Pipes O'Pan At Zekesbury Part 11

Steve tuck charge o' little Annie agin, and ef she'd a-be'n his own child he wouldn't a-went on more over her than he did; and said n.o.body but her mother would git her out o' his hands agin. And he was as good as his word; and ef you could a-seed him a half hour after that, when he _did_ give her to her mother--all lapped up in his coat and as drippin'-wet as a little drownded angel--it would a-made you wish't you was him to see that little woman a caperin' round him, and a-thankin' him, and a-cryin' and a-laughin', and almost a-huggin' him, she was so tickled,--Well, I thought in my soul she'd die! And Steve blushed like a girl to see her a-taking' on, and a-thankin' him, and a-cryin', and a-kissin' little Annie, and a-goin' on. And when she inquired 'bout Bills, which she did all suddent like, with a burst o'

tears, we jist didn't have the heart to tell her--on'y we said he'd crossed the river and got away. And he had!

And now comes a part o' this thing 'at 'll more 'n like tax you to believe it: Williams and her wasn't man and wife--and you needn't look su'prised, nuther, and I'll tell you far why--They was own brother and sister; and that brings me to _her_ part of the story, which you'll have to admit beats anything 'at you ever read about in books.

Her and Williams--that _wasn't_ his name, like he acknowledged, hisse'f, you ricollect--ner she didn't want to tell his right name; and we forgive her far that. Her and 'Williams' was own brother and sister, and the'r parents lived in Ohio some'ers. The'r mother had be'n dead five year' and better--grieved to death over her onnachurl brother's recklessness, which Annie hinted had broke her father up in some way, in tryin' to s.h.i.+eld him from the law. And the secret of her bein' with him was this: She had married a man o' the name of Curtis or Custer, I don't mind which, adzackly--but no matter; she'd married a well-to-do young feller 'at her brother helt a' old grudge agin, she never knowed what; and sence her marriage her brother had went on from bad to worse tel finally her father jist give him up and told him to go it his own way--he'd killed his mother and ruined him, and he'd jist give up all hopes. But Annie--you know how a sister is--she still clung to him and done ever'thing far him, tel finally, one night about three years after she was married she got word some way that he was in trouble agin, and sent her husband to he'p him; and a half hour after he'd gone, her brother come in, all excited and b.l.o.o.d.y, and told her to git the baby and come with him, 'at her husband had got in a quarrel with a friend o' his and was bad hurt. And she went with him, of course, and he tuck her in a buggy, and lit out with her as tight as he could go all night; and then told her 'at _he_ was the feller 'at had quarreled with her husband, and the officers was after him and he was obleeged to leave the country, and far fear he hadn't made sh.o.r.e work o' him, he was a-takin' her along to make sh.o.r.e of his gittin' his revenge; and he swore he'd kill her and the baby too ef she dared to whimper. And so it was, through a hunderd hards.h.i.+ps he'd made his way at last to our section o' the country, givin' out 'at they was man and wife, and keepin' her from denyin' of it by threats, and promises of the time a-comin' when he'd send her home to her man agin in case he hadn't killed him. And so it run on tel you'd a-cried to hear her tell it, and still see her sister's love far the feller a-breakin' out by a-declarin' how kind he was to her _at times_, and how he wasn't railly bad at heart, on'y far his ungov'nable temper.

But I couldn't he'p but notice, when she was a tellin' of her hist'ry, what a quiet sort o' look o' satisfaction settled on the face o' Steve and the rest of 'em, don't you understand.

And now ther' was on'y one thing she wanted to ast, she said; and that was, could she still make her home with us tel she could git word to her friends?--and there she broke down agin, not knowin', of course, whether _they_ was dead er alive; far time and time agin she said somepin' told her she'd never see her husband agin on this airth; and then the women-folks would cry with her and console her, and the boys would speak hopeful--all but Steve; some way o' nuther Steve was never like hisse'f from that time on.

And so things went far a month and better. Ever'thing had quieted down, and Ezry and a lot o' hands, and me and Steve amongst 'em, was a-workin' on the frame-work of another mill. It was purty weather, and we was all in good sperits, and it 'peared like the whole neighberhood was interested--and they _-was_, too--women-folks and ever'body. And that day Ezry's woman and amongst 'em was a-gittin' up a big dinner to fetch down to us from the house; and along about noon a spruce-lookin'

young feller, with a pale face and a black beard, like, come a-ridin'

by and hitched his hoss, and comin' into the crowd, said "Howdy,"

pleasant like, and we all stopped work as he went on to say 'at he was on the track of a feller o' the name o' 'Williams,' and wanted to know ef we could give him any infermation 'bout sich a man. Told him maybe,--'at a feller bearin' that name desappeared kind o' myster'ous from our neighberhood 'bout five weeks afore that. "My G.o.d!" says he, a-turnin' paler'n ever, "am I too late? Where did he go, and was his sister and her baby with him?" Jist then I ketched sight o' the women-folks a-comin' with the baskets, and Annie with 'em, with a jug o' worter in her hand; so I spoke up quick to the stranger, and says I, "I guess 'his sister and baby' wasn't along," says I, "but his _wife_ and _baby's_ some'eres here in the neighberhood yit." And then a-watchin' him clos't, I says, suddent, a-pin'tin' over his shoulder, "There his woman is now--that one with the jug, there." Well, Annie had jist stooped to lift up one o' the little girls, when the feller turned, and the'r eyes met, "Annie! My wife!" he says; and Annie she kind o' give a little yelp like and come a-flutterin' down in his arms; and the jug o' worter rolled clean acrost the road, and turned a somerset and knocked the cob out of its mouth and jist laid back and hollered "Good--good--good--good--good!" like as ef it knowed what was up and was jist as glad and tickled as the rest of us.

