Part 12

Well, now, I might go on and tell How all the joke at last leaked out, And how the youngsters raised the yell And rode the happy groom about Upon their shoulders; how the bride Was kissed a hunderd times beside The one I give her,--tel she cried And laughed untel she like to died! I might go on and tell you all About the supper--and the BALL.-- You'd ought to see me twist my heel Through jest one old Furginny reel Afore you die! er tromp the strings Of some old fiddle tel she sings Some old cowtillion, don't you know, That putts the devil in yer toe!

We kep' the dancin' up tel FOUR O'clock, I reckon--maybe more.-- We hardly heerd the thunders roar, ER THOUGHT about the STORM that blowed-- AND THEM TWO FELLERS ON THE ROAD! Tel all at onc't we heerd the door Bu'st open, and a voice that SWORE,-- And old Jeff Thompson tuck the floor. He shuck hisse'f and looked around Like some old dog about half-drowned-- HIS HAT, I reckon, WEIGHED TEN POUND To say the least, and I'll say, SHORE, HIS OVERCOAT WEIGHED FIFTY more-- THE WETTEST MAN YOU EVER SAW, TO HAVE SO DRY A SON-IN-LAW!

He sized it all; and Patience laid Her hand in John's, and looked afraid, And waited. And a stiller set O' folks, I KNOW, you never met In any court room, where with dread They wait to hear a verdick read.

The old man turned his eyes on me: "And have you married 'em?" says he. I nodded "Yes." "Well, that'll do," He says, "and now we're th'ough with YOU,-- YOU jest clear out, and I decide And promise to be satisfied!" He hadn't nothin' more to say. I saw, of course, how matters lay, And left. But as I rode away I heerd the roosters crow fer day.

A COUNTRY PATHWAY

I come upon it suddenly, alone-- A little pathway winding in the weeds That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own, I wander as it leads.

Full wistfully along the slender way, Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine, I take the path that leads me as it may-- Its every choice is mine.

A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail, Is startled by my step as on I fare-- A garter-snake across the dusty trail Glances and--is not there.

Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies, Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose When autumn winds arise.

The trail dips--dwindles--broadens then, and lifts Itself astride a cross-road dubiously, And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts Still onward, beckoning me.

And though it needs must lure me mile on mile Out of the public highway, still I go, My thoughts, far in advance in Indian file, Allure me even so.

Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars, And was not found again, though Heaven lent His mother all the stars

With which to seek him through that awful night O years of nights as vain!--Stars never rise But well might miss their glitter in the light Of tears in mother-eyes!

So--on, with quickened breaths, I follow still-- My avant-courier must be obeyed! Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will, Invites me to invade

A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile, And stumbles down again, the other side, To gambol there a while.

In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead I see it running, while the clover-stalks Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said-- "You dog our country walks

"And mutilate us with your walking-stick!-- We will not suffer tamely what you do, And warn you at your peril,--for we'll sick Our bumblebees on you!"

But I smile back, in airy nonchalance,-- The more determined on my wayward quest, As some bright memory a moment dawns A morning in my breast--

Sending a thrill that hurries me along In faulty similes of childish skips, Enthused with lithe contortions of a song Performing on my lips.

In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth-- Erratic wanderings through dead'ning lands, Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth, Put berries in my hands:

Or the path climbs a boulder--wades a slough-- Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags, Goes gaily dancing o'er a deep bayou On old tree-trunks and snags:

Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool Upon a bridge the stream itself has made, With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool That its foundation laid.

I pause a moment here to bend and muse, With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise, Or wildly oars the air,

As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook-- The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed-- Swings pivoting about, with wary look Of low and cunning greed.

Till, filled with other thought, I turn again To where the pathway enters in a realm Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign Of towering oak and elm.

A puritanic quiet here reviles The almost whispered warble from the hedge, And takes a locust's rasping voice and files The silence to an edge.

In such a solitude my somber way Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom Of his own shadows--till the perfect day Bursts into sudden bloom,

And crowns a long, declining stretch of space, Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled, And where the valley's dint in Nature's face Dimples a smiling world.