A Child-World | Page 5

confidingly; a rose?Taps at the window, as the sunlight throws?A brilliant, jostling checkerwork of shine?And shadow, like a Persian-loom design,?Across the homemade carpet--fades,--and then?The dear old colors are themselves again.?Sounds drop in visiting from everywhere--?The bluebird's and the robin's trill are there,?Their sweet liquidity diluted some?By dewy orchard spaces they have come:?Sounds of the town, too, and the great highway--?The Mover-wagons' rumble, and the neigh?Of overtraveled horses, and the bleat?Of sheep and low of cattle through the street--?A Nation's thoroughfare of hopes and fears,?First blazed by the heroic pioneers?Who gave up old-home idols and set face?Toward the unbroken West, to found a race?And tame a wilderness now mightier than?All peoples and all tracts American.?Blent with all outer sounds, the sounds within:--?In mild remoteness falls the household din?Of porch and kitchen: the dull jar and thump?Of churning; and the "glung-glung" of the pump,?With sudden pad and skurry of bare feet?Of little outlaws, in from field or street:?The clang of kettle,--rasp of damper-ring?And bang of cookstove-door--and everything?That jingles in a busy kitchen lifts?Its individual wrangling voice and drifts?In sweetest tinny, coppery, pewtery tone?Of music hungry ear has ever known?In wildest famished yearning and conceit?Of youth, to just cut loose and eat and eat!--?The zest of hunger still incited on?To childish desperation by long-drawn?Breaths of hot, steaming, wholesome things that stew?And blubber, and up-tilt the pot-lids, too,?Filling the sense with zestful rumors of?The dear old-fashioned dinners children love:?Redolent savorings of home-cured meats,?Potatoes, beans, and cabbage; turnips, beets?And parsnips--rarest composite entire?That ever pushed a mortal child's desire?To madness by new-grated fresh, keen, sharp?Horseradish--tang that sets the lips awarp?And watery, anticipating all?The cloyed sweets of the glorious festival.--?Still add the cinnamony, spicy scents?Of clove, nutmeg, and myriad condiments?In like-alluring whiffs that prophesy?Of sweltering pudding, cake, and custard pie--?The swooning-sweet aroma haunting all?The house--upstairs and down--porch, parlor, hall?And sitting-room--invading even where?The Hired Man sniffs it in the orchard-air,?And pauses in his pruning of the trees?To note the sun minutely and to--sneeze.
Then Cousin Rufus comes--the children hear?His hale voice in the old hall, ringing clear?As any bell. Always he came with song?Upon his lips and all the happy throng?Of echoes following him, even as the crowd?Of his admiring little kinsmen--proud?To have a cousin grown--and yet as young?Of soul and cheery as the songs he sung.
He was a student of the law--intent?Soundly to win success, with all it meant;?And so he studied--even as he played,--?With all his heart: And so it was he made?His gallant fight for fortune--through all stress?Of battle bearing him with cheeriness?And wholesome valor.
And the children had?Another relative who kept them glad?And joyous by his very merry ways--?As blithe and sunny as the summer days,--?Their father's youngest brother--Uncle Mart.?The old "Arabian Nights" he knew by heart--?"Baron Munchausen," too; and likewise "The?Swiss Family Robinson."--And when these three?Gave out, as he rehearsed them, he could go?Straight on in the same line--a steady flow?Of arabesque invention that his good?Old mother never clearly understood.?He was_ to be a _printer--wanted, though,?To be an actor.--But the world was "show"?Enough for him,--theatric, airy, gay,--?Each day to him was jolly as a play.?And some poetic symptoms, too, in sooth,?Were certain.--And, from his apprentice youth,?He joyed in verse-quotations--which he took?Out of the old "Type Foundry Specimen Book."?He craved and courted most the favor of?The children.--They were foremost in his love;?And pleasing them, he pleased his own boy-heart?And kept it young and fresh in every part.?So was it he devised for them and wrought?To life his quaintest, most romantic thought:--?Like some lone castaway in alien seas,?He built a house up in the apple-trees,?Out in the corner of the garden, where?No man-devouring native, prowling there,?Might pounce upon them in the dead o' night--?For lo, their little ladder, slim and light,?They drew up after them. And it was known?That Uncle Mart slipped up sometimes alone?And drew the ladder in, to lie and moon?Over some novel all the afternoon.?And one time Johnty, from the crowd below,--?Outraged to find themselves deserted so--?Threw bodily their old black cat up in?The airy fastness, with much yowl and din.?Resulting, while a wild periphery?Of cat went circling to another tree,?And, in impassioned outburst, Uncle Mart?Loomed up, and thus relieved his tragic heart:
"'_Hence, long-tailed, ebon-eyed, nocturnal ranger!?What led thee hither 'mongst the types and cases??Didst thou not know that running midnight races?O'er standing types was fraught with imminent danger??Did hunger lead thee--didst thou think to find?Some rich old cheese to fill thy hungry maw??Vain hope! for none but literary jaw?Can masticate our cookery for the mind!_'"
So likewise when, with lordly air and grace,?He strode to dinner, with a tragic face?With ink-spots on it from the office, he?Would aptly quote more "Specimen-poetry--"?Perchance like "'Labor's bread is sweet to eat,?(Ahem!) And toothsome is the toiler's meat.'"
Ah, could you see them all, at lull of noon!--?A sort of boisterous lull, with clink of spoon?And clatter of deflecting