Green Fields and Running Brooks | Page 4

built the kitchen-fire, er split a stick in two,?Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrel-pin, But what I thought o' John, and wished that he was home agin.
He'd come, sometimes--on Sund'ys most--and stay the Sund'y out; And on Thanksgivin'-Day he 'peared to like to be about:?But a change was workin' on him--he was stiller than before, And did n't joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle any more.
And his talk was all so proper; and I noticed, with a sigh, He was tryin' to raise side-whiskers, and had on a striped tie, And a standin'-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as bone; And a breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat of his own.
But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was to come home And he'p me through the season, I was glad to see him come; But my happiness, that evening, with the settin' sun went down, When he bragged of "a position" that was offered him in town.
"But," says I, "you'll not accept it?" "W'y, of course
I will," says he.--?"This drudgin' on a farm," he says, "is not the life fer me; I've set my stakes up higher," he continued, light and gay, "And town's the place fer me, and I'm a-goin' right away!"
And go he did!--his mother clingin' to him at the gate,?A-pleadin' and a-cryin'; but it hadn't any weight.?I was tranquiller, and told her 'twarn't no use to worry so, And onclasped her arms from round his neck round mine--and let him go!
I felt a little bitter feelin' foolin' round about?The aidges of my conscience; but I didn't let it out;--?I simply retch out, trimbly-like, and tuck the boy's hand, And though I did n't say a word, I knowed he'd understand.
And--well!--sence then the old home here was mighty lonesome, shore! With me a-workin' in the field, and Mother at the door,?Her face ferever to'rds the town, and fadin' more and more--- Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin' in a store!
The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes the boy would write A letter to his mother, savin' that his work was light,?And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit--?Though his business was confinin', he was gittin' used to it.
And sometimes he would write and ast how _I_ was gittin' on, And ef I had to pay out much fer he'p sence he was gone;?And how the hogs was doin', and the balance of the stock, And talk on fer a page er two jest like he used to talk.
And he wrote, along 'fore harvest, that he guessed he would git home, Fer business would, of course be dull in town.--But didn't come:-- We got a postal later, sayin' when they had no trade?They filled the time "invoicin' goods," and that was why he staid.
And then he quit a-writin' altogether: Not a word--?Exceptin' what the neighbors brung who'd been to town and heard What store John was clerkin' in, and went round to inquire If they could buy their goods there less and sell their produce higher.
And so the Summer faded out, and Autumn wore away,?And a keener Winter never fetched around Thanksgivin'-Day! The night before that day of thanks I'll never quite fergit, The wind a-howlin' round the house--it makes me creepy yit!
And there set me and Mother--me a-twistin' at the prongs?Of a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair of tongs, And Mother sayin', "David! David!" in a' undertone,?As though she thought that I was thinkin' bad-words unbeknown.
"I've dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow," Mother said, A-tryin' to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubborn head,-- "And the mince-meat I'm a-mixin' is perfection mighty nigh; And the pound-cake is delicious-rich--" "Who'll eat 'em?" I-says-I.
"The cramberries is drippin-sweet," says Mother, runnin' on, P'tendin' not to hear me;--"and somehow I thought of John All the time they was a-jellin'--fer you know they allus was His favour--he likes 'em so!" Says I, "Well, s'pose he does?"
"Oh, nothin' much!" says Mother, with a quiet sort o' smile-- "This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you after while!" And as I turned and looked around, some one riz up and leant And put his arms round Mother's neck, and laughed in low content.
"It's me," he says--"your fool-boy John, come back to shake your hand; Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you understand How dearer yit than all the world is this old home that we Will spend Thanksgivin' in fer life--jest Mother, you and me!"

Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,?Except of course the extry he'p, when harvest-time comes on; And then, I want to say to you, we need sich he'p about, As you'd admit, ef you could see the way the crops turns out!
NORTH AND SOUTH.
Of the North I