Fitz Adam's Story

THE next whose fortune ’t was a tale to tell
Was one whom men, before they thought, loved well,
And after thinking wondered why they did,
For half he seemed to let them, half forbid,
And wrapped him so in humors, sheath on sheath,
'T was hard to guess the mellow soul beneath ;
But, once divined, you took him to your heart,
While he appeared to bear with you as part
Of life’s impertinence, and once a year
Betrayed his true self by a smile or tear.
Or rather something sweetly-shy and loath,
Withdrawn ere fully shown, and mixed of both.
A cynic? Not precisely: one who thrust
Against a heart too prone to love and trust,
Who so despised false sentiment he knew
Scarce in himself to part the false and true,
And strove to hide, by roughening-o’er the skin,
Those cobweb nerves he could not dull within.
Gentle by birth, but of a stem decayed,
He shunned life’s rivalries and hated trade ;
On a small patrimony and larger pride,
He lived uneaseful on the Other Side (So he called Europe), only coming West
To give his old-world appetite new zest.
A radical in thought, he puffed away
With shrewd contempt the dust of usage gray,
Yet loathed democracy as one who saw,
In what he longed to love, some vulgar flaw,
And, shocked through all his delicate reserves,
Remained a Tory by his taste and nerves.
His fancy’s thrall, he drew all ergos thence.
And thought himself the type of common sense,
Misliking women, not from cross or whim,
But that his mother shared too much in him,
And he half felt that what in them was grace
Made the unlucky weakness of his race.
What powers he had he hardly cared to know,
But sauntered through the world as through a show,
A critic fine in his haphazard way,
A sort of mild La Bruyere on half-pay.
For comic weaknesses he had an eye
Keen as an acid for an alkali,
Yet you could feel, through his sardonic tone,
He loved them all, unless they were his own.
You might have called him, with his humorous twist,
A kind of human entomologist:
As these bring home, from every walk they take,
Their hat-crowns stuck with hugs of curious make,
So he filled all the lining of his head
With characters impaled and ticketed,
And had a cabinet behind his eyes
For all they caught of mortal oddities.
He might have been a poet, — many worse,—
But that he had, or feigned, contempt of verse,
Called it tattooing language, and held rhymes
The young world’s lullaby of ruder times.
Bitter in words, too indolent for gall,
He satirized himself the first of all.
In men and their affairs could find no law,
And was the ill logic that he thought he saw.
Scratching a match to light his pipe anew,
With eyes half shut some musing whiffs he drew,
And thus began:—“I give you all my word,
I think this mock-Deeameron absurd;
Boccaccio’s garden ! how bring that to pass
In our bleak clime save under double glass?
The moral east-wind of New-England life
Would snip its gay luxuriance like a knife ;
These foreign plants are but half-hardy still,
Die on a south, and on a north wall chill ;
Had we stayed Puritans ! They had some heat,
(Though whence derived, I have my own conceit,)
But you have long ago raked up their fires ;
Where they had faith, you ’ve ten sham-Gothic spires.
Why more exotics ? Try your native vines,
And in some thousand years you may have wines ;
Your present grapes are harsh, all pulps and skins,
And want traditions of ancestral bins
That saved for evenings round the polished board
Old lava-fires, the sun-steeped hillside’s hoard ;
Without a Past, you lack that southern wall
O’er which the vines of Poesy should crawl;
Still they ’re your only hope ; no midnight oil
Makes up for virtue wanting in the soil ;
Manure them well and prune them; ’t won’t be France,
Nor Spain, nor Italy, but there’s your chance.
You have one story-teller worth a score
Of dead Boccaccios, nay, add twenty more,
A hawthorn asking spring’s most southern breath,
And him you !re freezing pretty well to death.
However, since you say so, I will tease
My memory to a story by degrees,
Though you will cry, ' Enough ! ’ I ’m wellnigh sure,
Ere I have dreamed through half my overture.
Stories were good for men who had no books,
(Fortunate race !) and built their nests like rooks
In lonely towers, to which the Jongleur brought
His pedler’s-box of cheap and tawdry thought,
With here and there a fancy fit to see
Wrought to quaint grace in golden filagree;
The morning newspaper has spoilt his trade,
(For better or for worse, I leave unsaid,)
And stories now, to suit a public nice,
Must be half epigram, half pleasant vice.
