THE HOOSIER FOLK-CHILD.

The Hoosier Folk-Child--all unsung-- Unlettered all of mind and tongue; Unmastered, unmolested--made Most wholly frank and unafraid: Untaught of any school--unvexed Of law or creed--all unperplexed-- Unsermoned, aye, and undefiled, An all imperfect-perfect child-- A type which (Heaven forgive us!) you And I do tardy honor to, And so, profane the sanct.i.ties Of our most sacred memories.

Who, growing thus from boy to man, That dares not be American?

Go, Pride, with prudent underbuzz-- Go _whistle_! as the Folk-Child does.

The Hoosier Folk-Child's world is not Much wider than the stable-lot Between the house and highway fence That bounds the home his father rents.

His playmates mostly are the ducks And chickens, and the boy that "shucks Corn by the shock," and talks of town, And whether eggs are "up" or "down,"

And prophesies in boastful tone Of "owning horses of his own,"

And "being his own man," and "when He gets to be, what he'll do then."-- Takes out his jack-knife dreamily And makes the Folk-Child two or three Crude corn-stalk figures,--a wee span Of horses and a little man.

The Hoosier Folk-Child's eyes are wise And wide and round as Brownies' eyes: The smile they wear is ever blent With all-expectant wonderment,-- On homeliest things they bend a look As rapt as o'er a picture-book, And seem to ask, whate'er befall, The happy reason of it all:-- Why gra.s.s is all so glad a green, And leaves--and what their lispings mean;-- Why buds grow on the boughs, and why They burst in blossom by and by-- As though the orchard in the breeze Had shook and popped its _popcorn-trees_, To lure and whet, as well they might, Some seven-league giant's appet.i.te!

The Hoosier Folk-Child's chubby face Has scant refinement, caste or grace,-- From crown to chin, and cheek to cheek, It bears the grimy water-streak Of rinsings such as some long rain Might drool across the window-pane Wherethrough he peers, with troubled frown, As some lorn team drives by for town.

His brow is elfed with wispish hair, With tangles in it here and there, As though the warlocks snarled it so At midmirk when the moon sagged low, And boughs did toss and skreek and shake, And children moaned themselves awake, With fingers clutched, and starting sight Blind as the blackness of the night!

The Hoosier Folk-Child!--Rich is he In all the wealth of poverty!

He owns nor t.i.tle nor estate, Nor speech but half articulate,-- He owns nor princely robe nor crown;-- Yet, draped in patched and faded brown, He owns the bird-songs of the hills-- The laughter of the April rills; And his are all the diamonds set.

In Morning's dewy coronet,-- And his the Dusk's first minted stars That twinkle through the pasture-bars, And litter all the skies at night With glittering sc.r.a.ps of silver light;-- The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim, In beaten gold, belongs to him.

JACK THE GIANT KILLER.

_Bad Boy's Version_.

Tell you a story--an' it's a fac':-- Wunst wuz a little boy, name wuz Jack, An' he had sword an' buckle an' strap Maked of gold, an' a "'visibul cap;"

An' he killed Gi'nts 'at et whole cows-- Th' horns an' all--an' pigs an' sows!

But Jack, his golding sword wuz, oh!

So awful sharp 'at he could go An' cut th' ole Gi'nts clean in two Fore 'ey knowed what he wuz goin' to do!

An' _one_ ole Gi'nt, he had four Heads, and name wuz "b.u.mblebore"-- An' he wuz feered o' Jack--'cause he, _Jack_, he killed six--five--ten--three, An' all o' th' uther ole Gi'nts but him: An' thay wuz a place Jack haf to swim 'Fore he could git t' ole "b.u.mblebore"-- Nen thay was "griffuns" at the door: But Jack, he thist plunged in an' swum Clean acrost; an' when he come To th' uther side, he thist put on His "'visibul cap," an' nen, dog-gone!

You could n't see him at all!--An' so He slewed the "griffuns"--_boff_, you know!

Nen wuz a horn hunged over his head High on th' wall, an' words 'at read,-- "Whoever kin this trumput blow Shall cause the Gi'nt's overth'ow!"

