Go read your book!

mrbot — Sat, 10 Nov 2018 21:10:09 +0000

How many times that grim old phrase
Has silenced me, in childish days!
And now —as then it did —
The phantom admonition, clear
And dominant, rings, and I hear,
And do as I am bid.
"Go read your book!" my good old sire
Commanded, in affected ire,
When I, with querying look
And speech, dared vex his studious mind
With idle words of any kind. —
And so I read my book.

Though seldom, in that wisest age,
Did I discern on Wisdom's page
More than the task: that led
At least to thinking, and at last
To reading less, and not so fast,
And longing as I read,

And, lo! in gracious time I grc
To love a book all through and through!—
With. yearning eyes I look
On any votume, —o!d, maybe,
Or new —'tis meat and drink to me.—
And so I read my book.

Old dog-eared Readers, scarred and inked
With school-boy hatred, long extinct; —
Old Histories that bored
Me worst of all the school;—old, worn
Arithmetics, frayed, ripped, and torn —
Now Ye are all adored!

And likewise I revere and praise
My sire, as now, with vainest gaze
And bearing, still I look
For the old face so grave yet dear —
Nay, still I see, and still I hear!
And so I read my book.

Next even to my nearest kin, —
My wife —my children romping in
From school to ride my knee, —
I Iove a book, and dispossess
My lap of it with loathfulness,
For all their love of me.

For, grave or gay the book, it takes
Me as an equal-calms, or makes
Me, laughing, overlook
My little self —forgetful all
Of being so exceeding small.
And so I read my book.

James Whitcomb Riley

1903

A Brave Refrain

mrbot — Fri, 02 Nov 2018 21:10:02 +0000

When snow is here, and the trees look weird,
And the knuckled twigs are gloved with frost;
When the breath congeals in the drover's beard,
And the old pathway to the barn is lost;
When the rooster's crow is sad to hear,
And the stamp of the stabled horse is vain,
And the tone of the cow-bell grieves the ear —
O then is the time for a brave refrain!

When the gears hang stiff on the harness-peg,
And the tallow gleams in frozen streaks;
And the old hen stands on a lonesome leg,
And the pump sounds hoarse and the handle squeaks;
When the woodpile lies in a shrouded heap,
And the frost is scratched from the window pane,
And anxious eyes from the inside peep —
O then is the time for a brave refrain!

When the ax-helve warms at the chimney-jamb!
And hobmailed shoes on tim hearth below,
And the house-cat curls in a slumber calm,
And the eight-day clock ticks loud and slow;
When the harsh broom-handle jabs the ceil
'Neath the kitchen-loft, and the drowsy brain
Sniffs the breath of the morning meal —
O then is the time for a brave refrain!

Envoi.
When the skillet seethes, and a-blubbering hot
Tilts the lid of the coffee-pot,
And the scent of the buckwheat cake grows plain —
O then is the time for a brave refrain!

James Whitcomb Riley

1903

His Pa's Romance

mrbot — Tue, 16 May 2017 19:53:04 +0000

All 'at I ever want to be
Is ist to be a man like Pa
When he wuz young an' married Ma!
Uncle he telled us yisterdy
Ist all about it then —'cause they,
My Pa an' Ma, wuz bofe away
To 'tend P'tracted Meetin', where
My Pa an' Ma is allus there
When all the big "Revivals" is,
An' "Love-Feasts," too, an' "Class," an' "Prayer,"
An' when's "Comoonian Servicis."
An', yes, an' Uncle said to not
To never tell them nor let on
Like we knowed now ist how they got
First married. So—while they wuz gone —
Uncle he telled us ever'thing —
'Bout how my Pa wuz ist a pore
Farm-boy. —He says, I tell you what,
Your Pa wuz pore! But neighbors they
All liked him —all but one old man
An' his old wife that folks all say
Nobody liked, ner never can!
Yes, sir! an' Uncle purt'-nigh swore
About the mean old man an' way
He treat' my Pa! —'cause he's a pore
Farm-hand —but prouder 'an a king' —
An' ist work' on, he did, an' wore
His old patched clo'es, ist anyway,
So he saved up his wages —then
He ist worked on an' saved some more,
An' ist worked on, ist night an' day —
Till, sir, he save' up nine or ten
Er hunnerd dollars! But he keep
All still about it, Uncle say —
But he ist thinks —an' thinks a heap!
Though what he wuz a-thinkin', Pa
He never tell' a soul but Ma —
(Then, course, you know, he wuzn't Pa,
An', course, you know, she wuzn't Ma—
They wuz ist sweethearts, course you know);
'Cause Ma wuz ist a girl, about
Sixteen; an' when my Pa he go
A-courtin' her, her Pa an' Ma—
The very first they find it out —
Wuz maddest folks you ever saw!
'Cause it wuz her old Ma an' Pa
'At hate' my Pa, an' toss their head,
An' ist raise Ned! An' her Pa said
He'd ruther see his daughter dead!
An' said she's ist a child! —an' so
Wuz Pa! —An' ef he wuz man-grown
An' only man on earth below,
His daughter shouldn't marry him
Ef he's a king an' on his throne!
Pa's chances then looked mighty slim
Fer certain, Uncle said. But he —
He never told a soul but her
What he wuz keepin' quiet fer.