“ All tourists know Shebagog County; there
The summer idlers take their yearly stare,
Dress to see Nature in a well-bred way,
As 't were Italian opera, or play,
Encore the sunrise (if they 're out of bed),
And pat the Mighty Mother on the head :
These have I seen, — all things are good to sec,—
And wondered much at their complacency;
This world’s great show, that took in getting up
Millions of years, they finish ere they sup ;
Sights that God gleams through with soul-tingling force
They glance approvingly as things of course,
Say, ‘That’s a grand rock,’ ‘This a pretty fall,’
Not thinking, ‘Are we worthy?’ What if all
The scornful landscape should turn round and say,
‘ This is a fool, and that a popinjay ’ ?
I often wonder what the Mountain thinks
Of French boots creaking o’er his breathless brinks,
Or how the Sun would scare the chattering crowd,
If some fine day he chanced to think aloud.
“ I, who love Nature much as sinners can,
Love her where she most grandeur shows, —in man;
Here find I mountain, forest, cloud, and sun,
River and sea, and glows when day is done ;
Nay, where she makes grotesques, and moulds in jest
The clown’s cheap clay, I find unfading zest.
The natural instincts year by year retire,
As deer shrink northward from the settler’s fire,
And he who loves the wild game-flavor more
Than city-feasts, where every man’s a bore
To every other man, must seek it where
The steamer’s throb and railway’s iron blare
Have not yet startled with their punctual stir
The shy, wood-wandering brood of Character.
There is a village, once the county town,
Through which the weekly mail rolled dustily down,
Where the courts sat, it may be, twice a year,
And the one tavern reeked with rustic cheer ;
Cheeshogquesumscot erst, now Jethro hight,
Red-man and pale-face bore it equal spite.
The railway ruined it, the natives say,
That passed unwisely fifteen miles away,
And made a drain to which, with steady ooze,
Filtered away law, stage-coach, trade, and news.
The railway saved it, so at least think those
Who love old ways, old houses, old repose.
Of course the Tavern stayed : its genial host
Thought not of flitting more than did the post
On which high-hung the fading signboard creaks,
Inscribed, ‘The Eagle Inn, by Ezra Weeks.’
“ If in life’s journey you should ever find
An inn medicinal for body and mind,
'T is sure to be some drowsy-Iooking house
Whose easy landlord has a bustling spouse :
Fie, if he like you, will not long forego
Some bottle deep in cobwebbed dust laid low,
That, since the War we used to call the ' Last,’
Has dozed and held its lang-syne memories fast;
From him exhales that Indian-summer air
Of hazy, lazy welcome everywhere,
While with her toil the napery is white,
The china dustless, the keen knife-blades bright,
Salt dry as sand, and bread that seems as though
’T were rather sea-foam baked than vulgar dough.
“In our swift country, houses trim and white
Are pitched like tents, the lodging of a night;
Each on its bank of baked turf mounted high
Perches impatient o’er the roadside dry,
While the wronged landscape coldly stands aloof,
Refusing friendship with the upstart roof.
Not so the Eagle ; on a grass-green swell
That toward the south with sweet concessions fell,
It dwelt retired, and half had grown to be
As aboriginal as rock or tree.
It nestled close to earth, and seemed to brood
O’er homely thoughts in a half-conscious mood,
As by the peat that rather fades than burns
The smouldering grandam nods and knits by turns,
Happy, although her newest news were old
Ere the first hostile drum at Concord rolled ;
If paint it e’er had known, it knew no more
Than yellow lichens spattered thickly o’er
That soft lead-gray, less dark beneath the eaves,
Which the slow brush of wind and weather leaves.
The ample roof sloped backward to the ground,
And vassal lean-tos gathered thickly round,
Patched on, as sire or son had felt the need,
Like chance growths sprouting from the old roof’s seed,
Just as about a yellow-pine-tree spring
Its rough-barked darlings in a filial ring.
But the great chimney was the central thought
Whose gravitation through the cluster wrought,
For ’t is not styles far-fetched from Greece or Rome,
But just the Fireside, that can make a home ;
None of your spindling things of modern style,
Like pins stuck through to stay the card-built pile,
It rose broad-shouldered, kindly, debonair,
Its warm breath whitening in the October air,
While on its front a heart in outline showed
The place it filled in that serene abode.
“ When first I chanced the Eagle to explore,
Ezra sat listless by the open door;
One chair careened him at an angle meet,
Another nursed his hugely-slippered feet ;
Upon a third reposed a shirt-sleeved arm,
And the whole man diffused tobacco’s charm.
‘Are you the landlord?’ ‘Wahl, I guess I be,’
Watching the smoke, he answered leisurely.
