FullReads

It was good
To hear him now, and so the children stood
Closer about him, waiting.

“Things to eat,”
The Hired Man went on, “‘s mighty hard to beat!
Now, when I wuz a boy, we was so pore,
My parunts couldn’t ‘ford popcorn no more
To pamper me with;–so, I hat to go
Without popcorn–sometimes a year er so!–
And suffer’n’ saints! how hungry I would git
Fer jest one other chance–like this–at it!
Many and many a time I’ve dreamp‘, at night,
About popcorn,–all busted open white,
And hot, you know–and jest enough o’ salt
And butter on it fer to find no fault–
Oomh!–Well! as I was goin’ on to say,–
After a-dreamin‘ of it thataway,
Then havin’ to wake up and find it’s all
A dream, and hain’t got no popcorn at-tall,
Ner haint had none–I’d think, ‘Well, where’s the use!‘
And jest lay back and sob the plaster’n’ loose!
And I have prayed, whatever happened, it
‘Ud eether be popcorn er death!…. And yit
I’ve noticed–more’n likely so have you–
That things don’t happen when you want ’em to.”

And thus he ran on artlessly, with speech
And work in equal exercise, till each
Tureen and bowl brimmed white. And then he greased
The saucers ready for the wax, and seized
The fragrant-steaming kettle, at a sign
Made by Floretty; and, each child in line,
He led out to the pump–where, in the dim
New coolness of the night, quite near to him
He felt Floretty’s presence, fresh and sweet
As … dewy night-air after kitchen-heat.

There, still, with loud delight of laugh and jest,
They plied their subtle alchemy with zest–
Till, sudden, high above their tumult, welled
Out of the sitting-room a song which held
Them stilled in some strange rapture, listening
To the sweet blur of voices chorusing:–

 

 "'When twilight approaches the season
 

 That ever is sacred to song,
 

 Does some one repeat my name over,
 

 And sigh that I tarry so long?
 

 And is there a chord in the music
 

 That's missed when my voice is away?--
 

 And a chord in each heart that awakens
 

 Regret at my wearisome stay-ay--
 

 Regret at my wearisome stay.'"
 

 

All to himself, The Hired Man thought–“Of course
They’ll sing Floretty homesick!”

… O strange source
Of ecstasy! O mystery of Song!–
To hear the dear old utterance flow along:–

 

 "'Do they set me a chair near the table
 

 When evening's home-pleasures are nigh?--
 

 When the candles are lit in the parlor.
 

 And the stars in the calm azure sky.'"...
 

 

Just then the moonlight sliced the porch slantwise,
And flashed in misty spangles in the eyes
Floretty clenched–while through the dark–“I jing!”
A voice asked, “Where’s that song ‘you’d learn to sing
Ef I sent you the ballat?‘–which I done
Last I was home at Freeport.–S’pose you run
And git it–and we’ll all go in to where
They’ll know the notes and sing it fer ye there.”
And up the darkness of the old stairway
Floretty fled, without a word to say–
Save to herself some whisper muffled by
Her apron, as she wiped her lashes dry.

Returning, with a letter, which she laid
Upon the kitchen-table while she made
A hasty crock of “float,”–poured thence into
A deep glass dish of iridescent hue
And glint and sparkle, with an overflow
Of froth to crown it, foaming white as snow.–
And then–poundcake, and jelly-cake as rare,
For its delicious complement,–with air
Of Hebe mortalized, she led her van
Of votaries, rounded by The Hired Man.