FullReads

I clapped my hands in genuine applause. “Read on!” I said,–“Read on! Read all of it!”

The old man’s face was radiant as he continued:–

“Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! In the happy days of yore,
When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
My shadder smilin’ up at me with sich tenderness.
But them days is past and gone, and old Time’s tuck his toll
From the old man come back to the old swimmin’-hole.

“Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! In the long, lazy days
When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways,
How pleasant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
They was lots o’ fun on hands at the old swimmin’-hole.
But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin’-hole.

“Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
Tel the glad lillies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
And the snake-feeder’s four gauzy wings fluttered by
Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze’s controle
As it cut acrost some orchurd to’rds the old swimmin’-hole.

“Oh! the old swimmin’-hole! When I last saw the place,
The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;
The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
Whare the old divin’-log lays sunk and fergot.
And I strayed down the banks whare the trees ust to be–
But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
And I wisht in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin’-hole.”

My applause was long and loud. The old man’s interpretation of the poem was a positive revelation, though I was glad enough to conceal from him my moistened eyes by looking through the scraps for other specimens of his verse.

“Here,” said I enthusiastically, “is another one, signed ‘Benj. F. Johnson,’ read me this,” and I handed him the poem.

The old man smiled and took the manuscript. “This-here one’s on ‘ The Hoss,'” he said, simply clearing his throat. “They ain’t so much fancy-work about this as the other’n, but they’s jest as much fact, you can bet–’cause, they’re no animal a-livin’ ‘at I love better ‘an

“THE HOSS”

“The hoss he is a splendud beast;
He is man’s friend, as heaven desined,
And, search the world from west to east,
No honester you’ll ever find!

“Some calls the hoss ‘a pore dumb brute,’
And yit, like Him who died fer you,
I say, as I theyr charge refute,
‘Fergive; they know not what they do!’

“No wiser animal makes tracks
Upon these earthly shores, and hence
Arose the axium, true as facts,
Extoled by all, as ‘Good hoss-sense!’

“The hoss is strong, and knows his stren’th,–
You hitch him up a time er two
And lash him, and he’ll go his len’th
And kick the dashboard out fer you!

“But, treat him allus good and kind,
And never strike him with a stick,
Ner aggervate him, and you’ll find
He’ll never do a hostile trick.

“A hoss whose master tends him right
And worters him with daily care,
Will do your biddin’ with delight,
And act as docile as you air.