THE PETER-BIRD

181

Sought him in lane and on pike, called him in orchard and meadow, Clamoring "Peter!" in vain, vainly outcrying for Peter.

Joining the search came the rest, brothers and sisters and cousins, Venting unspeakable fears in pitiful wailing for Peter!

And from the neighboring farms gathered the men and the women, Who, upon hearing the news, swelled the loud chorus for Peter.

Farmers and hussifs and maids, bosses and field-hands and niggers, Colonels and jedges galore from cornfields and mint-beds and thickets,

All that had voices to voice, all to those parts appertaining,

Came to engage in the search, gathered and bellowed for Peter. The Taylors, the Dorseys, the Browns, the Wallers, the Mitchells, the Logans,

The Yenowines, Crittendens, Dukes, the Hickmans, the Hobbses, the Morgans;

The Ormsbys, the Thompsons, the Hikes, the Williamsons, Murrays, and Hardins,

The Beynroths, the Sherleys, the Hokes, the Haldermans, Harneys, and Slaughters—

All, famed in Kentucky of old for prowess prodigious at farming, Now surged from their prosperous homes to join in that hunt for the truant,

To ascertain where he was at, to help out the chorus for Peter.

Still on those prosperous farms where heirs and assigns of the people

Specified hereinabove and proved by the records of probate— Still on those farms shall you hear (and still on the turnpikes adjacent)

That pitiful, petulant call, that pleading, expostulant wailing, That hopeless, monotonous moan, that crooning and droning for Peter.

Some say the witch in her wrath transmogrified all those good people;

That, wakened from slumber that day by the calling and bawling for Peter,

She out of her cave in a trice, and, waving the foot of a rabbit (Crossed with the caul of a coon and smeared with the blood of a

chicken),

She changed all those folk into birds and shrieked with demoniac

venom:

"Fly away over the land, moaning your Peter forever,

Croaking of Peter, the boy who did n't believe there were hoodoos, Crooning of Peter, the fool who scouted at stories of witches, Crying of Peter for aye, forever outcalling for Peter!"

This is the story they tell; so in good sooth saith the legend;
As I have told it to you, so tell the folk and the legend.
That it is true I believe, for on the breezes this morning
Come the shrill voices of birds calling and calling for Peter;
Out of the maple and beech glitter the eyes of the wailers,
Peeping and peering for him who formerly lived in these places-
Peter, the heretic lad, lazy and careless and dreaming,
Sorely afflicted with books and with pubescent paresis,

Hating the things of the farm, care of the barn and the garden,
Always neglecting his chores-given to books and to reading,
Which, as all people allow, turn the young person to mischief,
Harden his heart against toil, wean his affections from tillage.

This is the legend of yore told in the state of Kentucky
When in the springtime the birds call from the beeches and maples,
Call from the petulant thorn, call from the acrid persimmon;
When from the woods by the creek and from the pastures and
meadows,

When from the spring house and lane and from the mint-bed and orchard,

When from the redbud and gum and from the redolent lilac,

When from the dirt roads and pikes cometh that calling for Peter; Cometh the dolorous cry, cometh that weird iteration

Of "Peter" and "Peter" for aye, of "Peter" and "Peter" forever! This is the legend of old, told in the tumtitty metre

Which the great poets prefer, being less labor than rhyming (My first attempt at the same, my last attempt, too, I reckon!); Nor have I further to say, for the sad story is ended.

SISTER'S CAKE

183

SISTER'S CAKE

I'd not complain of Sister Jane, for she was good and kind,
Combining with rare comeliness distinctive gifts of mind;
Nay, I'll admit it were most fit that, worn by social cares,
She'd crave a change from parlor life to that below the stairs,
And that, eschewing needlework and music, she should take
Herself to the substantial art of manufacturing cake.

At breakfast, then, it would befall that Sister Jane would say:
“Mother, if you have got the things, I'll make some cake to-day!”
Poor mother 'd cast a timid glance at father, like as not—
For father hinted sister's cooking cost a frightful lot-
But neither she nor he presumed to signify dissent,
Accepting it for gospel truth that what she wanted went!

