Farm Ballads Part 6

"Like takes to like," is a proverb that's nothin' more than trash; And many a time I've seen it all pulverized to smash.

For folks in no way sim'lar, I've noticed ag'in and ag'in, Will often take to each other, and stick together like sin.

Next thing bothered and worried me, was 'long of a terrible drouth; And me an' all o' my neighbors was some'at down in the mouth.

And week after week the rain held off, and things all pined an' dried, And we drove the cattle miles to drink, and many of 'em died.

And day after day went by us, so han'some and so bright, And never a drop of water came near us, day or night; And what with the neighbors' grumblin', and what with my daily loss, I must own that somehow or other I was gettin' mighty cross.

And on one Sunday evenin' I was comin' down the lane From meetin', where our preacher had stuck and hung for rain, And various slants on heaven kept workin' in my mind, And the smoke from Sanders' fallow was makin' me almost blind;

I opened the door kind o' sudden, an' there my Katherine sat, As cozy as any kitten along with a friendly cat; An' Tom was dreadful near her--his arm on the back of her chair-- And lookin' as happy and cheerful as if there was rain to spare.

"Get out of this house in a minute!" I cried, with all my might: "Get out, while I'm a-talkin'!"--Tom's eyes showed a bit of fight; But he rose up, stiff and surly, and made me a civil bow, And mogged along to the door-way, with never a word of row.

And I snapped up my wife quite surly when she asked me what I'd said, And I scolded Kate for cryin', and sent her up stairs to bed; And then I laid down, for the purpose of gettin' a little sleep, An' the wind outside was a-howlin', and puttin' it in to keep.

'Twas half-past three next mornin', or maybe 'twas nearer four-- The neighbors they came a-yellin' and poundin' at my door; "Get up! get up!" they shouted: "get up! there's danger near!

The woods are all a-burnin'! the wind is blowin' it here!"

If ever it happens, children, that you get catched, some time, With fire a-blowin' toward you, as fast as fire can climb, You'll get up and get in a hurry, as fast as you can budge; It's a lively season of the year, or else I ain't no judge!

Out o' the dear old cabin we tumbled fast as we could-- Smashed two-thirds of our dishes, and saved some four-foot wood; With smoke a-settlin' round us and gettin' into our eyes, And fire a-roarin' an' roarin' an' drowndin' all of our cries.

And just as the roof was smokin', and we hadn't long to wait, I says to my wife, "Now get out, and hustle, you and Kate!"

And just as the roof was fallin', my wife she come to me, With a face as white as a corpse's face, and "Where is Kate?" says she.

And the neighbors come runnin' to me, with faces black as the ground, And shouted, "Where is Katherine? She's nowhere to be found!"

An' this is all I remember, till I found myself next day, A-lyin' in Sanders' cabin, a mile an' a half away.

If ever you wake up, children, with somethin' into your head, Concernin' a han'some daughter, that's lyin' still an' dead, All scorched into coal-black cinders--_perhaps_ you may not weep, But I rather think it'll happen you'll wish you'd a-kept asleep.

And all I could say, was "Kath'rine, oh Kath'rine, come to me!"

And all I could think, was "Kath'rine!" and all that I could see, Was Sanders a-standin' near to me, his finger into his eye, And my wife a-bendin' over me, and tellin' me not to cry;

When, lo! Tom Smith he entered--his face lit up with grins And Kate a-hangin' on his arm, as neat as a row of pins!

And Tom looked glad, but sheepish; and said, "Excuse me, Squire, But I 'loped with Kate, and married her an hour before the fire."

Well, children, I was shattered; 'twas more than I could bear-- And I up and went for Kate an' Tom, and hugged 'em then and there!

And since that time, the times have changed, an' now they ain't so bad; And--Katherine, she's your mother now, and--Thomas Smith's your dad.

OTHER POEMS.

THE NEW CHURCH ORGAN.

They 've got a brand-new organ, Sue, For all their fuss and search; They've done just as they said they'd do, And fetched it into church.

They're bound the critter shall be seen, And on the preacher's right They've hoisted up their new machine, In every body's sight.

They've got a chorister and choir, Ag'in' my voice and vote; For it was never my desire, To praise the Lord by note!

I've been a sister good an' true For five-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; I've sung the hymns both slow and quick, Just as the preacher read, And twice, when Deacon Tubbs was sick, I took the fork an' led!

And now, their bold, new-fangled ways Is comin' all about; And I, right in my latter days, Am fairly crowded out!

To-day the preacher, good old dear, With tears all in his eyes, Read, "I can read my t.i.tle clear To mansions in the skies."

I al'ays liked that blessed hymn-- I s'pose I al'ays will; It somehow gratifies my whim, In good old Ortonville; But when that choir got up to sing, I couldn't catch a word; They sung the most dog-gondest thing A body ever heard!