SWEET-KNOT AND GALAMUS

AN OLD SWEETHEART.

As one who cons at evening o'er an alb.u.m all alone, And muses on the faces of the friends that he has known, So I turn the leaves of fancy till, in shadowy design, I find the smiling features of an old sweetheart of mine.

The lamplight seems to glimmer with a flicker of surprise, As I turn it low to rest me of the dazzle in my eyes, And light my pipe in silence, save a sigh that seems to yoke Its fate with my tobacco and to vanish with the smoke.

'Tis a fragrant retrospection--for the loving thoughts that start Into being are like perfumes from the blossom of the heart; And to dream the old dreams over is a luxury divine-- When my truant fancy wanders with that old sweeheart of mine.

Though I hear, beneath my study, like a fluttering of wings, The voices of my children, and the mother as she sings, I feel no twinge of conscience to deny me any theme When care has cast her anchor in the harbor of a dream

In fact, to speak in earnest, I believe it adds a charm To spice the good a trifle with a little dust of harm-- For I find an extra flavor in Memory's mellow wine That makes me drink the deeper to that old sweetheart of mine.

A face of lily-beauty, with a form of airy grace, Floats out of my tobacco as the genii from the vase; And I thrill beneath the glances of a pair of azure eyes As glowing as the summer and as tender as the skies.

I can see the pink sunbonnet and the little checkered dress She wore when first I kissed her and she answered the caress With the written declaration that, "as surely as the vine Grew 'round the stump," she loved me--that old sweetheart of mine.

And again I feel the pressure of her slender little hand, As we used to talk together of the future we had planned-- When I should be a poet, and with nothing else to do But write the tender verses that she set the music to:

When we should live together in a cozy little cot Hid in a nest of roses, with a fairy garden-spot, Where the vines were ever fruited, and the weather ever fine, And the birds were ever singing for that old sweetheart of mine:

When I should be her lover forever and a day, And she my faithful sweetheart till the golden hair was gray; And we should be so happy that when either's lips were dumb They would not smile in Heaven till the other's kiss had come.

But, ah! my dream is broken by a step upon the stair, And the door is softly opened, and--my wife is standing there; Yet with eagerness and rapture all my visions I resign To greet the living presence of that old sweetheart of mine.

MARTHY ELLEN.

They's nothin' in the name to strike A feller more'n common like!

'Taint liable to git no praise Ner nothin' like it nowadays; An' yit that name o' her'n is jest As purty as the purtiest-- And more 'n that, I'm here to say I'll live a-thinkin' thataway And die far Marthy Ellen!

It may be I was prejudust In favor of it from the fust-- 'Cause I kin ricollect jest how We met, and hear her mother now A-callin' of her down the road-- And, aggervatin' little toad!-- I see her now, jes' sort o' half- Way disapp'inted, turn and laugh And mock her--"Marthy Ellen!"

Our people never had no fuss, And yit they never tuck to us; We neighbered back and foreds some; Until they see she liked to come To our house--and me and her Were jest together ever'whur And all the time--and when they'd see That I liked her and she liked me, They'd holler "Marthy Ellen!"

When we growed up, and they shet down On me and her a-runnin' roun'

Together, and her father said He'd never leave her nary red, So he'p him, ef she married me, And so on--and her mother she Jest agged the gyrl, and said she 'lowed She'd ruther see her in her shroud, I _writ_ to Marthy Ellen--

That is, I kindo' tuck my pen In hand, and stated whur and when The undersigned would be that night, With two good hosses saddled right Far lively travelin' in case Her folks 'ud like to jine the race.

She sent the same note back, and writ "The rose is red!" right under it-- "Your 'n allus, Marthy Ellen."

That's all, I reckon--Nothin' more To tell but what you've heerd afore-- The same old story, sweeter though Far all the trouble, don't you know.

Old-fas.h.i.+oned name! and yit it's jest As purty as the purtiest; And more 'n that, I'm here to say I'll live a-thinking thataway, And die far Marthy Ellen!

MOON-DROWNED.

'Twas the height of the fete when we quitted the riot, And quietly stole to the terrace alone, Where, pale as the lovers that ever swear by it, The moon it < p="">

We stood there enchanted.--And O the delight of The sight of the stars and the moon and the sea, And the infinite skies of that opulent night of Purple and gold and ivory!

The lisp of the lip of the ripple just under-- The half-awake nightingale's dream in the yews-- Came up from the water, and down from the wonder Of shadowy foliage, drowsed with the dews,-- Unsteady the firefly's taper--unsteady The poise of the stars, and their light in the tide, As it struggled and writhed in caress of the eddy, As love in the billowy breast of a bride.

The far-away lilt of the waltz rippled to us, And through us the exquisite thrill of the air: Like the scent of bruised bloom was her breath, and its dew was Not honier-sweet than her warm kisses were.

We stood there enchanted.--And O the delight of The sight of the stars and the moon and the sea, And the infinite skies of that opulent night of Purple and gold and ivory!

LONG AFORE HE KNOWED WHO SANTY-CLAUS WUZ.

Jes' a little bit o' feller--I remember still,-- Ust to almost _cry_ far Christmas, like a youngster will.