Читать книгу A Child-World - James Whitcomb Riley - Страница 5

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Such was the Child-World of the long-ago—

The little world these children used to know:—

Johnty, the oldest, and the best, perhaps,

Of the five happy little Hoosier chaps

Inhabiting this wee world all their own.—

Johnty, the leader, with his native tone

Of grave command—a general on parade

Whose each punctilious order was obeyed

By his proud followers.

But Johnty yet—

After all serious duties—could forget

The gravity of life to the extent,

At times, of kindling much astonishment

About him: With a quick, observant eye,

And mind and memory, he could supply

The tamest incident with liveliest mirth;

And at the most unlooked-for times on earth

Was wont to break into some travesty

On those around him—feats of mimicry

Of this one's trick of gesture—that one's walk—

Or this one's laugh—or that one's funny talk—

The way "the watermelon-man" would try

His humor on town-folks that wouldn't buy;—

How he drove into town at morning—then

At dusk (alas!) how he drove out again.

Though these divertisements of Johnty's were

Hailed with a hearty glee and relish, there

Appeared a sense, on his part, of regret—

A spirit of remorse that would not let

Him rest for days thereafter.—Such times he,

As some boy said, "jist got too overly

Blame good fer common boys like us, you know,

To 'sociate with—less'n we 'ud go And jine his church!" Next after Johnty came His little tow-head brother, Bud by name.— And O how white his hair was—and how thick His face with freckles—and his ears, how quick And curious and intrusive!—And how pale The blue of his big eyes;—and how a tale Of Giants, Trolls or Fairies, bulged them still Bigger and bigger!—and when "Jack" would kill The old "Four-headed Giant," Bud's big eyes Were swollen truly into giant-size. And Bud was apt in make-believes—would hear His Grandma talk or read, with such an ear And memory of both subject and big words, That he would take the book up afterwards And feign to "read aloud," with such success As caused his truthful elders real distress. But he must have big words—they seemed to give Extremer range to the superlative— That was his passion. "My Gran'ma," he said, One evening, after listening as she read Some heavy old historical review— With copious explanations thereunto Drawn out by his inquiring turn of mind— "My Gran'ma she's read all books—ever' kind They is, 'at tells all 'bout the land an' sea An' Nations of the Earth!—An' she is the Historicul-est woman ever wuz!" (Forgive the verse's chuckling as it does In its erratic current.—Oftentimes The little willowy waterbrook of rhymes Must falter in its music, listening to The children laughing as they used to do.) Who shall sing a simple ditty all about the Willow, Dainty-fine and delicate as any bending spray That dandles high the happy bird that flutters there to trill a Tremulously tender song of greeting to the May. Ah, my lovely Willow!—Let the Waters lilt your graces— They alone with limpid kisses lave your leaves above, Flashing back your sylvan beauty, and in shady places Peering up with glimmering pebbles, like the eyes of love. Next, Maymie, with her hazy cloud of hair, And the blue skies of eyes beneath it there. Her dignified and "little lady" airs Of never either romping up the stairs Or falling down them; thoughtful everyway Of others first—The kind of child at play That "gave up," for the rest, the ripest pear Or peach or apple in the garden there Beneath the trees where swooped the airy swing— She pushing it, too glad for anything! Or, in the character of hostess, she Would entertain her friends delightfully In her play-house—with strips of carpet laid Along the garden-fence within the shade Of the old apple-trees—where from next yard Came the two dearest friends in her regard, The little Crawford girls, Ella and Lu— As shy and lovely as the lilies grew In their idyllic home—yet sometimes they Admitted Bud and Alex to their play, Who did their heavier work and helped them fix To have a "Festibul"—and brought the bricks And built the "stove," with a real fire and all, And stovepipe-joint for chimney, looming tall And wonderfully smoky—even to Their childish aspirations, as it blew And swooped and swirled about them till their sight Was feverish even as their high delight. Then Alex, with his freckles, and his freaks Of temper, and the peach-bloom of his cheeks, And "amber-colored hair"—his mother said 'Twas that, when others laughed and called it "red" And Alex threw things at them—till they'd call A truce, agreeing "'t'uz n't red ut-tall!" But Alex was affectionate beyond The average child, and was extremely fond Of the paternal relatives of his Of whom he once made estimate like this:— "I'm only got two brothers—but my Pa He's got most brothers'n you ever saw!