He was a stoutish man, and through the breast
Of his loose shirt there showed a brambly chest;
Streaked redly as a wind-foreboding morn,
His tanned cheeks curved to temples closely shorn ;
Clean-shaved he was, save where a hedge of gray
Upon his brawny throat leaned every way
About an Adam’s-apple that beneath
Bulged like a bowlder from a furzy heath.
‘ Can I have lodging here ? ’ once more I said.
He blew a whiff, and, leaning back his head,
' You come a piece through Bailey’s woods, I s’pose,
Acrost a bridge where a big swamp-oak grows ?
It don’t grow neither; it’s ben dead ten year,
Nor th’ ain’t a livin’ creetur, fur nor near,
Can tell wut killed it; but I some misdoubt
’T was borers, there’s sech heaps on ’em about;
You did n’ chance to run ag’inst my son,
A long, slab-sided youngster with a gun ?
He’d oughto ben back more ’n an hour ago
An’ brought some birds to dress for supper — Sho 1
There he comes now. ’Say, Obed, wut ye got?
(He 'll hev some upland plover like as not.)
Wal, them’s real nice uns an ’ll eat A 1,
Ef I can stop their bein’ over-done ;
Nothin’ riles me, (I pledge my fastin’ word,)
Like cookin’ out the natur’ of a bird ;
(Obed, you pick ’em out o’ sight an’ sound,
Your ma’am don’t love no feathers cluttrin’ round;)
Jes’ scare ’em with the coals ; thet’s my idee.’
Then, turning suddenly about on me,
‘Wal, Square, I guess so. Callilate to stay?
I ’ll ask Miss Weeks; ’bout thet it ’s hern to say.’
“ Well, there I lingered all October through,
In that sweet atmosphere of hazy blue,
So leisurely, so soothing, so forgiving,
That sometimes makes New England fit for living ;
I watched the landscape, erst so granite glum,
Bloom like the south side of a ripening plum,
And each rock-maple on the hillside make
His ten days’ sunset doubled in the lake ;
The very stone walls draggling up the hills
Seemed touched, and wavered in their roundhead wills.
Ah ! there’s a deal of sugar in the sun !
Tap me in Indian-summer, I should run
A juice to make rock-candy of, — but then
We get such weather scarce one year in ten.
“ There was a parlor in the house, a room
To make you shudder with its prudish gloom.
The furniture stood round with such an air,
There seemed an old maid’s ghost in every chair;
Each looked as it had scuttled to its place
And pulled extempore a Sunday face,
Too smugly proper for a world of sin,
Like boys on whom the minister conies in.
The table, fronting you with icy stare,
Strove to look witless that its legs were bare,
While the black sofa with its horse-hair pall
Gloomed like the bier for Comfort’s funeral.
Two portraits graced the wall in grimmest truth,
Mister and Mistress W. in their youth,'—
New England youth, that seems a sort of pill,
Half wish-I-dared, half Edwards on the Will,
Bitter to swallow, and which leaves a trace
Of Calvinistic cholic on the face.
Between them, o’er the mantel, hung in state
Solomon’s temple, done in copperplate;
Invention pure, but meant, we may presume,
To give some Scripture sanction to the room.
Facing this last, two samplers you might see,
Each, with its urn and stiffly-weeping tree,
Devoted to some memory long ago
More faded than their lines of worsted woe ;
Cut paper decked the frames against the flies,
Though none e’er dared an entrance who were wise,
And bushed asparagus in fading green
Added its shiver to the franklin clean.
“When first arrived, I chilled a half-hour there,
Nor dared deflower with use a single chair ; I caught no cold, yet flying pains could find
For weeks in me, — a rheumatism of mind.
One thing alone imprisoned there had power
To hold me in the place that one half-hour, —
A scutcheon this, a helm-surmounted shield,
Three griffins argent on a sable field ;
A relic of the shipwrecked past was here,
And Ezra held some old-world lumber dear ;
Nay, do not smile, I love this kind of thing,
These cooped traditions with a broken wing,
This real estate in Fancy’s pipe-blown ball,
This less than nothing that is more than all!
Have I not seen sweet natures kept alive
Amid the humdrum of your business hive,
Undowered spinsters shielded from all harms,
By force imagined of a coat of arms?”