Her folks ist lived a mile from where
He lived at —an' they drove past there
To git to town. An' ever' one
An' all the neighbors they liked her
An' showed it! But her folks —no, sir! —
Nobody liked her parents none!
An' so when they shet down, you know,
On Pa —an' old man tell' him so —
Pa ist went back to work, an' she
Ist waited. An', sir! purty soon
Her folks they thought he's turned his eye
Some other way —'cause by-an'-by
They heerd he'd rented the old place
He worked on. An' one afternoon
A neighbor, that had bust' a trace,
He tell' the old man they wuz signs
Around the old place that the young
Man wuz a-fixin' up the old
Log cabin some, an' he had brung
New furnichur from town; an' told
How th' old house'uz whitewashed clean
An' sweet—wiv mornin'-glory vines
An' hollyhawks all 'round the door
An' winders —an' a bran'-new floor
In th' old porch —an' wite-new green
An'-red pump in the old sweep-well!
An', Uncle said, when he hear tell
O' all them things, the old man he
Ist grin' an' says, he "reckon' now
Some gal, er widder anyhow,
That silly boy he's coaxed at last
To marry him!" he says, says-ee,
"An' ef he has,'so mote it be'!"
Then went back to the house to tell
His wife the news, as he went past
The smokehouse, an' then went on in
The kitchen, where his daughter she
Wuz washin', to tell her, an' grin
An' try to worry her a spell!
The mean old thing! But Uncle said
She ain't cry much—ist pull her old
Sunbonnet forrerds on her head—
So's old man he can't see her face
At all! An' when he s'pose he scold'
An' jaw enough, he ist clear' out
An' think he's boss of all the place!

Then Uncle say, the first you know
They's go' to be a Circus-show
In town; an' old man think he'll take
His wife an' go. An' when she say
To take their daughter, too, she shake
Her head like she don't want to go;
An' when he sees she wants to stay,
The old man takes her, anyway!
An' so she went! But Uncle he
Said she looked mighty sweet that day,
Though she wuz pale as she could be,
A-speshully a-drivin' by
Wite where her beau lived at, you know;
But out the corner of his eye
The old man watch' her; but she throw
He pairsol 'round so she can't see
The house at all! An' then she hear
Her Pa an' Ma a-talkin' low
An' kindo' laughin'-like; but she
Ist set there in the seat behind,
P'tendin' like she didn't mind.
An', Uncle say, when they got past
The young man's place, an' 'pearantly
He wuzn't home, but off an' gone
To town, the old man turned at last
An' talked back to his daughter there,
All pleasant-like, from then clean on
Till they got into town, an' where
The Circus wuz, an' on inside
O' that, an' through the crowd, on to
The very top seat in the tent
Wite next the band —a-bangin' through
A tune 'at bust his yeers in two!
An' there the old man scrouged an' tried
To make his wife set down, an' she
A-yellin'! But ist what she meant
He couldn't hear, ner couldn't see
Till she turned 'round an' pinted. Then
He turned an' looked—an' looked again!..
He ist saw neighbors ever'where—
But, sir, his daughter wuzn't there!

An', Uncle says, he even saw
Her beau, you know, he hated so;
An' he wuz with some other girl.
An' then he heerd the Clown "Haw-haw!"
An' saw the horses wheel an' whirl
Around the ring, an' heerd the zipp
O' the Ringmaster's long slim whip—
But that whole Circus, Uncle said,
Wuz all inside the old man's head!

An' Uncle said, he didn't find
His daughter all that afternoon —
An' her Ma says she'll lose her mind
Ef they don't find her purty soon!
But, though they looked all day, an' stayed
There fer the night p'formance —not
No use at all! —they never laid
Their eyes on her. An' then they got
Their team out, an' the old man shook
His fist at all the town, an' then
Shook it up at the moon ag'in,
An' said his time'ud come, some day!
An' jerked the lines an' driv away.

Uncle, he said, he 'spect, that night,
The old man's madder yet when they
Drive past the young man's place, an' hear
A fiddle there, an' see a light
Inside, an' shadders light an' gay
A-dancin' 'crost the winder-blinds.
An' some young chaps outside yelled, "Say!
What'pears to be the hurry —hey?"
But the old man ist whipped the lines
An' streaked past like a runaway!
An' now you'll be su'prised, I bet!—
I hardly ain't quit laughin' yet
When Uncle say, that jamboree
An' dance an' all—w'y, that's a sign
That any old man ort to see,
As plain as 8 and 1 makes 9,
That they's a weddin' wite inside
That very house he's whippin' so
To git apast —an', sir! the bride
There's his own daughter! Yes, an' oh!
She's my Ma now —an' young man she
Got married, he's my Pa! Whoop-ee!
But Uncle say to not laugh all
The laughin' yet, but please save some
To kindo' spice up what's to come!

