin, The rebble frosts'll try to drive 'em in; For half our May's so awfully like Mayn't, 'twould rile a Shaker or an evrige saint; Though I own up I like our back'ard springs Thet kind o' haggle with their greens an' things, An' when you 'most give up, 'uthout more words Toss the fields full o' blossoms, leaves, an' birds; Thet's Northun natur', slow an' apt to doubt, But when it _doos_ git stirred, ther' 's no gin-out! 60 Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in tall trees, An' settlin' things in windy Congresses,-- Queer politicians, though, for I'll be skinned Ef all on 'em don't head aginst the wind, 'fore long the trees begin to show belief,-- The maple crimsons to a coral-reef. Then saffern swarms swing off from all the willers So plump they look like yaller caterpillars, Then gray hossches'nuts leetle hands unfold Softer 'n a baby's be at three days old: 70 Thet's robin-redbreast's almanick; he knows Thet arter this ther's only blossom-snows; So, choosin' out a handy crotch an' spouse, He goes to plast'rin' his adobe house. Then seems to come a hitch,--things lag behind. Till some fine mornin' Spring makes up her mind, An' ez, when snow-swelled rivers cresh their dams Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an' jams, A leak comes spirtin' thru some pin-hole cleft, Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an' left, 80 Then all the waters bow themselves an' come, Suddin, in one gret slope o' shedderin' foam, Jes' so our Spring gits eyerythin' in tune An' gives one leap from Aperl into June; Then all comes crowdin' in; afore you think, Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink; The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud; The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud; Red--cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it, An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet; 90 The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o'shade An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade; In ellum-shrouds the flashin' hangbird clings An' for the summer vy'ge his hammock slings; All down the loose-walled lanes in archin' bowers The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden flowers, Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals love to try, With pins,--they'll worry yourn so, boys, bimeby! But I don't love your cat'logue style,--do you?-- Ez ef to sell off Natur' by vendoo; 100 One word with blood in 't's twice ez good ez two: 'nuff sed, June's bridesman, poet o' the year, Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here; Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings, Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin' wings, Or, givin' way to 't in a mock despair, Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air. I ollus feel the sap start in my veins In Spring, with curus heats an' prickly pains Thet drive me, when I git a chance to walk 110 Off by myself to hev a privit talk With a queer critter thet can't seem to 'gree Along o' me like most folks,--Mister Me. Ther' 's times when I'm unsoshle ez a stone, An' sort o' suffercate to be alone,-- I'm crowded jes' to think thet folks are nigh, An' can't bear nothin' closer than the sky; Now the wind's full ez shifty in the mind Ez wut it is ou'-doors, ef I ain't blind, An' sometimes, in the fairest sou'west weather, 120 My innard vane pints east for weeks together, My natur' gits all goose-flesh, an' my sins Come drizzlin' on my conscience sharp ez pins: Wal, et sech times I jes' slip out o' sight An' take it out in a fair stan'-up fight With the one cuss I can't lay on the shelf, The crook'dest stick in all the heap,--Myself. 