He paused a moment, and his features took
The flitting sweetness of that inward look
I hinted at before ; but, scarcely seen,
It shrank for shelter ’neath his harder mien,
And, rapping his black pipe ot ashes clear,
He went on with a self-derisive sneer : —
“ No doubt we make a part of God’s design,
And break the forest-path for feet divine ;
To furnish foothold for this grand prevision
Is good, — and yet to be the mere transition,—
That, you will say, is also good, though I
Scarce like to feed the ogre By-and-by ;
My skull has somehow never closed the suture
That seems to bind yours firmly with the future,
So you ’ll excuse me if I ’m sometimes fain
To tie the past’s warm nightcap o’er my brain ;
I ’m quite aware 't is not in fashion here,
But then your northeast winds are so severe !
“ But to my story : though ’t is truly naught
But a few hints in Memory’s sketchbook caught,
And which may claim a value on the score
Of calling back some scenery now no more.
Shall I confess ? The tavern’s only Lar
Seemed (be not shocked !) its homely-featured bar.
Here snapped a fire of beechen logs, that bred
Strange fancies in its embers golden-red,
And nursed the loggerhead whose hissing dip,
Timed by nice instinct, creamed the mug of flip
Which made from mouth to mouth its genial round,
Nor left one nature wholly winter-bound ;
Hence dropt the tinkling coal all mellow-ripe
For Uncle Reuben’s talk-extinguished pipe;
Hence rayed the heat, as from an in-door sun,
That wooed forth many a shoot of rustic fun.
Here Ezra ruled as king by right divine ;
No other face had such a wholesome shine,
No laugh like his so full of honest cheer;
Above the rest it crowed like Chanticleer ;
No eye like his to value horse or cow,
Or gauge the contents of a stack or mow.
He could foretell the weather at a word,
He knew the haunt of every beast and bird,
Or where a two-pound trout was sure to lie
Waiting the flutter of his home-made fly ;
Nay, once in autumns five, he had the luck
To drop at fair-play range a ten-tined buck.
Of sportsmen true he favored every whim,
But never cockney found a guide in him.
A natural man, with all his instincts fresh,
Not buzzing helpless in Reflection’s mesh,
Firm on its feet stood his broad-shouldered mind,
As bluffly honest as a northwest wind ;
Hard-headed and soft-hearted, you’d scarce meet
A kinder mixture of the shrewd and sweet ;
Generous by birth, and ill at saying “ No,”
Yet in a bargain he was all men’s foe,
Would yield no inch of vantage in a trade,
And give away ere nightfall all he made.
“ In this one room his dame you never saw,
Where reigned by custom old a salic law ;
Here coatless lolled he on his throne of oak,
And every tongue was muffled if he spoke ;
Due mirth he loved, yet was his sway severe ;
No blear-eyed driveller got his stagger here ;
‘ Measure was happiness ; who wanted more,
Must buy his ruin at the Deacon’s store ’ ;
None but his lodgers after ten could stay,
Nor after nine on eves of Sabbath-day.
He had his favorites and his pensioners,
The same that gypsy Nature owns for hers,—
Loose-ended souls, whose skills bring scanty gold,
And whom the poor-house catches when they ’re old ;
Rude country-minstrels, men who doctor kine,
Or graft, and, out of scions ten, save nine ;
Creatures of genius they, but never meant
To keep step with the civic regiment.
These Ezra welcomed, feeling in his mind
Perhaps some motions of the vagrant kind ;
These paid no money, yet for them he drew
Special Jamaica from a tap they knew,
And, for their feelings, chalked behind the door
With solemn face a visionary score.
This warmed the one-eyed fiddler to his task,
Perched in the corner on an empty cask,
By whose shrill art rapt suddenly, some boor
Rattled a double-shuffle on the floor;
This thawed to life in Uncle Reuben’s throat
A torpid shoal of jest and anecdote,
Like those queer fish that doze the droughts away,
And wait for moisture, wrapt in sun-baked clay.
“ ’T was there I caught from Uncle Reuben’s lips,
In dribbling monologue ’twixt whiffs and sips,
The story I so long have tried to tell ;
The humor coarse, the persons common,—well,
From Nature only do I love to paint,
Whether she send a satyr or a saint;
To me Sincerity’s the one thing good, Soiled though she be and lost to maidenhood,
Quompegan is a town some ten miles south
From Jethro, at Nagumscot river-mouth, —
A seaport town, and makes its title good
With lumber and dried fish and eastern wood.
