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 pa.s.sed 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 sc.r.a.p 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 pa.s.s 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 s.p.a.ce 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 h.o.a.rd 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 mult.i.tude 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 pa.s.sed 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 s.p.a.ce Directly following: and in the face Of one rapt listener pulsed the flush and glow Of the heat-lightning that pent pa.s.sions 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 antic.i.p.ate 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, G.o.d 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 sc.r.a.ppy 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 rehea.r.s.ed a tale of arms, And Naso told of curious metat_mur_phoses; 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 sa.s.sy 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, n.o.body 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!