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James Russell Lowell - Sunthin` In The Pastoral Line
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Once git a smell o` musk into a draw,
An` it clings hold like precerdents in law;
Your gra`ma`am put it there,—when, goodness knows,—
To jes this—worldify her Sunday-clo`es;
But the old chist wun`t sarve her gran`son`s wife,
(For, `thout new funnitoor, wut good in life?)
An` so ole clawfoot, from the precinks dread
O` the spare chamber, slinks into the shed,
Where, dim with dust, it fust or last subsides
To holdin` seeds an` fifty things besides;
But better days stick fast in heart an` husk,
An` all you keep in`t gits a scent o` musk.
Jes` so with poets: wut they`ve airly read
Git,s kind o` worked into their heart-an` head,
So `s `t they can`t seem to write but jest on sheers
With furrin countries or played-out ideers,
Nor hev a feelin`, ef it doosn`t smack
O` wut some critter chose to feel `way back.
This makes `em talk o` daisies, larks, an` things,
Ez though we`d nothin` here that blows an` sings,—
(Why, I`d give more for one live bobolink
Than a square mile o` larks in printer`s ink,)
This makes `em think our fust o` May is May,
Which `t ain`t, for all the almanicks can say.
O little city-gals, don`t never go it
Blind on the word o` noospaper or poet!
They`re apt to puff, an` May-day seldom looks
Up in the country, ez it dons in books
They`re no more like than hornets`-nests an` hives,
Or printed sarmons be to holy lives.
I, with my trouses perched on cow-hide boots,
Tuggin` my foundered feet out by the roots,
Hev seen ye come to fling on April`s hearse
Your muslin nosegays from the milliner`s,
Puzzlin` to find dry ground your queen to choose,
An` dance your throats sore m morocker shoes
I`ve seen ye an` felt proud, thet, come wut would,
Our Pilgrim stock wuz pithed with hardihood.
Pleasure doos make us Yankees kind o` winch,
Ez though `twuz sunthin` paid for by the inch;
But yit we du contrive to worry thru,
Ef Dooty tells us thet the thing`s to du,
An` kerry a hollerday, ef we set out,
Ez stidchly ez though `twaz a redoubt.
I, country-born an` bred, know where to find
Some blooms thet make the season suit the mind,
An` seem to metch the doubtin` bluebird`s notes,—
Half-vent`rin` liverworts in furry coats,
Bloodroots, whose rolled-up leaves ef you oncurl,
Each on `em `s cradle to a baby-pearl,—
But these are jes` Spring`s pickets; sure ez sin,
The rebble frosts`ll try to drive `em in;
For half our May`s so awfully like Mayn`t,
`Twould rile a Shaker or an evrige saint;
Though I own up I like our back`ard springs
Thet kind o` haggle with their greens an` things,
An` when you most give up, `ithout more words
Toss the fields full o` blossoms, leaves, an` birds
Thet`s Northun natur`, slow an` apt to doubt,
But when it doos git stirred, ther` `s no gin-out!

Fust come the blackbirds clatt`rin` in tall trees,
An` settlin` things in windy Congresses,—
Queer politicians, though, for I`ll be skinned
Ef all on `em don`t head against the wind.
`Fore long the trees begin to show belief,
The maple crimsons to a coral-reef,
Then saffern swarms swing off from` all the willers
So plump they look like yaller caterpillars,
Then gray hossches`nuts leetle hands unfold
Softer`n a baby`s be at three days old
Thet`s robin-redbreast`s almanick; he knows
Thet arter this ther` `s only blossom-snows
So, choosin` out a handy crotch an` spouse,
He goes to plast`rin` his adobe house.
Then seems to come a hitch,—things lag behind,
Till some fine mornin` Spring makes up her mind,
An` ez, when snow-swelled avers cresh their dams
Heaped-up with ice thet dovetails in an` jams,
A leak comes spirtin thru some pin-hole cleft,
Grows stronger, fercer, tears out right an` left,
Then all the waters bow themselves an` come
Suddin, in one gret slope o` shedderin` foam,
Jes` so our Spring gits everythin` in tune
An gives one leap from April into June
Then all comes crowdin` in; afore you think,
Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink
The catbird in the laylock-bush is loud;
The orchards turn to heaps o` rosy cloud;
Red-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it,
An` look all dipt in sunshine like a poet;
The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o` shade
An` drows`ly simmer with the bees` sweet trade;
In ellum-shrouds the flashin` hangbird clings
An` for the summer vy`ge his hammock slings;
All down the loose-walled lanes in archin` bowers
The barb`ry droops its strings o` golden flowers,
Whose shrinkin` hearts the school-gals love to try
With pins—they`ll worry yourn so, boys, bimeby!
But I don`t love your cat`logue style,—do you?- -
Ez ef to sell off Natur` b y vendoo;
One word with blood in `t `s twice ez good ez two:
`Nuff sed, June`s bridesman, poet o` the year,
Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here;
Half-hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings,
Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin` wings,
Or, givin` way to`t in a mock despair,
Runs down, a brook o` laughter, thru the air.
I ollus feels the sap start in my veins
In Spring, with curus heats an` prickly pains,
Thet drive me, when I git a chance, to walk
Off by myself to hev a privit talk
With a queer critter thet can`t seem to `gree
Along o` me like most folks,—Mister Me.
Ther` `s times when I`m unsoshle ez a stone
An` sort o` suffocate to be alone,—
I`m crowded jes` to think thet folks are nigh,
An` can`t bear nothin` closer than the sky;
Now the wind`s full ez shifty in the mind
Ez wut it is ou`-doors, ef I ain`t blind,
An` sometimes, in the fairest sou`west weather,
My innard vane pints east for weeks together,
My natur` gits all goose-flesh, an` my sins
Come drizzlin` on my conscience sharp ez pins:
Wal, et sech times I jes` slip out o` sight
An` take it out in a fair stan`-up fight
With the one cuss I can`t lay on the shelf,
The crook`dest stick in all the heap,—Myself.