Here Deacon Bitters dwelt and kept the Store,
The richest man for many a mile of shore ;
In little less than everything dealt he, From meeting-houses to a chest of tea,
So dextrous therewithal a flint to skin,
He could make profit on a single pin ;
In business strict, to bring the balance true,
He had been known to cut a fig in two
And change a board-nail for a shingle-nail.
All that he had he ready held for sale, —
His house, his tomb, whate’er the law allows,
And he had gladly parted with his spouse.
His one ambition still to get and get,
He would arrest your very ghost for debt.
His store looked righteous, should the Parson come,
But in a dark back-room he peddled rum,
And eased Ma’am Conscience, if she e’er would scold,
By christening it with water ere he sold.
A small, dry man he was, who wore a queue,
And one white neckcloth all the week-days through,
On Monday white, by Saturday as dun
As that worn homeward by the prodigal son ;
His earlocks gray, striped with a foxy brown,
Were braided up to hide a desert crown ;
His coat was brownish, black perhaps of yore;
In summer-time a banyan loose he wore ;
His trousers short, through many a season true,
Made no pretence to hide his stockings blue ;
A waistcoat buff his chief adornment was,
Its porcelain buttons rimmed with dusky brass.
A deacon he, you saw it in each limb,
And well he knew to deacon-off" a hymn,
Or lead the choir through all its wandering woes
With voice that gathered unction in his nose,
Wherein a constant snuffle you might hear,
As if with him ’t were winter all the year.
At his pew-hoad he sat with decorous pains,
In sermon-time could foot his weekly gains,
Or, with closed eyes and heaven-abstracted air,
Could plan a new investment in long-prayer ;
A pious man and thrifty too, he made
The psalms and prophets partners in his trade,
And in his orthodoxy straitened more
As it enlarged the business at his store ;
He honored Moses, but, when gain he planned,
Had his own notion of the Promised Land.
“Soon as the winter made the sledding good,
From far around the farmers hauled him wood,
For all the trade had gathered ’neath his thumb;
He paid in groceries and New England rum,
Making two profits with a conscience clear,
Cheap all he bought, and all he paid with dear ;
With his own mete-wand measuring every load,
Each somehow had diminished on the road ;
An honest cord in Jethro still would fail
By a good foot upon the Deacon’s scale,
And, more to abate the price, his gimlet eye
Would pierce to catsticks that none else could spy;
Yet none dared grumble, for no farmer yet
But New Year found him in the Deacon’s debt.
“While the first snow was mealy under feet
A team drawled creaking down Quompegan street;
Two cords of oak weighed clown the grinding sled,
And cornstalk fodder rustled overhead ;
The oxen’s muzzles, as they shouldered through,
Were silver-fringed; the driver’s own was blue
As the coarse frock that swung below his knee.
Behind his load for shelter waded he ;
His mittened hands now on his chest he beat,
Now stamped the stiffened cowhides of his feet
Hushed as a ghost’s ; his armpit scarce could hold
The walnut whipstock slippery-bright with cold.
What wonder if, the tavern as he past,
He looked and longed and stayed his beasts at last,
Who patient stood and veiled themselves in steam
While he explored the bar-room’s ruddy gleam ?
“ Before the fire, in want of thought profound,
There sat a brother-townsman weather-bound ;
A sturdy churl, crisp-headed, bristly-eared,
Red as a pepper ; ’twixt coarse brows and beard,
His eyes lay ambushed on the watch for fools,
Clear, gray, and glittering like two bay-edged pools ;
A shifty creature, with a turn for fun,
Could swap a, poor horse for a better one, —
He’d a high-stepper always in his stall ;
Liked far and near, and dreaded therewithal.
To him the in-comer, ‘ Perez, how d’ ye do ? ’
‘Jest as I’m mind to, Obed; how do you?’
Then, his eyes twinkling such swift gleams as run
Along the levelled barrel of a gun
Brought to his shoulder by a man you know
Will bring his game down, he continued, 4 So,
I s’pose you ’re hauling wood ? But you ’re too late ;
The Deacon’s off; Old Splitfoot could n’t wait;
He made a bee-line last night in the storm
To-where he won’t need wood to keep him warm.
’Fore this he’s treasurer of a fund to train
Young imps as missionaries; hopes to gain
That way a contract that he has in view
For fireproof pitchforks of a pattern new.
It must have tickled him, all drawbacks weighed,
To think he stuck the Old One in a trade ;
His soul, to start with, was n’t worth a carrot,
And all he’d left would hardly serve to swear at.’