— He's got seben brothers!—Yes, an' they're all my Seben Uncles!—Uncle John, an' Jim—an' I' Got Uncle George, an' Uncle Andy, too, An' Uncle Frank, an' Uncle Joe.—An' you Know Uncle Mart.—An', all but him, they're great Big mens!—An' nen s Aunt Sarah—she makes eight!— I'm got eight uncles!—'cept Aunt Sarah can't Be ist my uncle 'cause she's ist my aunt!" Then, next to Alex—and the last indeed Of these five little ones of whom you read— Was baby Lizzie, with her velvet lisp— As though her Elfin lips had caught some wisp Of floss between them as they strove with speech, Which ever seemed just in yet out of reach— Though what her lips missed, her dark eyes could say With looks that made her meaning clear as day. And, knowing now the children, you must know The father and the mother they loved so:— The father was a swarthy man, black-eyed, Black-haired, and high of forehead; and, beside The slender little mother, seemed in truth A very king of men—since, from his youth, To his hale manhood now—(worthy as then— A lawyer and a leading citizen Of the proud little town and county-seat— His hopes his neighbors', and their fealty sweet)— He had known outdoor labor—rain and shine— Bleak Winter, and bland Summer—foul and fine. So Nature had ennobled him and set Her symbol on him like a coronet: His lifted brow, and frank, reliant face.— Superior of stature as of grace, Even the children by the spell were wrought Up to heroics of their simple thought, And saw him, trim of build, and lithe and straight And tall, almost, as at the pasture-gate The towering ironweed the scythe had spared For their sakes, when The Hired Man declared It would grow on till it became a tree, With cocoanuts and monkeys in—maybe! Yet, though the children, in their pride and awe And admiration of the father, saw A being so exalted—even more Like adoration was the love they bore The gentle mother.—Her mild, plaintive face Was purely fair, and haloed with a grace And sweetness luminous when joy made glad Her features with a smile; or saintly sad As twilight, fell the sympathetic gloom Of any childish grief, or as a room Were darkened suddenly, the curtain drawn Across the window and the sunshine gone. Her brow, below her fair hair's glimmering strands, Seemed meetest resting-place for blessing hands Or holiest touches of soft finger-tips And little roseleaf-cheeks and dewy lips. Though heavy household tasks were pitiless, No little waist or coat or checkered dress But knew her needle's deftness; and no skill Matched hers in shaping pleat or flounce or frill; Or fashioning, in complicate design, All rich embroideries of leaf and vine, With tiniest twining tendril—bud and bloom And fruit, so like, one's fancy caught perfume And dainty touch and taste of them, to see Their semblance wrought in such rare verity. Shrined in her sanctity of home and love, And love's fond service and reward thereof, Restore her thus, O blessed Memory!— Throned in her rocking-chair, and on her knee Her sewing—her workbasket on the floor Beside her—Springtime through the open door Balmily stealing in and all about The room; the bees' dim hum, and the far shout And laughter of the children at their play, And neighbor-children from across the way Calling in gleeful challenge—save alone One boy whose voice sends back no answering tone— The boy, prone on the floor, above a book Of pictures, with a rapt, ecstatic look— Even as the mother's, by the selfsame spell, Is lifted, with a light ineffable— As though her senses caught no mortal cry, But heard, instead, some poem going by. The Child-heart is so strange a little thing— So mild—so timorously shy and small.— When grown-up hearts throb, it goes scampering Behind the wall, nor dares peer out at all!