FullReads

And–well!–sence then the old home here was mighty lonesome, shore!
With me a-workin’ in the field, and Mother at the door,
Her face ferever to’rds the town, and fadin’ more and more–
Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin’ in a store!

The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes the boy would write
A letter to his mother, sayin’ that his work was light,
And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit–
Though his business was confinin’, he was gittin’ used to it.

And sometimes he would write and ast how I was gittin’ on,
And ef I had to pay out much fer he’p sence he was gone;
And how the hogs was doin’, and the balance of the stock,
And talk on fer a page er two jest like he used to talk.

And he wrote, along ‘fore harvest, that he guessed he would git home,
Fer business would, of course, be dull in town.–But DIDN’T come:–
We got a postal later, sayin’ when they had no trade
They filled the time “invoicin’ goods,” and that was why he stayed.

And then he quit a-writin’ altogether: Not a word–
Exceptin’ what the neighbers brung who’d been to town nd heard
What store John was clerkin’ in, and went round to inquire
If they could buy their goods there less and sell their produce higher.

And so the Summer faded out, and Autumn wore away,
And a keener Winter never fetched around Thanksgivin’ Day!
The night before that day of thanks I’ll never quite fergit,
The wind a-howlin’ round the house-it makes me creepy yit!

And there set me and Mother–me a-twistin’ at the prongs
Of a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair of tongs,
And Mother sayin’, “DAVID! DAVID!” in a’ undertone,
As though she thought that I was thinkin’ bad-words unbeknown.

“I’ve dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow,” Mother said,
A-tryin’ to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubborn head,–
“And the mince-meat I’m a-mixin’ is perfection mighty nigh;
And the pound-cake is delicious-rich–” “Who’ll eat ’em?” I–says–I.

“The cramberries is drippin’-sweet,” says Mother, runnin’ on,
P’tendin’ not to hear me;–“and somehow I thought of John
All the time they was a-jellin’–fer you know they allus was
His favorITE–he likes ’em so!” Says I “Well, s’pose he does?”

“Oh, nothin’ much!” says Mother, with a quiet sort o’ smile–
“This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you after while!”
And as I turnt and looked around, some one riz up and leant
And putt his arms round Mother’s neck, and laughed in low content.

“It’s ME,” he says–“your fool-boy John, come back to shake your hand;
Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you understand
How dearer yit than all the world is this old home that we
Will spend Thanksgivin’ in fer life–jest Mother, you and me!”

Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,
Except, of course, the extry he’p when harvest-time comes on;
And then, I want to say to you, we NEED sich he’p about,
As you’d admit, ef you could see the way the crops turn out!