Читать книгу A Child-World - James Whitcomb Riley - Страница 4

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A Child-World, yet a wondrous world no less,

To those who knew its boundless happiness.

A simple old frame house—eight rooms in all—

Set just one side the center of a small

But very hopeful Indiana town—

The upper-story looking squarely down

Upon the main street, and the main highway

From East to West—historic in its day,

Known as The National Road—old-timers, all

Who linger yet, will happily recall

It as the scheme and handiwork, as well

As property, of "Uncle Sam," and tell

Of its importance, "long and long afore

Railroads wuz ever dreamp' of!"—Furthermore, The reminiscent first Inhabitants Will make that old road blossom with romance Of snowy caravans, in long parade Of covered vehicles, of every grade From ox-cart of most primitive design, To Conestoga wagons, with their fine Deep-chested six-horse teams, in heavy gear, High names and chiming bells—to childish ear And eye entrancing as the glittering train Of some sun-smitten pageant of old Spain. And, in like spirit, haply they will tell You of the roadside forests, and the yell Of "wolfs" and "painters," in the long night-ride, And "screechin' catamounts" on every side.— Of stagecoach-days, highwaymen, and strange crimes, And yet unriddled mysteries of the times Called "Good Old." "And why 'Good Old'?" once a rare Old chronicler was asked, who brushed the hair Out of his twinkling eyes and said—"Well John, They're 'good old times' because they're dead and gone!" The old home site was portioned into three Distinctive lots. The front one—natively Facing to southward, broad and gaudy-fine With lilac, dahlia, rose, and flowering vine— The dwelling stood in; and behind that, and Upon the alley north and south, left hand, The old wood-house—half, trimly stacked with wood, And half, a work-shop, where a workbench stood Steadfastly through all seasons.—Over it, Along the wall, hung compass, brace-and-bit, And square, and drawing-knife, and smoothing-plane— And little jack-plane, too—the children's vain Possession by pretense—in fancy they Manipulating it in endless play, Turning out countless curls and loops of bright, Fine satin shavings—Rapture infinite! Shelved quilting-frames; the toolchest; the old box Of refuse nails and screws; a rough gun-stock's Outline in "curly maple"; and a pair Of clamps and old krout-cutter hanging there. Some "patterns," in thin wood, of shield and scroll, Hung higher, with a neat "cane-fishing-pole" And careful tackle—all securely out Of reach of children, rummaging about. Beside the wood-house, with broad branches free Yet close above the roof, an apple-tree Known as "The Prince's Harvest"—Magic phrase! That was a boy's own tree, in many ways!— Its girth and height meet both for the caress Of his bare legs and his ambitiousness: And then its apples, humoring his whim, Seemed just to fairly hurry ripe for him— Even in June, impetuous as he, They dropped to meet him, halfway up the tree. And O their bruised sweet faces where they fell!— And ho! the lips that feigned to "kiss them well"! "The Old Sweet-Apple-Tree," a stalwart, stood In fairly sympathetic neighborhood Of this wild princeling with his early gold To toss about so lavishly nor hold In bounteous hoard to overbrim at once All Nature's lap when came the Autumn months. Under the spacious shade of this the eyes Of swinging children saw swift-changing skies Of blue and green, with sunshine shot between, And "when the old cat died" they saw but green. And, then, there was a cherry-tree.—We all And severally will yet recall From our lost youth, in gentlest memory, The blessed fact—There was a cherry-tree. There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows Cool even now the fevered sight that knows No more its airy visions of pure joy— As when you were a boy. There was a cherry-tree. The Bluejay set His blue against its white—O blue as jet He seemed there then!—But now—Whoever knew He was so pale a blue! There was a cherry-tree—Our child-eyes saw The miracle:—Its pure white snows did thaw Into a crimson fruitage, far too sweet But for a boy to eat. There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy!— There was a bloom of snow—There was a boy— There was a Bluejay of the realest blue— And fruit for both of you. Then the old garden, with the apple-trees Grouped 'round the margin, and "a stand of bees" By the "white-winter-pearmain"; and a row Of currant-bushes; and a quince or so. The old grape-arbor in the center, by The pathway to the stable, with the sty Behind it, and upon it, cootering flocks Of pigeons, and the cutest "martin-box"!— Made like a sure-enough house—with roof, and doors And windows in it, and veranda-floors And balusters all 'round it—yes, and at Each end a chimney—painted red at that And penciled white, to look like little bricks; And, to cap all the builder's cunning tricks, Two tiny little lightning-rods were run Straight up their sides, and twinkled in the sun. Who built it? Nay, no answer but a smile.— It may be you can guess who, afterwhile. Home in his stall, "Old Sorrel" munched his hay And oats and corn, and switched the flies away, In a repose of patience good to see, And earnest of the gentlest pedigree. With half pathetic eye sometimes he gazed Upon the gambols of a colt that grazed Around the edges of the lot outside, And kicked at nothing suddenly, and tried To act grown-up and graceful and high-bred, But dropped, k'whop! and scraped the buggy-shed, Leaving a tuft of woolly, foxy hair Under the sharp-end of a gate-hinge there. Then, all ignobly scrambling to his feet And whinneying a whinney like a bleat, He would pursue himself around the lot And—do the whole thing over, like as not! … Ah! what a life of constant fear and dread And flop and squawk and flight the chickens led! Above the fences, either side, were seen The neighbor-houses, set in plots of green Dooryards and greener gardens, tree and wall Alike whitewashed, and order in it all: The scythe hooked in the tree-fork; and the spade And hoe and rake and shovel all, when laid Aside, were in their places, ready for The hand of either the possessor or Of any neighbor, welcome to the loan Of any tool he might not chance to own.