'Twuz so las' Sabbath arter meetin'-time: Findin' my feelin's wouldn't noways rhyme With nobody's, but off the hendle flew 130 An' took things from an east-wind pint o' view, I started off to lose me in the hills Where the pines be, up back o' 'Siah's Mills: Pines, ef you're blue, are the best friends I know, They mope an' sigh an' sheer your feelin's so,-- They hesh the ground beneath so, tu, I swan, You half-forgit you've gut a body on. Ther' 's a small school'us' there where four roads meet, The door-steps hollered out by little feet, An' side-posts carved with names whose owners grew 140 To gret men, some on 'em, an' deacons, tu; 'tain't used no longer, coz the town hez gut A high-school, where they teach the Lord knows wut: Three-story larnin' 's pop'lar now: I guess We thriv' ez wal on jes' two stories less, For it strikes me ther' 's sech a thing ez sinnin' By overloadin' children's underpinnin': Wal, here it wuz I larned my ABC, An' it's a kind o' favorite spot with me. We're curus critters: Now ain't jes' the minute 150 Thet ever fits us easy while we're in it; Long ez 'twuz futur', 'twould be perfect bliss,-- Soon ez it's past, _thet_ time's wuth ten o' this; An' yit there ain't a man thet need be told Thet Now's the only bird lays eggs o' gold. A knee-high lad, I used to plot an' plan An' think 'twuz life's cap-sheaf to be a man: Now, gittin' gray, there's nothin' I enjoy Like dreamin' back along into a boy: So the ole school'us' is a place I choose 160 Afore all others, ef I want to muse; I set down where I used to set, an' git My boyhood back, an' better things with it,-- Faith, Hope, an' sunthin', ef it isn't Cherrity, It's want o' guile, an' thet's ez gret a rerrity,-- While Fancy's cushin', free to Prince and Clown, Makes the hard bench ez soft ez milk-weed-down. Now, 'fore I knowed, thet Sabbath arternoon When I sot out to tramp myself in tune, I found me in the school'us' on my seat, 170 Drummin' the march to No-wheres with my feet. Thinkin' o' nothin', I've heerd ole folks say Is a hard kind o' dooty in its way: It's thinkin' everythin' you ever knew, Or ever hearn, to make your feelin's blue. I sot there tryin' thet on for a spell: I thought o' the Rebellion, then o' Hell, Which some folks tell ye now is jest a metterfor (A the'ry, p'raps, it wun't _feel_ none the better for); I thought o' Reconstruction, wut we'd win 180 Patchin' our patent self-blow-up agin: I thought ef this 'ere milkin' o' the wits, So much a month, warn't givin' Natur' fits,-- Ef folks warn't druv, findin' their own milk fail, To work the cow thet hez an iron tail, An' ef idees 'thout ripenin' in the pan Would send up cream to humor ary man: From this to thet I let my worryin' creep. Till finally I must ha' fell asleep. Our lives in sleep are some like streams thet glide 190 'twixt flesh an' sperrit boundin' on each side, Where both shores' shadders kind o' mix an' mingle In sunthin' thet ain't jes' like either single; An' when you cast off moorin's from To-day, An' down towards To-morrer drift away, The imiges thet tengle on the stream Make a new upside-down'ard world o' dream: Sometimes they seem like sunrise-streaks an' warnin's O' wut'll be in Heaven on Sabbath-mornin's, An', mixed right in ez ef jest out o' spite, 200 Sunthin' thet says your supper ain't gone right. I'm gret on dreams, an' often when I wake, I've lived so much it makes my mem'ry ache. An' can't skurce take a cat-nap in my cheer 'thout hevin' 'em, some good, some bad, all queer. Now I wuz settin' where I'd ben, it seemed, An' ain't sure yit whether I r'ally dreamed, Nor, ef I did, how long I might ha' slep', When I hearn some un stompin' up the step, An' lookin' round, ef two an' two make four, 210 I see a Pilgrim Father in the door. He wore a steeple-hat, tall boots, an' spurs With rowels to 'em big ez ches'nut-burrs, An' his gret sword behind him sloped away Long 'z a man's speech thet dunno wut to say.-- 'Ef your name's Biglow, an' your given-name Hosee,' sez he, 'it's arter you I came: I'm your gret-gran'ther multiplied by three.'-- 'My _wut?_' sez I.--'Your gret-gret-gret,' sez he: 'You wouldn't ha' never ben here but for me. 220 Two hundred an' three year ago this May The ship I come in sailed up Boston Bay; I'd been a cunnle in our Civil War,-- But wut on airth hev _you_ gut up one for? Coz we du things in England, 'tain't for you To git a notion you can du 'em tu: I'm told you write in public prints: ef true, It's nateral you should know a thing or two.'