`Twuz so las` Sabbath arter meetin`-time:
F`indin` my feelin`s wouldn`t noways rhyme
With nobody`s, but off the hendle flew
An` took things from an east-wind pint o` view,
I started off to lose me in the hills
Where the pines be, up back o` Siah`s Mills:
Pines, ef you`re blue, are the best friends I know,
They mope an` sigh an` sheer your feelin`s so,—
They hesh the ground beneath so, tu, I swan,
You half-forgit you`ve gut a body on.
"Ther` `s a small school`us` there where four road, meet,
The door-steps hollered out by little feet,
An side-posts carved with names whose owners grew
To gret men, some on `em an` deacons, tu;
`Tain`t used no longer, coz the town hez gut
A high-school, where they teach the Lord knows wut:
Three-story larnin` `s poplar now: I guess
We thriv` ez wal on jes` two stories less,
For it strikes me ther` `s sech a thing ez sinnin`
By overloadin` children`s underpinnin:
Wal, here it wuz I larned my A B C,
An` it`s a kind o` favorite spot with me.
We`re curus critters: Now ain`t jes` the minute
Thet ever fits us easy while we`re in it;
Long ez `twuz futur`, `twouId be perfect bliss,—
Soon ez it`s past, thet time`s wuth ten o` this
An` yit there ain`t a man thet need be told
Thet Now`s the only bird lays eggs o` gold.
A knee-high lad, I used to plot an` plan
An` think `twuz life`s cap-sheaf to be a man;
Now, gittin` gray, there`s nothin` I enjoy
Like dreamin` back along into a boy:
So the ole school`us` is a place I choose
Afore all others, ef I want to muse;
I set down where I used to set, an` git
Diy boyhood back, an` better things with it,—
Faith, Hope, an` sunthin` ef it isn`t Cherrity,
It`s want o` guile, an` thet`s ez gret a rerrity.
Now, `fore I knowed, thet Sabbath arternoon
Thet I sot out to tramp myself in tune,
I found me in the school`us` on my seat,
Drummin` the march to No-wheres with my feet.
Thinkin` o` nothin`, I`ve heerd ole folks say,
Is a hard kind o` dooty in its way:
It`s thinkin` everythin` you ever knew,
Or ever hearn, to make your feelin`s blue.

From this to thet I let my worryin` creep
Till finally I must ha` fell asleep.

Our lives in sleep are some like streams thet glide
Twixt flesh an` sperrit boundin` on each side,
Where both shores` shadders kind o` mix an` mingle
In sunthin` thet ain`t jes` like either single;
An` when you cast off moorin`s from To-day,
An` down towards To-morrer drift away,
The imiges thet tengle on the stream
Make a new upside-down`ard world o` dream:
Sometimes they seem like sunrise-streaks an` warnin`s
O` wut`ll be in Heaven on Sabbath-mornin`s,
An`, mixed right in ez ef jest out o` spite,
Sunthin` thet says your supper ain`t gone right.
I`m gret on dreams: an` often, when I wake,
I`ve lived so much it makes my mem`ry ache,
An` can`t skurce take a cat-nap in my cheer
`Thout hevin` `em, some good, some bad, all queer.

