FullReads

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.