The Poets and Poetry of Cecil County, Maryland Part 15

Thro' moss, and bracken, and purple bloom, With a glitter of gorses here and there, Shoulder deep in the dewy bloom, My love, I follow you everywhere!

By faint sweet signs my soul divines, Dear heart, at dawning you came this way, By the jangled bells of the columbines, And the ruffled gold of the gorses gay.

By hill and hollow, by mead and lawn, Thro' s.h.i.+ne and shade of dingle and glade, Fast and far as I hurry on My eager seeking you still evade.

But, were you shod with the errant breeze, Spirit of shadow and fire and dew, O'er trackless deserts of lands and seas Still would I follow and find out you.

Like a dazzle of sparks from a glowing brand, 'Mid the tender green of the feathery fern And nodding sedge, by the light gale fanned, The Indian pinks in the sunlight burn; And the wide, cool cups of the corn flower brim With the sapphire's splendor of heaven's own blue, In sylvan hollows and dingles dim, Still sweet with a hint of the morn--and you!

For here is the print of your slender foot, And the rose that fell from your braided hair, In the lush deep moss at the bilberry's root-- And the scent of lilacs is in the air!

Do lilacs bloom in the wild green wood?

Do roses drop from the bilberry bough?

Answer me, little Red Riding Hood!

You are hiding there in the bracken, now!

Come out of your covert, my Bonny Belle-- I see the glint of your eyes sweet blue-- Your yellow locks--ah, you know full well Your scarlet mantle has told on you; Come out this minute, you laughing minx!

--By all the dryads of wood and wold!

'Tis only a cl.u.s.ter of Indian pinks And corn flowers, under the gorses' gold.

AT MILKING-TIME.

"Coe, Berry-brown! Hie, Thistledown!

Make haste; the milking-time is come!

The bells are ringing in the town, Tho' all the green hillside is dumb, And Morn's white curtain, half withdrawn, Just shows a rosy glimpse of dawn."

Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "Ah! my heart, if Tom should fail!

See the vapors, white as curd, By the waking winds are stirred, And the east is brightening slow Tom is long a-field, I know!

"Coe, Bell! Come Bright! Miss Lilywhite, I see you hiding in the croft!

By yon steep stair of ruddy light The sun is climbing fast aloft; What makes the stealthy, creeping chill That hangs about the morning still?"

Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "Some one saunters up the vale, Pauses at the brook awhile, Dawdles at the meadow stile-- Well! if loitering be a crime, Some one takes his own sweet time!

"So! Berry, so! Now, cherry-blow, Keep your pink nose out of the pail!

How dull the morning is--how low The churning vapors coil and trail!

How dim the sky, and far away!

What ails the suns.h.i.+ne and the day?"

Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "But for that preposterous tale Nancy Mixer brought from town, 'Tom is courting Kitty Brown,'

I'd not walked with Willie Snow, Just to tease my Tom, you know!

"So! stand still, my thistledown!

Tom is coming thro' the gate, But his forehead wears a frown, And he never was so late!

Till that vexing demon, Doubt, Angered us, and we fell out!"

Tinkle, tinkle in the pail: "Tom roosts on the topmost rail, Chewing straws, and looking grim When I choose to peep at him; Wonder if he's sulking still, All about my walk with Will?

"Cherry, Berry, Lilywhite, Hasten fieldward, every one; All the heavens are growing bright, And the milking time is done; I will speak to him, and see If his lords.h.i.+p answers me: 'Tom!' He tumbles off the rail, Stoops to lift the br.i.m.m.i.n.g pail; With a mutual pleading glance Lip meets lip--mayhap by chance-- And--but need I whisper why?-- Tom is happy--and so am I!"

THE SINGER'S SONG

O weary heart of mine, Keep still, and make no sign!

The world hath learned a newer joy-- A sweeter song than thine!

Tho' all the brooks of June Should lilt and pipe in tune.

The music by and by would cloy-- The world forgets so soon!

So thou mayest put away Thy little broken lay; Perhaps some wistful, loving soul May take it up some day-- Take up the broken thread, Dear heart, when thou art dead, And weave into diviner song The things thou wouldst have said!