Some worldly chaps was standin' near; An' when I see them grin, I bid farewell to every fear, And boldly waded in.

I thought I'd chase their tune along, An' tried with all my might; But though my voice is good an' strong, I couldn't steer it right; When they was high, then I was low, An' also contrawise; An' I too fast, or they too slow, To "mansions in the skies."

An' after every verse, you know, They play a little tune; I didn't understand, an' so I started in too soon.

I pitched it pretty middlin' high, I fetched a l.u.s.ty tone, But oh, alas! I found that I Was singin' there alone!

They laughed a little, I am told; But I had done my best; And not a wave of trouble rolled Across my peaceful breast.

And Sister Brown--I could but look-- She sits right front of me; She never was no singin'-book, An' never went to be; But then she al'ays tried to do The best she could, she said; She understood the time right through, An' kep' it with her head; But when she tried this mornin', oh, I had to laugh, or cough!

It kep' her head a-bobbin' so, It e'en a'most came off!

An' Deacon Tubbs--he all broke down, As one might well suppose; He took one look at Sister Brown, And meekly scratched his nose.

He looked his hymn-book through and through, And laid it on the seat, And then a pensive sigh he drew, And looked completely beat.

An' when they took another bout, He didn't even rise; But drawed his red bandanner out, An' wiped his weepin' eyes.

I've been a sister, good an' true, For five-an'-thirty year; I've done what seemed my part to do, An' prayed my duty clear; But Death will stop my voice, I know, For he is on my track; And some day I to church will go, And never more come back; And when the folks gets up to sing-- Whene'er that time shall be-- I do not want no _patent_ thing A-squealin' over me!

THE EDITOR'S GUESTS.

The Editor sat in his sanctum, his countenance furrowed with care, His mind at the bottom of business, his feet at the top of a chair, His chair-arm an elbow supporting, his right hand upholding his head, His eyes on his dusty old table, with different doc.u.ments spread: There were thirty long pages from Howler, with underlined capitals topped, And a short disquisition from Growler, requesting his newspaper stopped; There were lyrics from Gusher, the poet, concerning sweet flow'rets and zephyrs, And a stray gem from Plodder, the farmer, describing a couple of heifers; There were billets from beautiful maidens, and bills from a grocer or two, And his best leader hitched to a letter, which inquired if he wrote it, or who?

There were raptures of praises from writers of the weakly mellifluous school, And one of his rival's last papers, informing him he was a fool; There were several long resolutions, with names telling whom they were by, Canonizing some harmless old brother who had done nothing worse than to die; There were traps on that table to catch him, and serpents to sting and to smite him; There were gift enterprises to sell him, and bitters attempting to bite him; There were long staring "ads" from the city, and money with never a one, Which added, "Please give this insertion, and send in your bill when you're _done_;"

There were letters from organizations--their meetings, their wants, and their laws-- Which said, "Can you print this announcement for the good of our glorious cause?"

There were tickets inviting his presence to festivals, parties, and shows, Wrapped in notes with "Please give us a notice" demurely slipped in at the close; In short, as his eye took the table, and ran o'er its ink-spattered trash, There was nothing it did not encounter, excepting perhaps it was cash.

The Editor dreamily pondered on several ponderous things.

On different lines of action, and the pulling of different strings; Upon some equivocal doings, and some unequivocal duns; On how few of his numerous patrons were quietly prompt-paying ones; On friends who subscribed "just to help him," and wordy encouragement lent, And had given him plenty of counsel, but never had paid him a cent; On vinegar, kind-hearted people were feeding him every hour, Who saw not the work they were doing, but wondered that "printers are sour:"

On several intelligent townsmen, whose kindness was so without stint That they kept an eye out on his business, and told him just what he should print; On men who had rendered him favors, and never pushed forward their claims, So long as the paper was crowded with "locals" containing their names; On various other small matters, sufficient his temper to roil, And finely contrived to be making the blood of an editor boil; And so one may see that his feelings could hardly be said to be smooth, And he needed some pleasant occurrence his ruffled emotions to soothe: He had it; for lo! on the threshold, a slow and reliable tread, And a farmer invaded the sanctum, and these are the words that he said:

"Good-mornin', sir, Mr. Printer; how is your body to-day?

I'm glad you're to home; for you fellers is al'ays a runnin' away.

Your paper last week wa'n't so spicy nor sharp as the one week before: But I s'pose when the campaign is opened, you'll be whoopin' it up to 'em more.

That feller that's printin' _The Smasher_ is goin' for you perty smart; And our folks said this mornin' at breakfast, they thought he was gettin'

the start.

But I hushed 'em right up in a minute, and said a good word for you; I told 'em I b'lieved you was tryin' to do just as well as you knew; And I told 'em that some one was sayin', and whoever 'twas it is so, That you can't expect much of no one man, nor blame him for what he don't know.