Riley Farm-Rhymes | Page 4

work as well as play to take the same delight.
He allus went a-whistlin' round the place, as glad at heart As robins up
at five o'clock to git an airly start;
And many a time 'fore daylight
Mother's waked me up
to say--
"Jest listen, David!--listen!--Johnny's beat the birds
to-day!"
High-sperited from boyhood, with a most inquirin' turn,--
He wanted
to learn ever'thing on earth they was to learn:
He'd ast more plaguy
questions in a mortal-minute here
Than his grandpap in Paradise
could answer in a year!
And READ! w'y, his own mother learnt him how to read
and spell;
And "The Childern of the Abbey"--w'y, he knowed that
book as well
At fifteen as his parents!--and "The Pilgrim's Progress,"
too--
Jest knuckled down, the shaver did, and read 'em through
and through.
At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a better
chanceThat
we ort to educate him, under any circumstance;
And
John he j'ined his mother, and they ding-donged and

kep' on,
Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he was
gone.
But--I missed him--w'y, of course I did!--The Fall and
Winter through
I never built the kitchen-fire, er split a stick in two,

Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrelpin,
But what I thought o' John, and wished that he was home
ag'in.
He'd come, sometimes--on Sund'ys most--and stay the
Sund'y out;
And on Thanksgivin'-Day he 'peared to like to be about:

But a change was workin' on him--he was stiller than
before,
And didn't joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle any
more.
And his talk was all so proper; and I noticed, with a sigh, He was tryin'
to raise side-whiskers, and had on a striped
tie,
And a standin'-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as bone; And a
breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat of
his own.
But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was to
come home
And he'p me through the season, I was glad to see him
come,
But my happiness, that evening, with the settin' sun went
down,
When he bragged of "a position" that was offered him in

town.
"But," says I, "you'll not accept it?" "W'y, of course I
will," says he.--
"This drudgin' on a farm," he says, "is not the life fer
me;
I've set my stakes up higher," he continued, light and
gay,
"And town's the place fer ME, and I'm a-goin' right
away!"
And go he did!--his mother clingin' to him at the gate,
A-pleadin' and
a-cryin'; but it hadn't any weight.
I was tranquiller, and told her
'twarn't no use to worry
so,
And onclasped her arms from round his neck round mine
--and let him go!
I felt a little bitter feelin' foolin' round about
The aidges of my
conscience; but I didn't let it out;--
I simply retch out, trimbly-like,
and tuk the boy's hand,
And though I didn't say a word, I knowed he'd
understand.
And--well!--sence then the old home here was mighty
lonesome, shore!
With me a-workin' in the field, and Mother at the
door,
Her face ferever to'rds the town, and fadin' more and
more--
Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin' in a store!
The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes the
boy would write
A letter to his mother, sayin' that his work was light,

And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit--
Though his business
was confinin', he was gittin' used

to it.
And sometimes he would write and ast how _I_ was gittin'
on,
And ef I had to pay out much fer he'p sence he was gone;
And
how the hogs was doin', and the balance of the stock,
And talk on fer
a page er two jest like he used to talk.
And he wrote, along 'fore harvest, that he guessed he
would git home,
Fer business would, of course, be dull in town.--But
DIDN'T come:--
We got a postal later, sayin' when they had no trade

They filled the time "invoicin' goods," and that was why
he stayed.
And then he quit a-writin' altogether: Not a word--
Exceptin' what the
neighbers brung who'd been to town
and heard
What store John was clerkin' in, and went round to inquire
If they could buy their goods there less and sell their
produce higher.
And so the Summer faded out, and Autumn wore away,
And a keener
Winter never fetched around Thanksgivin'-
Day!
The night before that day of thanks I'll never quite fergit, The
wind a-howlin' round the house-it makes me creepy
yit!
And there set me and Mother--me a-twistin' at the
prongs
Of a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair of

tongs,
And Mother sayin', "DAVID! DAVID!" in a' undertone,
As
though she thought that I was thinkin' bad-words
unbeknown.
"I've dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow," Mother
said,
A-tryin' to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubborn
head,--
"And the mince-meat I'm a-mixin' is perfection mighty
nigh;
And the pound-cake is delicious-rich--" "Who'll eat
'em?" I--says--I.
"The cramberries is drippin'-sweet," says Mother, runnin'
on,
P'tendin' not to hear