Part 4

There wasn't two purtier farms in the state Than the couple of which I'm about to relate;-- Jinin' each other--belongin' to Brown, And jest at the edge of a flourishin' town. Brown was a man, as I understand, That allus had handled a good 'eal o' land, And was sharp as a tack in drivin' a trade-- For that's the way most of his money was made. And all the grounds and the orchards about His two pet farms was all tricked out With poppies and posies And sweet-smellin' rosies; And hundreds o' kinds Of all sorts o' vines, To tickle the most horticultural minds And little dwarf trees not as thick as your wrist With ripe apples on 'em as big as your fist: And peaches,--Siberian crabs and pears, And quinces--Well! ANY fruit ANY tree bears; And th purtiest stream--jest a-swimmin' with fish, And--JEST O'MOST EVERYTHING HEART COULD WISH! The purtiest orch'rds--I wish you could see How purty they was, fer I know it 'ud be A regular treat!--but I'll go ahead with My story! A man by the name o' Smith-- (A bad name to rhyme, But I reckon that I'm Not goin' back on a Smith! nary time!) 'At hadn't a soul of kin nor kith, And more money than he knowed what to do with,-- So he comes a-ridin' along one day, And HE says to Brown, in his offhand way-- Who was trainin' some newfangled vines round a bay- Winder--"Howdy-do--look-a-here--say: What'll you take fer this property here?-- I'm talkin' o' leavin' the city this year, And I want to be Where the air is free, And I'll BUY this place, if it ain't too dear!"-- Well--they grumbled and jawed aroun'-- "I don't like to part with the place," says Brown; "Well," says Smith, a-jerkin' his head, "That house yonder--bricks painted red-- Jest like this'n--a PURTIER VIEW-- Who is it owns it?" "That's mine too," Says Brown, as he winked at a hole in his shoe, "But I'll tell you right here jest what I KIN do:-- If you'll pay the figgers I'll sell IT to you.," Smith went over and looked at the place-- Badgered with Brown, and argied the case-- Thought that Brown's figgers was rather too tall, But, findin' that Brown wasn't goin' to fall, In final agreed, So they drawed up the deed Fer the farm and the fixtures--the live stock an' all. And so Smith moved from the city as soon As he possibly could--But "the man in the moon" Knowed more'n Smith o' farmin' pursuits, And jest to convince you, and have no disputes, How little he knowed, I'll tell you his "mode," As he called it, o' raisin' "the best that growed," In the way o' potatoes-- Cucumbers--tomatoes, And squashes as lengthy as young alligators. 'Twas allus a curious thing to me How big a fool a feller kin be When he gits on a farm after leavin' a town!-- Expectin' to raise himself up to renown, And reap fer himself agricultural fame, By growin' of squashes--WITHOUT ANY SHAME-- As useless and long as a technical name. To make the soil pure, And certainly sure, He plastered the ground with patent manure. He had cultivators, and double-hoss plows, And patent machines fer milkin' his cows; And patent hay-forks--patent measures and weights, And new patent back-action hinges fer gates, And barn locks and latches, and such little dribs, And patents to keep the rats out o' the cribs-- Reapers and mowers, And patent grain sowers; And drillers And tillers And cucumber hillers, And horries;--and had patent rollers and scrapers, And took about ten agricultural papers. So you can imagine how matters turned out: But BROWN didn't have not a shadder o' doubt That Smith didn't know what he was about When he said that "the OLD way to farm was played out." But Smith worked ahead, And when any one said That the OLD way o' workin' was better instead O' his "modern idees," he allus turned red, And wanted to know What made people so INFERNALLY anxious to hear theirselves crow? And guessed that he'd manage to hoe his own row. Brown he come onc't and leant over the fence, And told Smith that he couldn't see any sense In goin' to such a tremendous expense Fer the sake o' such no-account experiments "That'll never make corn! As shore's you're born It'll come out the leetlest end of the horn!" Says Brown, as he pulled off a big roastin'-ear From a stalk of his own That had tribble outgrown Smith's poor yaller shoots, and says he, "Looky here! THIS corn was raised in the old-fashioned way, And I rather imagine that THIS corn'll pay Expenses fer RAISIN' it!--What do you say?" Brown got him then to look over his crop.-- HIS luck that season had been tip-top! And you may surmise Smith opened his eyes And let out a look o' the wildest surprise When Brown showed him punkins as big as the lies He was stuffin' him with--about offers he's had Fer his farm: "I don't want to sell very bad," He says, but says he, "Mr. Smith, you kin see Fer yourself how matters is standin' with me, I UNDERSTAND FARMIN' and I'd better stay, You know, on my farm;--I'm a-makin' it pay-- I oughtn't to grumble!--I reckon I'll clear Away over four thousand dollars this year." And that was the reason, he made it appear, Why he didn't care about sellin' his farm, And hinted at his havin' done himself harm In sellin' the other, and wanted to know If Smith wouldn't sell back ag'in to him.--So Smith took the bait, and says he, "Mr. Brown, I wouldn't SELL out but we might swap aroun'-- How'll you trade your place fer mine?" (Purty sharp way o' comin' the shine Over Smith! Wasn't it?) Well, sir, this Brown Played out his hand and brought Smithy down-- Traded with him an', workin' it cute, Raked in two thousand dollars to boot As slick as a whistle, an' that wasn't all,-- He managed to trade back ag'in the next fall,-- And the next--and the next--as long as Smith stayed He reaped with his harvests an annual trade.-- Why, I reckon that Brown must 'a' easily made-- On an AVERAGE--nearly two thousand a year-- Together he made over seven thousand--clear.-- Till Mr. Smith found he was losin' his health In as big a proportion, almost, as his wealth; So at last he concluded to move back to town, And sold back his farm to this same Mr. Brown At very low figgers, by gittin' it down. Further'n this I have nothin' to say Than merely advisin' the Smiths fer to stay In their grocery stores in flourishin' towns And leave agriculture alone--and the Browns.

