"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 tuck the boy's hand, And though I did n't say a word, I knowed he'd understand.

And--well!--sence then the old home here was mighty lonesome, sh.o.r.e!

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, savin' 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 staid.

And then he quit a-writin' altogether: Not a word-- Exceptin' what the neighbors 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 p.r.o.ngs 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 me;--"and somehow I thought of John All the time they was a-jellin'--fer you know they allus was His favour--he likes 'em so!" Says I, "Well, s'pose he does?"

"Oh, nothin' much!" says Mother, with a quiet sort o' smile-- "This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you after while!"

And as I turned and looked around, some one riz up and leant And put his arms round Mother's neck, and laughed in low content.

"It's _me_," he says--"your fool-boy John, come back to shake your hand; Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you understand How dearer yit than all the world is this old home that we Will spend Thanksgivin' in fer life--jest Mother, you and me!"

n.o.body on the old farm here but Mother, me and John, Except of course the extry he'p, when harvest-time comes on; And then, I want to say to you, we _need_ sich he'p about, As you'd admit, ef you could see the way the crops turns out!

NORTH AND SOUTH.

Of the North I wove a dream, All bespangled with the gleam Of the glancing wings of swallows Dipping ripples in a stream, That, like a tide of wine, Wound through lands of shade and shine Where purple grapes hung bursting on the vine.

And where orchard-boughs were bent Till their tawny fruitage blent With the golden wake that marked the Way the happy reapers went; Where the dawn died into noon As the May-mists into June, And the dusk fell like a sweet face in a swoon.

Of the South I dreamed: And there Came a vision clear and fair As the marvelous enchantments Of the mirage of the air; And I saw the bayou-trees, With their lavish draperies, Hang heavy o'er the moon-washed cypress-knees.

Peering from lush fens of rice, I beheld the Negro's eyes, Lit with that old superst.i.tion Death itself can not disguise; And I saw the palm tree nod Like an oriental G.o.d, And the cotton froth and bubble from the pod,

And I dreamed that North and South, With a sigh of dew and drouth, Blew each unto the other The salute of lip and mouth; And I wakened, awed and thrilled-- Every doubting murmur stilled In the silence of the dream I found fulfilled.

THE IRON HORSE.

No song is mine of Arab steed-- My courser is of n.o.bler blood, And cleaner limb and fleeter speed, And greater strength and hardihood Than ever cantered wild and free Across the plains of Araby.

Go search the level desert-land From Sana on to Samarcand-- Wherever Persian prince has been Or Dervish, Sheik or Bedouin, And I defy you there to point Me out a steed the half so fine-- From tip of ear to pastern-joint-- As this old iron horse of mine.

You do not know what beauty is-- You do not know what gentleness His answer is to my caress!-- Why, look upon this gait of his,-- A touch upon his iron rein-- He moves with such a stately grace The sunlight on his burnished mane Is barely shaken in its place; And at touch he changes pace, And, gliding backward, stops again.

And talk of mettle--Ah! my friend, Such pa.s.sion smoulders in his breast That when awakened it will send A thrill of rapture wilder than Ere palpitated heart of man When flaming at its mightiest.

And there's a fierceness in his ire-- A maddened majesty that leaps Along his veins in blood of fire, Until the path his vision sweeps Spins out behind him like a thread Unraveled from the reel of time, As, wheeling on his course sublime, The earth revolves beneath his tread.

Then stretch away, my gallant steed!

Thy mission is a n.o.ble one: You bear the father to the son, And sweet relief to bitter need; You bear the stranger to his friends; You bear the pilgrim to the shrine, And back again the prayer he sends That G.o.d will prosper me and mine,-- The star that on thy forehead gleams Has blossomed in our brightest dreams.

Then speed thee on thy glorious race!

The mother waits thy ringing pace; The father leans an anxious ear The thunder of thy hoofs to hear; The lover listens, far away, To catch thy keen exultant neigh; And, where thy breathings roll and rise, The husband strains his eager eyes, And laugh of wife and baby-glee Ring out to greet and welcome thee.

Then stretch away! and when at last The master's hand shall gently check Thy mighty speed, and hold thee fast, The world will pat thee on the neck.

HIS MOTHER'S WAY

Tomps 'ud allus haf to say Somepin' 'bout "his mother's way."-- _He_ lived hard-like--never jined Any church of any kind.-- "It was Mother's way," says he, "To be good enough fer _me_ And her too,--and certinly Lord has heerd _her_ pray!"

Propped up on his dyin' bed,-- "Sh.o.r.e as Heaven's overhead, I'm a-goin' there," he said--- "It was Mother's way."

j.a.p MILLER.

j.a.p Miller down at Martinsville's the blamedest feller yit!

When _he_ starts in a-talkin' other folks is apt to quit!-- 'Pears like that mouth o' his'n wuz n't made fer nuthin' else But jes' to argify 'em down and gether in their pelts: He'll talk you down on tariff; er he'll talk you down on tax, And prove the pore man pays 'em all--and them's about the fac's!-- Religen, law, er politics, prize-fightin', er base-ball-- Jes' tetch j.a.p up a little and he'll post you 'bout 'em all.

And the comicalist feller ever tilted back a cheer And tuck a chaw tobacker kind o' like he did n't keer.-- There's where the feller's strength lays,--he's so common-like and plain,-- They haint no dude about old j.a.p, you bet you--nary grain!

They 'lected him to Council and it never turned his head, And did n't make no differunce what anybody said,-- He didn't dress no finer, ner rag out in fancy clothes; But his voice in Council-meetin's is a turrer to his foes.

He's fer the pore man ever' time! And in the last campaign He stumped old Morgan County, through the sunshine and the rain, And helt the banner up'ards from a-trailin' in the dust, And cut loose on monopolies and cuss'd and cuss'd and cuss'd!

He'd tell some funny story ever' now and then, you know, Tel, blame it! it wuz better 'n a jack-o'-lantern show!

And I'd go furder, yit, to-day, to hear old j.a.p norate Than any high-toned orator 'at ever stumped the State!

W'y, that-air blame j.a.p Miller, with his keen sircastic fun, Has got more friends than ary candidate 'at ever run!

Do n't matter what _his_ views is, when he states the same to you, They allus coincide with your'n, the same as two and two: You _can't_ take issue with him--er, at least, they haint no sense In startin' in to down him, so you better not commence.-- The best way's jes' to listen, like your humble servant does, And jes' concede j.a.p Miller is the best man ever wuz!