Then Uncle say, about next day
The neighbers they begin to call
An' wish'era well, an' say how glad
An' proud an' tickled ever' way
Their friends all is—an' how they had
The lovin' prayers of ever' one
That had homes of their own! But none
Said nothin' 'bout the home that she
Had run away from! So she sighed
Sometimes—an' wunst she purt'-nigh cried.

Well, Uncle say, her old Pa, he
Ist like to died, he wuz so mad!
An' her Ma, too! But by-an'-by
They cool down some.
An','bout a week,
She want to see her Ma so bad,
She think she'll haf to go! An' so
She coax him; an' he kiss her cheek
An' say, Lord bless her, course they'll go!
An', Uncle say, when they're bofe come
A-knockin' there at her old home —
W'y, first he know, the door it flew.
Open, all quick, an' she's jerked in,
An', quicker still, the door's banged to
An' locked: an' crosst the winder-sill,
The old man pokes a shotgun through
An' says to git! "You stold my child,"
He says; "an', now she's back, w'y you
Clear out, this minute, er I'll kill
You! Yes, an' I 'ull kill her, too,
Ef you don't go!" An' then, all wild,
His young wife begs him please to go!
An' so he turn' an' walk' —all slow
An' pale as death, but awful still
An' ca'm—back to the gate, an' on
Into the road, where he had gone
So many times alone, you know!
An', Uncle say, a whipperwill
Holler so lonesome, as he go
On back to'rds home, he say he 'spec'
He ist 'ud like to wring its neck!
An' I ain't think he's goin' back
All by hisse'f —but Uncle say
That's what he does, an' it's a fac'!

An' 'pears-like he's gone back to stay —
'Cause there he stick', ist thataway,
An' don't go nowheres any more,
Ner don't nobody ever see
Him set his foot outside the door —
Till 'bout five days, a boy loped down
The road, a-comin' past from town,
An' he called to him from the gate,
An' sent the old man word: He's thought
Things over now; an', while he hate
To lose his wife, he think she ought
To mind her Pa an' Ma an' do
Whatever they advise her to.
An' sends word, too, to come an' git
Her new things an' the furnichur
That he had special' bought fer her —
'Cause, now that they wuz goin' to quit,
She's free to ist have' all of it; —
So, fer his love fer her, he say
To come an' git it, wite away.
An' spang! that very afternoon,
Here come her Ma —ist 'bout as soon
As old man could hitch up an' tell
Her "hurry back!" An' 'bout as quick
As she's drove there to where my Pa —
I mean to where her son-in-law —
Lives at, he meets her at the door
All smilin', though he's awful pale
An' trimbly—like he's ist been sick;
He take her in the house —an', 'fore
She knows it, they's a cellar-door
Shet on her, an' she hears the click
Of a' old rusty padlock! Then,
Uncle, he say, she kindo' stands
An' thinks —an' thinks —an' thinks ag'in —
An' maybe thinks of her own child
Locked up —like her! An' Uncle smiled,
An' I ist laughed an' clapped my hands!
An' there she stayed! An' she can cry
Ist all she want! an' yell an' kick
To ist her heart's content! an' try
To pry out wiv a quiltin'-stick!
But Uncle say he guess at last
She 'bout give up, an' holler' through
The door-crack fer to please to be
So kind an' good as send an' tell
The old man, like she want him to,
To come, 'fore night, an' set her free,
Er—they wuz rats down there! An' yell
She did, till, Uncle say, it saured
The morning's milk in the back yard!
But all the answer reached her, where
She's skeerd so in the dark down there,
Wuz ist a mutterin' that she heard —
"I've sent him word!—I've sent him word!"
An' shore enough, as Uncle say,
He has "sent word!"
Well, it's plum night
An' all the house is shet up tight—
Only one winder'bout half-way
Raised up, you know; an' ain't no light
Inside the whole house, Uncle say.

James Whitcomb Riley

1903

To - Edgar Wilson Nye

mrbot — Tue, 16 May 2017 19:53:04 +0000

Such silence—after such glad merriment!
O prince of halest humor, wit and cheer;
Could you speak yet to us, I doubt not we
Should catch your voice, still blithely eloquent
Above all murmurings of sorrow here,
Calling your love back to us laughingly.

James Whitcomb Riley

1903

Twilight Stories

mrbot — Tue, 16 May 2017 19:53:04 +0000

Neither daylight, starlight, moonlight,
But a sad-sweet term of some light
By the saintly name of Twilight.

The Grandma Twilight Stories! —Still,
A childish listener, I hear
The katydid and whippoorwill,
In deepening atmosphere
Of velvet dusk, blent with the low
Soft music of the voice that sings
And tells me tales of long ago
And old enchanted things.....

While far fails the last dim daylight,
And the fireflies in the Twilight
Drift about like flakes of starlight.

James Whitcomb Riley

1903

Textarchiv - James Whitcomb Riley

Go read your book!

A Brave Refrain

His Pa's Romance

To - Edgar Wilson Nye

Twilight Stories