Now I wuz settin` where I`d ben, it seemed,
An` ain`t sure yit whether I rally dreamed,
Nor, ef I did, how long I might ha` slep`,
When I hearn some un stompin` up the step,
An` lookirz` round, ef two an` two make four,
I see a Pilgrim Father in the door.

He wore a steeple-hat, tall boots, an` spurs
With rowels to `em big ez ches`nut-burrs,
An` his gret sword behind him sloped away
Long`z a man`s speech thet dunno wut to say.—
"Ef your name`s Biglow, an` your given-name
Hosee," sez he, "it`s arter you I came;
I`m your gret-gran they multiplied by three."
"My wut?" sez I.—your gret-gret-gret," sez he:
"You wouldn`t ha` never ben here but for me.
Two hundred an` three year ago this May,
The ship I come in sailed up Boston Bay;
I`d been a cunnle in our Civil War,—
But wut on girth hev ,you gut up one for?
Coz we du things in England, `tain`t for you
To git a notion you can du `em tu:
I`m told you write in public prints: ef true,
It`s nateral you should know a thing or two."—
"Thet air`s an argymunt I can`t endorse,—
`Twould prove, coz you wear spurs, you kep` a horse:

But du pray tell me, `fore we furder go,
How in all Natur` did you come to know
`Bout our affairs," sez I "in Kingdom-Come?"—
"Wal, I worked round at sperrit-rappin` some,
An` danced the tables till their legs wuz gone,
In hopes o` larnin wut wuz goin` on,"
Sez he, "but mejums lie so like all-split
Thet I concluded it wuz best to quit.
But, come now, ef you wun`t confess to knowin`,
You`ve some conjectures how the thing`s a-goin`."—
"Gran`ther," sez I, "a vane warn`t never known
Nor asked to hev a jedgment of its own;
An` yit, ef `tain`t gut rusty in the jints,
It`s safe to trust its say on certin pints
It knows the wind`s opinions to a T,
An` the wind settles wut the weather`ll be."
"I never thought a scion of our stock
Could grow the wood to make a weathercock;
When I wuz younger`n you, skurce more`n a shaver,
No airthly wind," sez he, "could make me waver!"
(Ez he said this, he clinched his jaw an` forehead,
Hitchin` his belt to bring his sword-hilt forrard.)
"Jes` so it wuz with me," sez I, "I swow,
When I wuz younger`n wut you see me now,—
Nothin` from Adam`s fall to Huldy`s bonnet,
Thet I warm`t full-cocked with my jedgment on it;
But now I`m gittin` on in life, I find
It`s a sight harder to make up my mind,—
Nor I don`t often try tu, when events
Will du it for me free of all expense.
The moral question`s ollus plain enough,—
It`s jes` the human-natur` side thet`s tough;
Wut`s best to think mayn`t puzzle me nor you,—
The pinch comes in decidin` wut to du;
Ef you read History, all runs smooth ez grease,
Coz there the men ain`t nothin` more`n idees,—
But come to make it, ez we must to-day,
Th` idees hev arms an` legs an` stop the way
It`s easy fixin` things in facts an` figgers,—
They can`t resist, nor warn`t brought up with nigers;
But come to try your the`ry on,—why, then
Your facts an` figgers change to ign`ant men
Actin` ez ugly—"—"Smite `em hip an` thigh!"
Sez gran`ther, "and let every man-child die!
Oh for three weeks o` Crommle an` the Lord!
Up, Isr`el, to your tents an` grind the sword!
"Thet kind o` thing worked wal in ole Judee,
But you forgit how long it`s hen A.D.;
You think thet`s ellerkence—I call it shoddy,
A thing," sez I, "wun`t cover soul nor body;
I like the plain all-wool o` common-sense,
Thet warms ye now, an` will a twelvemonth hence.
You took to follerin` where the Prophets beckoned.
An`, fust you knowed on, back come Charles the Second;
Now, wut I want`s to hev all we gain stick,
An` not to start Millennium too quick;
We hain`t to punish only, but to keep,
An` the cure`s gut to go a cent`ry deep"
"Wal, milk-an`-water ain`t the best o` glue,"
Sez he, "an` so you`ll find before you`re thru;

"Strike soon," sez he, "or you`ll be deadly ailin`—
Folks thet`s afeared to fail are sure o` failin`;
God hates your sneakin` creturs thet believe
He`ll settle things they run away an` leave!"
He brought his foot down fercely, ez he spoke,
An` give me sech a startle thet I woke.
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