An' Jack, he thist reached up an' blowed The stuffin' out of it! an' th'owed Th' castul-gates wide open, an'

Nen tuck his gold sword in his han', An' thist marched in t' ole "b.u.mblebore,"

An', 'fore he knowed, he put 'bout four Heads on him--an' chopped 'em off, too!-- Wisht 'at _I'd_ been Jack!--don't you?

WHILE THE MUSICIAN PLAYED.

O it was but a dream I had While the musician played!-- And here the sky, and here the glad Old ocean kissed the glade-- And here the laughing ripples ran, And here the roses grew That threw a kiss to every man That voyaged with the crew.

Our silken sails in lazy folds Drooped in the breathless breeze: As o'er a field of marigolds Our eyes swam o'er the seas; While here the eddies lisped and purled Around the island's rim, And up from out the underworld We saw the mermen swim.

And it was dawn and middle-day And midnight--for the moon On silver rounds across the bay Had climbed the skies of June-- And there the glowing, glorious king Of day ruled o'er his realm, With stars of midnight glittering About his diadem.

The seagull reeled on languid wing In circles round the mast, We heard the songs the sirens sing As we went sailing past; And up and down the golden sands A thousand fairy throngs Flung at us from their flashing hands The echoes of their songs.

O it was but a dream I had While the musician played-- For here the sky, and here the glad Old ocean kissed the glade; And here the laughing ripples ran, And here the roses grew That threw a kiss to every man That voyaged with the crew.

AUGUST.

A day of torpor in the sullen heat Of Summer's pa.s.sion: In the sluggish stream The panting cattle lave their lazy feet, With drowsy eyes, and dream.

Long since the winds have died, and in the sky There lives no cloud to hint of Nature's grief; The sun glares ever like an evil eye, And withers flower and leaf.

Upon the gleaming harvest-field remote The thresher lies deserted, like some old Dismantled galleon that hangs afloat Upon a sea of gold.

The yearning cry of some bewildered bird Above an empty nest, and truant boys Along the river's shady margin heard-- A harmony of noise--

A melody of wrangling voices blent With liquid laughter, and with rippling calls Of piping lips and trilling echoes sent To mimic waterfalls.

And through the hazy veil the atmosphere Has draped about the gleaming face of Day, The sifted glances of the sun appear In splinterings of spray.

The dusty highway, like a cloud of dawn, Trails o'er the hillside, and the pa.s.ser-by, A tired ghost in misty shroud, toils on His journey to the sky.

And down across the valley's drooping sweep, Withdrawn to farthest limit of the glade, The forest stands in silence, drinking deep Its purple wine of shade.

The gossamer floats up on phantom wing; The sailor-vision voyages the skies And carries into chaos everything That freights the weary eyes:

Till, throbbing on and on, the pulse of heat Increases--reaches--pa.s.ses fever's height, And Day sinks into slumber, cool and sweet, Within the arms of Night.

TO HEAR HER SING.

To hear her sing--to hear her sing-- It is to hear the birds of Spring In dewy groves on blooming sprays Pour out their blithest roundelays.

It is to hear the robin trill At morning, or the whip-poor-will At dusk, when stars are blossoming-- To hear her sing--to hear her sing!

To hear her sing--it is to hear The laugh of childhood ringing clear In woody path or gra.s.sy lane Our feet may never fare again.

Faint, far away as Memory dwells, It is to hear the village bells At twilight, as the truant hears Them, hastening home, with smiles and tears.

Such joy it is to hear her sing, We fall in love with everything-- The simple things of every day Grow lovelier than words can say.

The idle brooks that purl across The gleaming pebbles and the moss, We love no less than cla.s.sic streams-- The Rhines and Arnos of our dreams.

To hear her sing--with folded eyes, It is, beneath Venetian skies, To hear the gondoliers' refrain, Or troubadours of sunny Spain.--

To hear the bulbul's voice that shook The throat that trilled for Lalla Rookh: What wonder we in homage bring Our hearts to her--to hear her sing!