-- 'Thet air's an argymunt I can't endorse,-- 'twould prove, coz you wear spurs, you kep' a horse: 230 For brains,' sez I, 'wutever you may think, Ain't boun' to cash the drafs o' pen-an'-ink,-- Though mos' folks write ez ef they hoped jes' quickenin' The churn would argoo skim-milk into thickenin'; But skim-milk ain't a thing to change its view O' wut it's meant for more 'n a smoky flue. But du pray tell me, 'fore we furder go, How in all Natur' did you come to know 'bout our affairs,' sez I, 'in Kingdom-Come?'-- 'Wal, I worked round at sperrit-rappin' some, 240 An' danced the tables till their legs wuz gone, In hopes o' larnin' wut wuz goin' on,' Sez he, 'but mejums lie so like all-split Thet I concluded it wuz best to quit. But, come now, ef you wun't confess to knowin', You've some conjectures how the thing's a-goin'.'-- 'Gran'ther,' sez I, 'a vane warn't never known Nor asked to hev a jedgment of its own; An' yit, ef 'tain't gut rusty in the jints. It's safe to trust its say on certin pints: 250 It knows the wind's opinions to a T, An' the wind settles wut the weather'll be.' 'I never thought a scion of our stock Could grow the wood to make a weather-cock; When I wuz younger 'n you, skurce more 'n a shaver, No airthly wind,' sez he, 'could make me waver!' (Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an' forehead, Hitchin' his belt to bring his sword-hilt forrard.)-- 'Jes so it wuz with me,' sez I, 'I swow. When _I_ wuz younger 'n wut you see me now,-- 260 Nothin' from Adam's fall to Huldy's bonnet, Thet I warn't full-cocked with my jedgment on it; But now I'm gittin' on in life, I find It's a sight harder to make up my mind,-- Nor I don't often try tu, when events Will du it for me free of all expense. The moral question's ollus plain enough,-- It's jes' the human-natur' side thet's tough; 'Wut's best to think mayn't puzzle me nor you,-- The pinch comes in decidin' wut to _du;_ 270 Ef you _read_ History, all runs smooth ez grease, Coz there the men ain't nothin' more 'n idees,-- But come to _make_ it, ez we must to-day, Th' idees hev arms an' legs an' stop the way; It's easy fixin' things in facts an' figgers,-- They can't resist, nor warn't brought up with niggers; But come to try your the'ry on,--why, then Your facts and figgers change to ign'ant men Actin' ez ugly--'--'Smite 'em hip an' thigh!' Sez gran'ther, 'and let every man-child die! 280 Oh for three weeks o' Crommle an' the Lord! Up, Isr'el, to your tents an' grind the sword!'-- 'Thet kind o' thing worked wal in ole Judee, But you forgit how long it's ben A.D.; You think thet's ellerkence,--I call it shoddy, A thing,' sez I, 'wun't cover soul nor body; I like the plain all-wool o' common-sense, Thet warms ye now, an' will a twelvemonth hence, _You_ took to follerin' where the Prophets beckoned, An', fust you knowed on, back come Charles the Second; Now wut I want's to hev all _we_ gain stick, 291 An' not to start Millennium too quick; We hain't to punish only, but to keep, An' the cure's gut to go a cent'ry deep.' 'Wall, milk-an'-water ain't the best o' glue,' Sez he, 'an' so you'll find afore you're thru; Ef reshness venters sunthin', shilly-shally Loses ez often wut's ten times the vally. Thet exe of ourn, when Charles's neck gut split, Opened a gap thet ain't bridged over yit: 300 Slav'ry's your Charles, the Lord hez gin the exe'-- 'Our Charles,' sez I, 'hez gut eight million necks. The hardest question ain't the black man's right, The trouble is to 'mancipate the white; One's chained in body an' can be sot free, But t'other's chained in soul to an idee: It's a long job, but we shall worry thru it; Ef bagnets fail, the spellin'-book must du it.' 'Hosee,' sez he, 'I think you're goin' to fail: The rettlesnake ain't dangerous in the tail; 310 This 'ere rebellion's nothing but the rettle,-- You'll stomp on thet an' think you've won the bettle: It's Slavery thet's the fangs an' thinkin' head, An' ef you want selvation, cresh it dead,-- An' cresh it suddin, or you'll larn by waitin' Thet Chance wun't stop to listen to debatin'!'-- 'God's truth!' sez I,--'an' ef _I_ held the club, An' knowed jes' where to strike,--but there's the rub!'-- 'Strike soon,' sez he, 'or you'll be deadly ailin',-- Folks thet's afeared to fail are sure o' failin'; 320 God hates your sneakin' creturs thet believe He'll settle things they run away an' leave!' He brought his foot down fiercely, ez he spoke, An' give me sech a startle thet I woke. No. VII