No matter what the rest of 'em might chance to have in hand,
The whole machinery of the house came to a sudden stand;
The pots were hustled off the stove, the fire built up anew,
With every damper set just so to heat the oven through;
The kitchen-table was relieved of everything, to make

That ample space which Jane required when she compounded cake.

And, oh! the bustling here and there, the flying to and fro;
The click of forks that whipped the eggs to lather white as snow-
And what a wealth of sugar melted swiftly out of sight-
And butter? Mother said such waste would ruin father, quite!
But Sister Jane preserved a mien no pleading could confound
As she utilized the raisins and the citron by the pound.

Oh, hours of chaos, tumult, heat, vexatious din, and whirl!
Of deep humiliation for the sullen hired-girl;

Of grief for mother, hating to see things wasted so,

And of fortune for that little boy who pined to taste that dough! It looked so sweet and yellow-sure, to taste it were no sinBut, oh! how sister scolded if he stuck his finger in!

The chances were as ten to one, before the job was through,
That sister'd think of something else she'd great deal rather do!

So, then, she'd softly steal away, as Arabs in the night,
Leaving the girl and ma to finish up as best they might;
These tactics (artful Sister Jane) enabled her to take

Or shift the credit or the blame of that too-treacherous cake!

And yet, unhappy is the man who has no Sister Jane—
For he who has no sister seems to me to live in vain.
I never had a sister-maybe that is why to-day
I'm wizened and dyspeptic, instead of blithe and gay;
A boy who's only forty should be full of romp and mirtă,
But I (because I'm sisterless) am the oldest man on earth!

Had I a little sister-oh, how happy I should be!

I'd never let her cast her eyes on any chap but me;

I'd love her and I'd cherish her for better and for worse-
I'd buy her gowns and bonnets, and sing her praise in verse;
And yes, what's more and vastly more-
e-I tell you what I'd do;
I'd let her make her wondrous cake, and I would eat it, too!

I have a high opinion of the sisters, as you see

Another fellow's sister is so very dear to me!

I love to work anear her when she's making over frocks,
When she patches little trousers or darns prosaic socks;

But I draw the line at one thing—yes, I don my hat and take
A three hours' walk when she is moved to try her hand at cake!

ABU MIDJAN

"When Father Time swings round his scythe,
Intomb me 'neath the bounteous vine,

So that its juices, red and blithe,

May cheer these thirsty bones of mine.

"Elsewise with tears and bated breath
Should I survey the life to be.
But oh! How should I hail the death

That brings that vinous grace to me!"

ED

So sung the dauntless Saracen,

Whereat the Prophet-Chief ordains
That, curst of Allah, loathed of men,
The faithless one shall die in chains.

But one vile Christian slave that lay
A prisoner near that prisoner saith:
"God willing, I will plant some day
A vine where liest thou in death."

Lo, over Abu Midjan's grave

With purpling fruit a vine-tree grows;
Where rots the martyred Christian slave
Allah, and only Allah, knows!

185

ED

ED was a man that played for keeps, 'nd when he tuk the notion,
You cudn't stop him any more 'n a dam 'ud stop the ocean;
For when he tackled to a thing 'nd sot his mind plum to it,
You bet yer boots he done that thing though it broke the bank to
do it!

So all us boys uz knowed him best allowed he wuz n't jokin'
When on a Sunday he remarked uz how he'd gin up smokin'.

Now this remark, that Ed let fall, fell, ez I say, on Sunday-
Which is the reason we wuz shocked to see him sail in Monday
A-puffin' at a snipe that sizzled like a Chinese cracker.
An' smelt fur all the world like rags instead uv like terbacker;
Recoverin' from our first surprise, us fellows fell to pokin'
A heap uv fun at "folks uz said how they had gin up smokin'."

But Ed-sez he: "I found my work cud not be done without it Jes' try the scheme yourselves, my friends, ef any uv you doubt it! It's hard, I know, upon one's health, but there's a certain beauty In makin' sackerfices to the stern demands uv duty!

So, wholly in a sperrit uv denial 'nd concession,

I mortify the flesh 'nd smoke for the sake uv my perfession!"