44 By this time Obed had his wits thawed out,
And, looking at the other half in doubt,
Took off his fox-skin cap to scratch his head,
Donned it again, and drawled forth, 4 Mean he’s dead ? ’
4 Jes’ so ; he’s dead and tother d that follers
With folks that never love a thing but dollars ;
He pulled up stakes last evening, fair and square,
And ever since there ’s been a row Down There ;
The minute the old chap arrived, you see,
Comes the Boss-devil to him, and says he,
44 What are you good at? Little enough, I fear;
We calculate to make folks useful here.”
44 Well,” says old Bitters, 44 I expect I can
Scale a fair load of wood with e’er a man.”
“ Wood we don’t deal in ; but perhaps you’ll suit,
Because we buy our brimstone by the foot:
Here, take this measuring-rod as smooth as sin,
And keep a reckoning of what loads come in ;
You ’ll not want business, for we need a lot
To keep the Yankees that you send us hot ;
At firing up they ’re barely half as spry
As Spaniards or Italians, though they ’re dry;
At first we have to let the draught on stronger, But, heat ’em through, they seem to hold it longer.”
‘‘‘Bitters he took the rod, and pretty soon
A teamster comes, whistling an ex-psalm tune.
A likelier chap you would n’t ask to see,
No different, but his limp, from you or me—’
4 No different, Perez! Don’t your memory fail?
Why where in thunder were his horns and tail?’
‘They’re only worn by some old-fashioned pokes;
They mostly aim at looking just like folks.
Such things are scarce as queues and topboots here;
'T would spoil their usefulness to look too queer.
If you could always know ’em when they come,
They 'd get no purchase on you: now be mum.
On came the teamster, smart as Davy Crockett,
jingling the red-hot coppers in his pocket,
And close behind, (’t was gold-dust, you’d ha’ sworn,)
A load of sulphur yellower than seed-corn, —
To see it wasted as it is Down There,
Would make a Friction Match Co. tear its hair !
“ Hold on!” says Bitters, “stop right where you be;
You can’t go in without a pass from me.”
“ All right,” says t’ other, “ only step round smart,
I must be home by noon-time with the cart.”
Bitters goes round it sharp-eyed as a rat,
Then with a scrap of paper on his hat
Pretends to cipher. “ By the public staff
That load scarce rises twelve foot and a half.”
“ There ’s fourteen foot and over,” says the driver,
“ Worth twenty dollars, if it’s worth a stiver, —
Good fourth-proof brimstone, that ’ll make ’em squirm,
I leave it to the Headman of the Firm ;
After we measure it, we always lay
Some on to allow for settling on the way ;
Imp and full-grown, I ’ve carted sulphur here,
And given fair satisfaction, thirty year.”
With that they fell to quarrelling so loud
That in five minutes they had drawn a crowd,
And before long the Boss, who heard the row,
Comes elbowing in with “What’s to pay here now?”
Both parties heard, the measuring-rod he takes,
And of the load a careful survey makes.
“Since I have bossed the business here,” says he,
“No fairer load was ever seen by me” ;
Then, turning to the Deacon, “You mean cus,
None of your old Quompegan tricks with us !
They won’t do here : we ’re plain old-fashioned folks,
And don’t quite understand that kind of jokes.
I know this teamster, and his pa before him,
And the hard-working Mrs. D. that bore him ;
He would not soil his conscience with a lie,
Though he might get the custom-house thereby.
Here, constable, take Bitters by the queue
And clap him into furnace ninety-two,
And try this brimstone on him ; if he’s bright,
He ’ll find the measure honest before night.
He is n’t worth his fuel, and I ’ll bet
The parish poor-house has to take him yet!”’
“ This is my tale, heard twenty years ago
From Uncle Reuben, as the logs burned low,
Touching the walls and ceiling with that bloom
That make’s a rose’s calyx of a room.
I could not give his language, wherethrough ran
The gamy flavor of the bookless man Who shapes a word before the fancy cools,
As lonely Crusoe had to forge his tools.
I liked the tale, ’t was like so many told
By Rutebeuf and his brother Trouveres bold ;
Nor were the hearers much unlike to theirs,
Men unsophisticate, rude-nerved as bears.
Ezra is gone and his large-hearted kind,
The landlords of the hospitable mind ;
Good Warriner of Springfield was the last
An inn is now a vision of the past;
One yet-surviving host my mind recalls,—
You ’ll find him if you go to Trenton Falls.”
  1. The greater part of this poem was written many years ago, to form part of a larger one to be "The Nooning,” made up of tales in verse, some of them grave, some comic. called