A POET'S WOOING

I woo'd a woman once, But she was sharper than an eastern wind. --TENNYSON.

"What may I do to make you glad, To make you glad and free, Till your light smiles glance And your bright eyes dance Like sunbeams on the sea? Read some rhyme that is blithe and gay Of a bright May morn and a marriage day?" And she sighed in a listless way she had,-- "Do not read--it will make me sad!"

"What shall I do to make you glad-- To make you glad and gay, Till your eyes gleam bright As the stars at night When as light as the light of day Sing some song as I twang the strings Of my sweet guitar through its wanderings?" And she sighed in the weary way she had,-- "Do not sing--it will make me sad!"

"What can I do to make you glad-- As glad as glad can be, Till your clear eyes seem Like the rays that gleam And glint through a dew-decked tree?-- Will it please you, dear, that I now begin A grand old air on my violin?" And she spoke again in the following way,-- "Yes, oh yes, it would please me, sir; I would be so glad you'd play Some grand old march--in character,-- And then as you march away I will no longer thus be sad, But oh, so glad--so glad--so glad!"

MAN'S DEVOTION

A lover said, "O Maiden, love me well, For I must go away: And should ANOTHER ever come to tell Of love--What WILL you say?"

And she let fall a royal robe of hair That folded on his arm And made a golden pillow for her there; Her face--as bright a charm

As ever setting held in kingly crown-- Made answer with a look, And reading it, the lover bended down, And, trusting, "kissed the book."

He took a fond farewell and went away. And slow the time went by-- So weary--dreary was it, day by day To love, and wait, and sigh.

She kissed his pictured face sometimes, and said: "O Lips, so cold and dumb, I would that you would tell me, if not dead, Why, why do you not come?"

The picture, smiling, stared her in the face Unmoved--e'en with the touch Of tear-drops--HERS--bejeweling the case-- 'Twas plain--she loved him much.

And, thus she grew to think of him as gay And joyous all the while, And SHE was sorrowing--"Ah, welladay!" But pictures ALWAYS smile!

And years--dull years--in dull monotony As ever went and came, Still weaving changes on unceasingly, And changing, changed her name.

Was she untrue?--She oftentimes was glad And happy as a wife; But ONE remembrance oftentimes made sad Her matrimonial life.--

Though its few years were hardly noted, when Again her path was strown With thorns--the roses swept away again, And she again alone!

And then--alas! ah THEN!--her lover came: "I come to claim you now-- My Darling, for I know you are the same, And I have kept my vow

Through these long, long, long years, and now no more Shall we asundered be!" She staggered back and, sinking to the floor, Cried in her agony:

"I have been false!" she moaned, "I am not true-- I am not worthy now, Nor ever can I be a wife to YOU-- For I have broke my vow!"

And as she kneeled there, sobbing at his feet, He calmly spoke--no sign Betrayed his inward agony--"I count you meet To be a wife of mine!"

And raised her up forgiven, though untrue; As fond he gazed on her, She sighed,--"SO HAPPY!" And she never knew HE was a WIDOWER.

A BALLAD

WITH A SERIOUS CONCLUSION

Crowd about me, little children-- Come and cluster 'round my knee While I tell a little story That happened once with me.

My father he had gone away A-sailing on the foam, Leaving me--the merest infant-- And my mother dear at home;

For my father was a sailor, And he sailed the ocean o'er For full five years ere yet again He reached his native shore.

And I had grown up rugged And healthy day by day, Though I was but a puny babe When father went away.