Complete Poetical Works | Page 9

three years
before the war.
THE IDYL OF BATTLE HOLLOW
(WAR OF THE REBELLION, 1884)
No, I won't,--thar, now, so! And it ain't nothin',--no!
And thar's nary
to tell that you folks yer don't know;
And it's "Belle, tell us, do!" and
it's "Belle, is it true?" And "Wot's this yer yarn of the Major and you?"

Till I'm sick of it all,--so I am, but I s'pose
Thet is nothin' to
you. . . . Well, then, listen! yer goes!
It was after the fight, and around us all night
Thar was poppin' and
shootin' a powerful sight;
And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Chlo
was abed,
And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed:
And I ran out
at daybreak, and nothin' was nigh
But the growlin' of cannon low
down in the sky.
And I saw not a thing, as I ran to the spring,
But a splintered fence
rail and a broken-down swing,
And a bird said "Kerchee!" as it sat on
a tree,
As if it was lonesome, and glad to see me;
And I filled up my
pail and was risin' to go,
When up comes the Major a-canterin' slow.
When he saw me he drew in his reins, and then threw
On the
gate-post his bridle, and--what does he do
But come down where I sat;
and he lifted his hat,
And he says--well, thar ain't any need to tell
THAT;
'Twas some foolishness, sure, but it 'mounted to this,
Thet
he asked for a drink, and he wanted--a kiss.
Then I said (I was mad), "For the water, my lad,
You're too big and
must stoop; for a kiss, it's as bad,--
You ain't near big enough." And I
turned in a huff,
When that Major he laid his white hand on my cuff,

And he says, "You're a trump! Take my pistol, don't fear!
But
shoot the next man that insults you, my dear."

Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool,
Leavin' me with that
pistol stuck there like a fool,
When thar flashed on my sight a quick
glimmer of light
From the top of the little stone fence on the right,

And I knew 'twas a rifle, and back of it all
Rose the face of that
bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall!
Then I felt in my dread that the moment the head
Of the Major was
lifted, the Major was dead;
And I stood still and white, but Lord! gals,
in spite
Of my care, that derned pistol went off in my fright!
Went
off--true as gospil!--and, strangest of all,
It actooally injured that
Cherokee Hall!
Thet's all--now, go 'long! Yes, some folks thinks it's wrong, And thar's
some wants to know to what side I belong;
But I says, "Served him
right!" and I go, all my might,
In love or in war, for a fair stand-up
fight;
And as for the Major--sho! gals, don't you know
Thet--Lord!
thar's his step in the garden below.
CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD
(NEW JERSEY, 1780)
Here's the spot. Look around you. Above on the height
Lay the
Hessians encamped. By that church on the right
Stood the gaunt
Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall,--
You may dig anywhere and
you'll turn up a ball.
Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run,
flowers blow,
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago.
Nothing more, did I say? Stay one moment: you've heard
Of Caldwell,
the parson, who once preached the word
Down at Springfield? What,
no? Come--that's bad; why, he had All the Jerseys aflame! And they
gave him the name
Of the "rebel high priest." He stuck in their gorge,

For he loved the Lord God--and he hated King George!
He had cause, you might say! When the Hessians that day
Marched

up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way
At the "farms,"
where his wife, with a child in her arms,
Sat alone in the house. How
it happened none knew
But God--and that one of the hireling crew

Who fired the shot! Enough!--there she lay,
And Caldwell, the
chaplain, her husband, away!
Did he preach--did he pray? Think of him as you stand
By the old
church to-day,--think of him and his band
Of militant ploughboys!
See the smoke and the heat
Of that reckless advance, of that
straggling retreat!
Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your
view--
And what could you, what should you, what would YOU do?
Why, just what HE did! They were left in the lurch
For the want of
more wadding. He ran to the church,
Broke the door, stripped the
pews, and dashed out in the road With his arms full of hymn-books,
and threw down his load
At their feet! Then above all the shouting
and shots
Rang his voice: "Put Watts into 'em! Boys, give 'em
Watts!"
And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow,
Pretty much
as they did ninety-three years ago.
You may dig anywhere and you'll
turn up a ball--
But not always a hero like this--and that's all.
POEM
DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF
CALIFORNIA'S ADMISSION INTO THE UNION, SEPTEMBER
9, 1864
We meet in