Riley Farm-Rhymes Part 5

Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see 'em eat-- A slice of wortermelon's like a frenchharp in theyr hands, And when they "saw" it through theyr mouth sich music can't be beat-- 'Cause it's music both the sperit and the stummick understands.

Oh, they's more in wortermelons than the purty-colored meat, And the overflowin' sweetness of the worter squshed betwixt

The up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth, And it's the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood mixed.

Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away To the summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn, And the fadin' afternoon of the long summer day, And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the night a-comin'

on.

And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves and trees, And the stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silver mice, And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and knees, And the new-moon hangin' ore us like a yeller-cored slice.

Oh! it's wortermelon time is a-comin' round again, And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me, Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin-- Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE

Up and down old Brandywine, In the days 'at's past and gone-- With a dad-burn hook-and line And a saplin' pole--swawn!

I've had more fun, to the square Inch, than ever ANYwhere!

Heaven to come can't discount MINE Up and down old Brandywine!

Hain't no sense in WIs.h.i.+N'--yit Wisht to goodness I COULD jes "Gee" the blame' world round and git Back to that old happiness!-- Kindo' drive back in the shade "The old Covered Bridge" there laid 'Crosst the crick, and sorto' soak My soul over, hub and spoke!

Honest, now!--it hain't no DREAM 'At I'm wantin',--but THE FAC'S As they wuz; the same old stream, And the same old times, i jacks!-- Gim me back my bare feet--and Stonebruise too!--And scratched and tanned!

And let hottest dog-days s.h.i.+ne Up and down old Brandywine!

In and on betwixt the trees 'Long the banks, pour down yer noon, Kindo' curdled with the breeze And the yallerhammer's tune; And the smokin', chokin' dust O' the turnpike at its wusst-- SAt.u.r.d'YS, say, when it seems Road's jes jammed with country teams!--

Whilse the old town, fur away 'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land, Dozed-like in the heat o' day Peaceful' as a hired hand.

Jolt the gravel th'ough the floor O' the old bridge!--grind and roar With yer blame percession-line-- Up and down old Brandywine!

Souse me and my new straw-hat Off the foot-log!--what _I_ care?-- Fist shoved in the crown o' that-- Like the old Clown ust to wear.

Wouldn't swop it fer a' old Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold!-- Keep yer KING ef you'll gim me Jes the boy I ust to be!

Spill my fis.h.i.+n'-worms! er steal My best "goggle-eye!"--but you Can't lay hands on joys I feel Nibblin' like they ust to do!

So, in memory, to-day Same old ripple lips away At my "cork" and saggin' line, Up and down old Bradywine!

There the logs is, round the hill, Where "Old Irvin" ust to lift Out sunfish from daylight till Dewfall--'fore he'd leave "The Drift"

And give US a chance--and then Kindo' fish back home again, Ketchin' 'em jes left and right Where WE hadn't got "a bite!"

Er, 'way windin' out and in,-- Old path th'ough the iurnweeds And dog-fennel to yer chin-- Then come suddent, th'ough the reeds And cat-tails, smack into where Them--air woods--hogs ust to scare Us clean 'crosst the County-line, Up and down old Brandywine!

But the dim roar o' the dam It 'ud coax us furder still To'rds the old race, slow and ca'm, Slidin' on to Huston's mill-- Where, I'spect, "The Freeport crowd"

Never WARMED to us er 'lowed We wuz quite so overly Welcome as we aimed to be.

Still it 'peared like ever'thing-- Fur away from home as THERE-- Had more RELISH-like, i jing!-- Fish in stream, er bird in air!

O them rich old bottom-lands, Past where Cowden's Schoolhouse stands!

Wortermelons--MASTER-MINE!

Up and down old Brandywine!

And sich pop-paws!--Lumps o' raw Gold and green,--jes oozy th'ough With ripe yaller--like you've saw Custard-pie with no crust to: And jes GORGES o' wild plums, Till a feller'd suck his thumbs Clean up to his elbows! MY!-- ME SOME MORE ER LEM ME DIE!

Up and down old Brandywine!...

Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!-- Flick me with a pizenvine And yell "Yip!" and lem me loose!

--Old now as I then wuz young, 'F I could sing as I HAVE sung, Song 'ud surely ring DEE-VINE Up and down old Brandywine!

WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY

When country roads begin to thaw In mottled spots of damp and dust, And fences by the margin draw Along the frosty crust Their graphic silhouettes, I say, The Spring is coming round this way.

When morning-time is bright with sun And keen with wind, and both confuse The dancing, glancing eyes of one With tears that ooze and ooze-- And nose-tips weep as well as they, The Spring is coming round this way.

When suddenly some shadow-bird Goes wavering beneath the gaze, And through the hedge the moan is heard Of kine that fain would graze In gra.s.ses new, I smile and say, The Spring is coming round this way.

When knotted horse-tails are untied, And teamsters whistle here and there.

And clumsy mitts are laid aside And choppers' hands are bare, And chips are thick where children play, The Spring is coming round this way.

When through the twigs the farmer tramps, And troughs are chunked beneath the trees, And fragrant hints of sugar-camps Astray in every breeze,-- When early March seems middle May, The Spring is coming round this way.

When coughs are changed to laughs, and when Our frowns melt into smiles of glee, And all our blood thaws out again In streams of ecstasy, And poets wreak their roundelay, The Spring is coming round this way.

A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS

Oh! tell me a tale of the airly days-- Of the times as they ust to be; "Piller of Fi-er" and "Shakespeare's Plays"

Is a' most too deep fer me!

I want plane facts, and I want plane words, Of the good old-fas.h.i.+oned ways, When speech run free as the songs of birds 'Way back in the airly days.

Tell me a tale of the timber-lands-- Of the old-time pioneers; Somepin' a pore man understands With his feelins's well as ears.

Tell of the old log house,--about The loft, and the puncheon flore-- The old fi-er-place, with the crane swung out, And the latch-string thrugh the door.

Tell of the things jest as they was-- They don't need no excuse!-- Don't tech 'em up like the poets does, Tel theyr all too fine fer use!-- Say they was 'leven in the fambily-- Two beds, and the chist, below, And the trundle-beds that each helt three, And the clock and the old bureau.

Then blow the horn at the old back-door Tel the echoes all halloo, And the childern gethers home onc't more, Jest as they ust to do: Blow fer Pap tel he hears and comes, With Tomps and Elias, too, A-marchin' home, with the fife and drums And the old Red White and Blue!

Blow and blow tel the sound draps low As the moan of the whipperwill, And wake up Mother, and Ruth and Jo, All sleepin' at Bethel Hill: Blow and call tel the faces all s.h.i.+ne out in the back-log's blaze, And the shadders dance on the old hewed wall As they did in the airly days.

OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME