Farm Ballads Part 7

But, layin' aside _pleasure_ for business, I've brought you my little boy Jim; And I thought I would see if you couldn't make an editor outen of him.

"My family stock is increasin', while other folks' seems to run short.

I've got a right smart of a family--it's one of the old-fas.h.i.+oned sort: There's Ichabod, Isaac, and Israel, a-workin' away on the farm-- They do 'bout as much as one good boy, and make things go off like a charm.

There's Moses and Aaron are sly ones, and slip like a couple of eels; But they're tol'able steady in one thing--they al'ays git round to their meals.

There's Peter is busy inventin' (though _what_ he invents I can't see), And Joseph is studyin' medicine--and both of 'em boardin' with me.

There's Abram and Albert is married, each workin' my farm for myself, And Sam smashed his nose at a shootin', and so he is laid on the shelf.

The rest of the boys are all growin', 'cept this little runt, which is Jim, And I thought that perhaps I'd be makin' an editor outen o' him.

"He ain't no great shakes for to labor, though I've labored with him a good deal, And give him some strappin' good arguments I know he couldn't help but to feel; But he's built out of second-growth timber, and nothin' about him is big Exceptin' his appet.i.te only, and there he's as good as a pig.

I keep him a-carryin' luncheons, and fillin' and bringin' the jugs, And take him among the pertatoes, and set him to pickin' the bugs; And then there is things to be doin' a-helpin' the women indoors; There's churnin' and was.h.i.+n' of dishes, and other descriptions of ch.o.r.es; But he don't take to nothin' but victuals, and he'll never be much, I'm afraid, So I thought it would be a good notion to larn him the editor's trade.

His body's too small for a farmer, his judgment is rather too slim, But I thought we perhaps could be makin' an editor outen o' him!

"It ain't much to get up a paper--it wouldn't take him long for to learn; He could feed the machine, I'm thinkin', with a good strappin' fellow to turn.

And things that was once hard in doin', is easy enough now to do; Just keep your eye on your machinery, and crack your arrangements right through.

I used for to wonder at readin' and where it was got up, and how; But 'tis most of it made by machinery--I can see it all plain enough now.

And poetry, too, is constructed by machines of different designs, Each one with a gauge and a chopper to see to the length of the lines; And I hear a New York clairvoyant is runnin' one sleeker than grease, And _a-rentin'_ her heaven-born productions at a couple of dollars apiece; An' since the whole trade has growed easy, 'twould be easy enough, I've a whim, If you was agreed, to be makin' an editor outen of Jim!"

The Editor sat in his sanctum and looked the old man in the eye, Then glanced at the grinning young hopeful, and mournfully made his reply: "Is your son a small unbound edition of Moses and Solomon both?

Can he compa.s.s his spirit with meekness, and strangle a natural oath?

Can he leave all his wrongs to the future, and carry his heart in his cheek?

Can he do an hour's work in a minute, and live on a sixpence a week?

Can he courteously talk to an equal, and browbeat an impudent dunce?

Can he keep things in apple-pie order, and do half a dozen at once?

Can he press all the springs of knowledge, with quick and reliable touch, And be sure that he knows how much _to_ know, and knows how to not know too much?

Does he know how to spur up his virtue, and put a check-rein on his pride?

Can he carry a gentleman's manners within a rhinoceros' hide?

Can he know all, and do all, and be all, with cheerfulness, courage, and vim?

If so, we perhaps can be makin an editor 'outen of him.'"

The farmer stood curiously listening, while wonder his visage o'erspread; And he said, "Jim, I guess we'll be goin'; he's probably out of his head."

But lo! on the rickety stair-case, another reliable tread, And entered another old farmer, and these are the words that he said:

"Good-morning, sir, Mr. Editor, how is the folks to-day?

I owe you for next year's paper; I thought I'd come in and pay.

And Jones is agoin' to take it, and this is his money here; I shut down on lendin' it to him, and coaxed him to try it a year.

And here is a few little items that happened last week in our town: I thought they'd look good for the paper, and so I just jotted 'em down.

And here is a basket of cherries my wife picked expressly for you; And a small bunch of flowers from Jennie--she thought she must send somethin' too.

You're doin' the politics bully, as all of our family agree; Just keep your old goose-quill a-floppin', and give 'em a good one for me.

And now you are chuck full of business, and I won't be takin' your time; I've things of my own I must 'tend to--good-day, sir, I b'lieve I will climb."

The Editor sat in his sanctum and brought down his fist with a thump: "G.o.d bless that old farmer," he muttered, "he's a regular Editor's trump."

And 'tis thus with our n.o.ble profession, and thus it will ever be, still; There are some who appreciate its labors, and some who perhaps never will.

But in the great time that is coming, when loudly the trumpet shall sound, And they who have labored and rested shall come from the quivering ground; When they who have striven and suffered to teach and enn.o.ble the race, Shall march at the front of the column, each one in his G.o.d-given place, As they pa.s.s through the gates of The City with proud and victorious tread, The editor, printer, and "devil," will travel not far from the head.

THE HOUSE WHERE WE WERE WED.

I've been to the old farm-house, good-wife, Where you and I were wed; Where the love was born to our two hearts That now lies cold and dead.

Where a long-kept secret to you I told, In the yellow beams of the moon, And we forged our vows out of love's own gold, To be broken so soon, so soon!

I pa.s.sed through all the old rooms, good-wife; I wandered on and on; I followed the steps of a flitting ghost, The ghost of a love that is gone.

And he led me out to the arbor, wife, Where with myrtles I twined your hair; And he seated me down on the old stone step, And left me musing there.

The sun went down as it used to do, And sunk in the sea of night; The two bright stars that we called ours Came slowly unto my sight; But the one that was mine went under a cloud-- Went under a cloud, alone; And a tear that I wouldn't have shed for the world, Fell down on the old gray stone.

But there be words can ne'er be unsaid, And deeds can ne'er be undone, Except perhaps in another world, Where life's once more begun.

And maybe some time in the time to come, When a few more years are sped, We'll love again as we used to love, In the house where we were wed.

OUR ARMY OF THE DEAD.

By the edge of the Atlantic, where the waves of Freedom roar, And the breezes of the ocean chant a requiem to the sh.o.r.e, On the Nation's eastern hill-tops, where its corner-stone was laid, On the mountains of New England, where our fathers toiled and prayed, Mid old Key-stone's rugged riches, which the miner's hand await, Mid the never-ceasing commerce of the busy Empire State, With the country's love and honor on each brave, devoted head, Is a band of n.o.ble heroes--is our Army of the Dead.

On the lake-encircled homestead of the thriving Wolverine, On the beauteous Western prairies, with their carpeting of green, By the sweeping Mississippi, long our country's pride and boast, On the rugged Rocky Mountains, and the weird Pacific coast, In the listless, sunny Southland, with its blossoms and its vines, On the bracing Northern hill-tops, and amid their murmuring pines, Over all our happy country--over all our Nation spread, Is a band of n.o.ble heroes--is our Army of the Dead.

Not with musket, and with saber, and with glad heart beating fast; Not with cannon that had thundered till the b.l.o.o.d.y war was past; Not with voices that are shouting with the vim of victory's note; Not with armor gayly glistening, and with flags that proudly float; Not with air of martial vigor, nor with steady, soldier tramp, Come they grandly marching to us--for the boys are all in camp.

With forgetfulness upon it--each within his earthy bed, Waiting for his marching orders--is our Army of the Dead.

Fast asleep the boys are lying, in their low and narrow tents, And no battle-cry can wake them, and no orders call them hence; And the yearnings of the mother, and the anguish of the wife, Can not with their magic presence call the soldier back to life; And the brother's manly sorrow, and the father's mournful pride, Can not give back to his country him who for his country died.

They who for the trembling Nation in its hour of trial bled, Lie, in these its years of triumph, with our Army of the Dead.

When the years of Earth are over, and the cares of Earth are done, When the reign of Time is ended, and Eternity begun, When the thunders of Omniscience on our wakened senses roll, And the sky above shall wither, and be gathered like a scroll; When, among the lofty mountains, and across the mighty sea, The sublime celestial bugler shall ring out the reveille, Then shall march with brightest laurels, and with proud, victorious tread, To their station up in heaven, our Grand Army of the Dead!

APPLE-BLOSSOMS.

Underneath an apple-tree Sat a maiden and her lover; And the thoughts within her he Yearned, in silence, to discover.

Round them danced the sunbeams bright, Green the gra.s.s-lawn stretched before them; While the apple-blossoms white Hung in rich profusion o'er them.