Rest thou, and make no sign, The world, O, heart of mine, Is listening for the hand that smites A grander chord than thine!

The loftier strains that teach Great truths beyond thy reach; Whose far faint echo they have heard In thy poor stammering speech.

Thy little broken bars, That wailing discord mars, To vast triumphal harmonies Shall swell beyond the stars.

So rest thee, heart, and cease; Awhile, in glad release, Keep silence here, with G.o.d, amid The lilies of His peace.

AUNT PATTY'S THANKSGIVING.

[Transcriber's note: The original text t.i.tled this poem here as "Aunt Patty's Thanksgiving" and in the table of contents as "Aunt Betty's Thanksgiving." This discrepancy is intentionally preserved.]

Now Cleo, fly round! Father's going to town With a load o' red russets, to meet Captain Brown; The mortgage is due, and it's got to be paid, And father is troubled to raise it, I'm 'fraid!

We've had a bad year, with the drouth and the blight The harvest was short, and the apple crop light; The early hay cutting scarce balanced the cost, And the heft o' the after-math's ruined with frost; A gloomy Thanksgiving to-morrow will be-- But the ways o' the Lord are not our ways, ah me!

But His dear will be done! If we jest do our best, And trust Him, I guess He'll take care o' the rest; I'd not mind the worry, nor stop to repine, Could I take father's share o' the burden with mine!

He is grieving, I know, tho' he says not a word, But, last night, 'twixt the waking and dreaming, I heard The long, sobbing sighs of a strong man in pain, And I knew he was fretting for Robert again!

Our Robert, our first-born: the comfort and stay Of our age, when we two should grow feeble and gray; What a baby he was! with his bright locks, and eyes Just as blue as a bit o' the midsummer skies!

And in youth--why, it made one's heart lightsome and glad Like a glimpse o' the sun, just to look at the lad!

But the curse came upon him--the spell of unrest-- Like a voice calling out of the infinite West-- And Archibald Grace, he was going--and so We gave Rob our blessing, and jest let him go!

There, Cleo, your father is out at the gate: Be spry as a cricket; he don't like to wait!

Here's the firkin o' b.u.t.ter, as yellow as gold-- And the eggs, in this basket--ten dozen all told.

Tell father be sure and remember the tea-- And the spice and the yard o' green gingham for me; And the sugar for baking:--and ask him to go To the office--there might be a letter, you know!

May Providence go with your father to town, And soften the heart o' this rich Captain Brown.

He's the stranger that's buying the Sunnyside place, We all thought was willed to poor Archibald Grace, Along with the mortgage that's jest falling due, And that father allowed Archie Grace would renew; And, Cleo, I reckon that father will sell The Croft, and the little real Alderney, Bel.

You raised her, I know; and it's hard she must go; But father will pay every dollar we owe; It's his way, to be honest and fair as the day; And he always was dreadfully set in his way.

I try to find comfort in thinking, my dear, That things would be different if Robert was here; I guess he'd a stayed but for Archibald Grace.

And helped with the ch.o.r.es and looked after the place; But Archie, he heard from that Eben Carew, And went wild to go off to the gold-diggings, too; And so they must up and meander out West, And now they are murdered--or missing, at best-- Surprised by that b.l.o.o.d.y, marauding "Red Wing,"

'Way out in the Yellowstone country, last spring.

No wonder, Cleora, I'm getting so gray!

I grieve for my lost darling day after day; And, Cleo, my daughter, don't mind if it's true, But I reckon I've guessed about Archie and you!

And the Lord knows our burdens are grievous to bear, But there's still a bright edge to my cloud of despair, And somehow I hear, like a tune in my head: "The boys are coming! The boys aren't dead!"

So to-morrow, for dear father's sake, we will try To make the day seem like Thanksgivings gone by; And tho' we mayn't see where Thanksgiving comes in, Things were never so bad yet as things might a-been.

But it's nigh time the kettle was hung on the crane, And somebody's driving full tilt up the lane--

For the land's sake! Cleora, you're dropping that tray O' blue willow tea-cups! What startled you? Hey?