Riley Farm-Rhymes






HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM

     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 NEEDED he'p about,
     As you'd admit, ef you'd a-seen the way the crops turned
            out!

     A better quarter-section ner a richer soil warn't found
     Than this-here old-home place o' ourn fer fifty miles
           around!—
     The house was small—but plenty-big we found it from
           the day
     That John—our only livin' son—packed up and went
           away.

     You see, we tuk sich pride in John—his mother more'n
           me—
     That's natchurul; but BOTH of us was proud as proud
           could be;
     Fer the boy, from a little chap, was most oncommon
           bright,
     And seemed in work as well as play to take the same
           delight.

     He allus went a-whistlin' round the place, as glad at heart
     As robins up at five o'clock to git an airly start;
     And many a time 'fore daylight Mother's waked me up
          to say—
     "Jest listen, David!—listen!—Johnny's beat the birds
          to-day!"

     High-sperited from boyhood, with a most inquirin' turn,—
     He wanted to learn ever'thing on earth they was to learn:
     He'd ast more plaguy questions in a mortal-minute here
     Than his grandpap in Paradise could answer in a year!

     And READ! w'y, his own mother learnt him how to read
           and spell;
     And "The Childern of the Abbey"—w'y, he knowed that
           book as well
     At fifteen as his parents!—and "The Pilgrim's
           Progress," too—
     Jest knuckled down, the shaver did, and read 'em through
           and through.

     At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a better
           chance-
     That we ort to educate him, under any circumstance;
     And John he j'ined his mother, and they ding-donged and
           kep' on,
     Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he was
           gone.

     But—I missed him—w'y, of course I did!—The Fall and
           Winter through
     I never built the kitchen-fire, er split a stick in two,
     Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrel-pin,
     But what I thought o' John, and wished that he was home
           ag'in.

     He'd come, sometimes—on Sund'ys most—and stay the
           Sund'y out;
     And on Thanksgivin'-Day he 'peared to like to be about:
     But a change was workin' on him—he was stiller than
           before,
     And didn't joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle any
           more.

     And his talk was all so proper; and I noticed, with a sigh,
     He was tryin' to raise side-whiskers, and had on a striped
           tie,
     And a standin'-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as bone;
     And a breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat of
           his own.

     But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was to
           come home
     And he'p me through the season, I was glad to see him
           come,
     But my happiness, that evening, with the settin' sun went
           down,
     When he bragged of "a position" that was offered him in
           town.

     "But," says I, "you'll not accept it?" "W'y, of course I
            will," says he.—
     "This drudgin' on a farm," he says, "is not the life fer
           me;
     I've set my stakes up higher," he continued, light and
           gay,
     "And town's the place fer ME, and I'm a-goin' right
           away!"

     And go he did!—his mother clingin' to him at the gate,
     A-pleadin' and a-cryin'; but it hadn't any weight.
     I was tranquiller, and told her 'twarn't no use to worry
           so,
     And onclasped her arms from round his neck round mine
           —and let him go!

     I felt a little bitter feelin' foolin' round about
     The aidges of my conscience; but I didn't let it out;—
     I simply retch out, trimbly-like, and tuk the boy's hand,
     And though I didn't say a word, I knowed he'd under-
          stand.

     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
           and heard
     What store John was clerkin' in, and went round to in-
           quire
     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 un-
            derstand
     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!

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