Green Fields and Running Brooks | Page 4

Paradise
could answer in a year!
And read! w'y, his own mother learnt him how to read and spell; And
"The Childern of the Abbey"--w'y, he knowed that book as well At
fifteen as his parents!--and "The Pilgrim's Progress," too-- Jest
knuckled down, the shaver did, and read 'em through and through!
At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a better chance-- That
we ort to educate him, under any circumstance;
And John he j'ined
his mother, and they ding-donged and kep' on, Tel I sent him off to
school in town, half glad that he was gone.
But--I missed him--w'y of course I did!--The Fall and Winter through I
never 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