— It is the veriest mouse That hides in any house— So wild a little thing is any Child-heart! Child-heart!—mild heart!— Ho, my little wild heart!— Come up here to me out o' the dark, Or let me come to you! So lorn at times the Child-heart needs must be. With never one maturer heart for friend And comrade, whose tear-ripened sympathy And love might lend it comfort to the end— Whose yearnings, aches and stings. Over poor little things Were pitiful as ever any Child-heart. Child-heart!—mild heart!— Ho, my little wild heart!— Come up here to me out o' the dark, Or let me come to you! Times, too, the little Child-heart must be glad— Being so young, nor knowing, as we know. The fact from fantasy, the good from bad, The joy from woe, the—all that hurts us so! What wonder then that thus It hides away from us?— So weak a little thing is any Child-heart! Child-heart!—mild heart!— Ho, my little wild heart!— Come up here to me out o' the dark, Or let me come to you! Nay, little Child-heart, you have never need To fear us—we are weaker far than you— Tis we who should be fearful—we indeed Should hide us, too, as darkly as you do— Safe, as yourself, withdrawn, Hearing the World roar on Too willful, woful, awful for the Child-heart! Child-heart!—mild heart!— Ho, my little wild heart!— Come up here to me out o' the dark, Or let me come to you! The clock chats on confidingly; a rose Taps at the window, as the sunlight throws A brilliant, jostling checkerwork of shine And shadow, like a Persian-loom design, Across the homemade carpet—fades—and then The dear old colors are themselves again. Sounds drop in visiting from everywhere— The bluebird's and the robin's trill are there, Their sweet liquidity diluted some By dewy orchard spaces they have come: Sounds of the town, too, and the great highway— The Mover-wagons' rumble, and the neigh Of overtraveled horses, and the bleat Of sheep and low of cattle through the street— A Nation's thoroughfare of hopes and fears, First blazed by the heroic pioneers Who gave up old-home idols and set face Toward the unbroken West, to found a race And tame a wilderness now mightier than All peoples and all tracts American. Blent with all outer sounds, the sounds within:— In mild remoteness falls the household din Of porch and kitchen: the dull jar and thump Of churning; and the "glung-glung" of the pump, With sudden pad and skurry of bare feet Of little outlaws, in from field or street: The clang of kettle—rasp of damper-ring And bang of cookstove-door—and everything That jingles in a busy kitchen lifts Its individual wrangling voice and drifts In sweetest tinny, coppery, pewtery tone Of music hungry ear has ever known In wildest famished yearning and conceit Of youth, to just cut loose and eat and eat!— The zest of hunger still incited on To childish desperation by long-drawn Breaths of hot, steaming, wholesome things that stew And blubber, and up-tilt the pot-lids, too, Filling the sense with zestful rumors of The dear old-fashioned dinners children love: Redolent savorings of home-cured meats, Potatoes, beans, and cabbage; turnips, beets And parsnips—rarest composite entire That ever pushed a mortal child's desire To madness by new-grated fresh, keen, sharp Horseradish—tang that sets the lips awarp And watery, anticipating all The cloyed sweets of the glorious festival.— Still add the cinnamony, spicy scents Of clove, nutmeg, and myriad condiments In like-alluring whiffs that prophesy Of sweltering pudding, cake, and custard pie— The swooning-sweet aroma haunting all The house—upstairs and down—porch, parlor, hall And sitting-room—invading even where The Hired Man sniffs it in the orchard-air, And pauses in his pruning of the trees To note the sun minutely and to—sneeze. Then Cousin Rufus comes—the children hear His hale voice in the old hall, ringing clear As any bell. Always he came with song Upon his lips and all the happy throng Of echoes following him, even as the crowd Of his admiring little kinsmen—proud To have a cousin grown—and yet as young Of soul and cheery as the songs he sung. He was a student of the law—intent Soundly to win success, with all it meant; And so he studied—even as he played— With all his heart: And so it was he made His gallant fight for fortune—through all stress Of battle bearing him with cheeriness And wholesome valor. And the children had Another relative who kept them glad And joyous by his very merry ways— As blithe and sunny as the summer days— Their father's youngest brother—Uncle Mart. The old "Arabian Nights" he knew by heart— "Baron Munchausen," too; and likewise "The Swiss Family Robinson."