Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches. Riley James Whitcomb

      "Little Haly! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree;

      "Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!" moans the bee;

      "Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the kill-deer at twilight;

      And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly!" all the night.

      The sunflowers and the hollyhawks droops over the garden fence;

      The old path down the gardenwalks still holds her footprints' dents;

      And the well-sweep's swingin' bucket seems to wait fer her to come

      And start it on its wortery errant down the old bee-gum.

      The bee-hives all is quiet; and the little Jersey steer,

      When any one comes nigh it, acts so lonesome-like and queer;

      And the little Banty chickens kindo' cutters faint and low,

      Like the hand that now was feedin' 'em was one they didn't know.

      They's sorrow in the wavin' leaves of all the apple-trees;

      And sorrow in the harvest-sheaves, and sorrow in the breeze;

      And sorrow in the twitter of the swallers 'round the shed;

      And all the song her red-bird sings is "Little Haly's dead!"

      The medder 'pears to miss her, and the pathway through the grass,

      Whare the dewdrops ust to kiss her little bare feet as she passed;

      And the old pin in the gate-post seems to kindo'-sorto' doubt

      That Haly's little sunburnt hands'll ever pull it out.

      Did her father er her mother ever love her more'n me,

      Er her sisters er her brother prize her love more tendurly?

      I question – and what answer? – only tears, and tears alone,

      And ev'ry neghbor's eyes is full o' tear-drops as my own.

      "Little Haly! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree;

      "Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!" moans the bee;

      "Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the kill-deer at twilight,

      And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly!" all the night.

      O, it's many's the scenes which is dear to my mind

      As I think of my childhood so long left behind;

      The home of my birth, with its old puncheon-floor,

      And the bright morning-glorys that growed round the door;

      The warped clab-board roof whare the rain it run off

      Into streams of sweet dreams as I laid in the loft,

      Countin' all of the joys that was dearest to me,

      And a-thinkin' the most of the mulberry tree.

      And to-day as I dream, with both eyes wide-awake,

      I can see the old tree, and its limbs as they shake,

      And the long purple berries that rained on the ground

      Whare the pastur' was bald whare we trommpt it around.

      And again, peekin' up through the thick leafy shade,

      I can see the glad smiles of the friends when I strayed

      With my little bare feet from my own mother's knee

      To foller them off to the mulberry tree.

      Leanin' up in the forks, I can see the old rail,

      And the boy climbin' up it, claw, tooth, and toe-nail,

      And in fancy can hear, as he spits on his hands,

      The ring of his laugh and the rip of his pants.

      But that rail led to glory, as certin and shore

      As I'll never climb thare by that rout' any more —

      What was all the green lauruls of Fame unto me,

      With my brows in the boughs of the mulberry tree!

      Then its who can fergit the old mulberry tree

      That he knowed in the days when his thoughts was as free

      As the flutterin' wings of the birds that flew out

      Of the tall wavin' tops as the boys come about?

      O, a crowd of my memories, laughin' and gay,

      Is a-climbin' the fence of that pastur' to-day,

      And a-pantin' with joy, as us boys ust to be,

      They go racin' acrost fer the mulberry tree.

      Fer forty year and better you have been a friend to me,

      Through days of sore afflictions and dire adversity,

      You allus had a kind word of counsul to impart,

      Which was like a healin' 'intment to the sorrow of my hart.

      When I burried my first womern, William Leachman, it was you

      Had the only consolation that I could listen to —

      Fer I knowed you had gone through it and had rallied from the blow,

      And when you said I'd do the same, I knowed you'd ort to know.

      But that time I'll long remember; how I wundered here and thare —

      Through the settin'-room and kitchen, and out in the open air —

      And the snowflakes whirlin', whirlin', and the fields a frozen glare,

      And the neghbors' sleds and wagons congergatin' ev'rywhare.

      I turned my eyes to'rds heaven, but the sun was hid away;

      I turned my eyes to'rds earth again, but all was cold and gray;

      And the clock, like ice a-crackin', clickt the icy hours in two —

      And my eyes'd never thawed out ef it hadn't been fer you!

      We set thare by the smoke-house – me and you out thare alone —

      Me a-thinkin' – you a-talkin' in a soothin' undertone —

      You a-talkin' – me a-thinkin' of the summers long ago,

      And a-writin' "Marthy – Marthy" with my finger in the snow!

      William Leachman, I can see you jest as plane as I could then;

      And your hand is on my shoulder, and you rouse me up again;

      And I see the tears a-drippin' from your own eyes, as you say:

      "Be rickonciled and bear it – we but linger fer a day!"

      At the last Old Settlers' Meetin' we went j'intly, you and me —

      Your hosses and my wagon, as you wanted it to be;

      And sence I can remember, from the time we've neghbored here,

      In all sich friendly actions you have double-done your sheer.

      It was better than the meetin', too, that 9-mile talk we had

      Of

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