—And when these three Gave out, as he rehearsed them, he could go Straight on in the same line—a steady flow Of arabesque invention that his good Old mother never clearly understood. He was to be a printer—wanted, though, To be an actor.—But the world was "show" Enough for him—theatric, airy, gay— Each day to him was jolly as a play. And some poetic symptoms, too, in sooth, Were certain.—And, from his apprentice youth, He joyed in verse-quotations—which he took Out of the old "Type Foundry Specimen Book." He craved and courted most the favor of The children.—They were foremost in his love; And pleasing them, he pleased his own boy-heart And kept it young and fresh in every part. So was it he devised for them and wrought To life his quaintest, most romantic thought:— Like some lone castaway in alien seas, He built a house up in the apple-trees, Out in the corner of the garden, where No man-devouring native, prowling there, Might pounce upon them in the dead o' night— For lo, their little ladder, slim and light, They drew up after them. And it was known That Uncle Mart slipped up sometimes alone And drew the ladder in, to lie and moon Over some novel all the afternoon. And one time Johnty, from the crowd below— Outraged to find themselves deserted so— Threw bodily their old black cat up in The airy fastness, with much yowl and din. Resulting, while a wild periphery Of cat went circling to another tree, And, in impassioned outburst, Uncle Mart Loomed up, and thus relieved his tragic heart: "'Hence, long-tailed, ebon-eyed, nocturnal ranger! What led thee hither 'mongst the types and cases? Didst thou not know that running midnight races O'er standing types was fraught with imminent danger? Did hunger lead thee—didst thou think to find Some rich old cheese to fill thy hungry maw? Vain hope! for none but literary jaw Can masticate our cookery for the mind!'" So likewise when, with lordly air and grace, He strode to dinner, with a tragic face With ink-spots on it from the office, he Would aptly quote more "Specimen-poetry—" Perchance like "'Labor's bread is sweet to eat, (Ahem!) And toothsome is the toiler's meat.'" Ah, could you see them all, at lull of noon!— A sort of boisterous lull, with clink of spoon And clatter of deflecting knife, and plate Dropped saggingly, with its all-bounteous weight, And dragged in place voraciously; and then Pent exclamations, and the lull again.— The garland of glad faces 'round the board— Each member of the family restored To his or her place, with an extra chair Or two for the chance guests so often there.— The father's farmer-client, brought home from The courtroom, though he "didn't want to come Tel he jist saw he hat to!" he'd explain, Invariably, time and time again, To the pleased wife and hostess, as she pressed Another cup of coffee on the guest.— Or there was Johnty's special chum, perchance, Or Bud's, or both—each childish countenance Lit with a higher glow of youthful glee, To be together thus unbrokenly— Jim Offutt, or Eck Skinner, or George Carr— The very nearest chums of Bud's these are— So, very probably, one of the three, At least, is there with Bud, or ought to be. Like interchange the town-boys each had known— His playmate's dinner better than his own— Yet blest that he was ever made to stay At Almon Keefer's, any blessed day, For any meal! … Visions of biscuits, hot And flaky-perfect, with the golden blot Of molten butter for the center, clear, Through pools of clover-honey—dear-o-dear!— With creamy milk for its divine "farewell": And then, if any one delectable Might yet exceed in sweetness, O restore The cherry-cobbler of the days of yore Made only by Al Keefer's mother!—Why, The very thought of it ignites the eye Of memory with rapture—cloys the lip Of longing, till it seems to ooze and drip With veriest juice and stain and overwaste Of that most sweet delirium of taste That ever visited the childish tongue, Or proved, as now, the sweetest thing unsung.