The Child-World

A Child-World, yet a wondrous world no less,     To those who knew its boundless happiness.     A simple old frame house - eight rooms in all -     Set just one side the center of a small     But very hopeful Indiana town, -     The upper-story looking squarely down     Upon the main street, and the main highway     From East to West, - historic in its day,     Known as The National Road - old-timers, all     Who linger yet, will happily recall     It as the scheme and handiwork, as well     As property, of "Uncle Sam," and tell     Of its importance, "long and long afore     Railroads wuz ever dreamp' of!" - Furthermore,     The reminiscent first Inhabitants     Will make that old road blossom with romance     Of snowy caravans, in long parade     Of covered vehicles, of every grade     From ox-cart of most primitive design,     To Conestoga wagons, with their fine     Deep-chested six-horse teams, in heavy gear,     High names and chiming bells - to childish ear     And eye entrancing as the glittering train     Of some sun-smitten pageant of old Spain.     And, in like spirit, haply they will tell     You of the roadside forests, and the yell     Of "wolfs" and "painters," in the long night-ride,     And "screechin' catamounts" on every side. -     Of stagecoach-days, highwaymen, and strange crimes,     And yet unriddled mysteries of the times     Called "Good Old." "And why 'Good Old'?" once a rare     Old chronicler was asked, who brushed the hair     Out of his twinkling eyes and said, - "Well John,     They're 'good old times' because they're dead and gone!"     The old home site was portioned into three     Distinctive lots. The front one - natively     Facing to southward, broad and gaudy-fine     With lilac, dahlia, rose, and flowering vine -     The dwelling stood in; and behind that, and     Upon the alley north and south, left hand,     The old wood-house, - half, trimly stacked with wood,     And half, a work-shop, where a workbench stood     Steadfastly through all seasons. - Over it,     Along the wall, hung compass, brace-and-bit,     And square, and drawing-knife, and smoothing-plane -     And little jack-plane, too - the children's vain     Possession by pretense - in fancy they     Manipulating it in endless play,     Turning out countless curls and loops of bright,     Fine satin shavings - Rapture infinite!     Shelved quilting-frames; the toolchest; the old box     Of refuse nails and screws; a rough gun-stock's     Outline in "curly maple"; and a pair     Of clamps and old krout-cutter hanging there.     Some "patterns," in thin wood, of shield and scroll,     Hung higher, with a neat "cane-fishing-pole"     And careful tackle - all securely out     Of reach of children, rummaging about.     Beside the wood-house, with broad branches free     Yet close above the roof, an apple-tree     Known as "The Prince's Harvest" - Magic phrase!     That was a boy's own tree, in many ways! -     Its girth and height meet both for the caress     Of his bare legs and his ambitiousness:     And then its apples, humoring his whim,     Seemed just to fairly hurry ripe for him -     Even in June, impetuous as he,     They dropped to meet him, halfway up the tree.     And O their bruised sweet faces where they fell! -     And ho! the lips that feigned to "kiss them well"!     "The Old Sweet-Apple-Tree," a stalwart, stood     In fairly sympathetic neighborhood     Of this wild princeling with his early gold     To toss about so lavishly nor hold     In bounteous hoard to overbrim at once     All Nature's lap when came the Autumn months.     Under the spacious shade of this the eyes     Of swinging children saw swift-changing skies     Of blue and green, with sunshine shot between,     And "when the old cat died" they saw but green.     And, then, there was a cherry-tree. - We all     And severally will yet recall     From our lost youth, in gentlest memory,     The blessed fact - There was a cherry-tree.             There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows             Cool even now the fevered sight that knows             No more its airy visions of pure joy -                 As when you were a boy.             There was a cherry-tree. The Bluejay set             His blue against its white - O blue as jet             He seemed there then! - But now - Whoever knew                 He was so pale a blue!             There was a cherry-tree - Our child-eyes saw             The miracle: - Its pure white snows did thaw             Into a crimson fruitage, far too sweet                 But for a boy to eat.             There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy! -             There was a bloom of snow - There was a boy -             There was a Bluejay of the realest blue -                 And fruit for both of you.     Then the old garden, with the apple-trees     Grouped 'round the margin, and "a stand of bees"     By the "white-winter-pearmain"; and a row     Of currant-bushes; and a quince or so.     The old grape-arbor in the center, by     The pathway to the stable, with the sty     Behind it, and upon it, cootering flocks     Of pigeons, and the cutest "martin-box"! -     Made like a sure-enough house - with roof, and doors     And windows in it, and veranda-floors     And balusters all 'round it - yes, and at     Each end a chimney - painted red at that     And penciled white, to look like little bricks;     And, to cap all the builder's cunning tricks,     Two tiny little lightning-rods were run     Straight up their sides, and twinkled in the sun.     Who built it? Nay, no answer but a smile. -     It may be you can guess who, afterwhile.     Home in his stall, "Old Sorrel" munched his hay     And oats and corn, and switched the flies away,     In a repose of patience good to see,     And earnest of the gentlest pedigree.     With half pathetic eye sometimes he gazed     Upon the gambols of a colt that grazed     Around the edges of the lot outside,     And kicked at nothing suddenly, and tried     To act grown-up and graceful and high-bred,     But dropped, k'whop! and scraped the buggy-shed,     Leaving a tuft of woolly, foxy hair     Under the sharp-end of a gate-hinge there.     Then, all ignobly scrambling to his feet     And whinneying a whinney like a bleat,     He would pursue himself around the lot     And - do the whole thing over, like as not!...     Ah! what a life of constant fear and dread     And flop and squawk and flight the chickens led!     Above the fences, either side, were seen     The neighbor-houses, set in plots of green     Dooryards and greener gardens, tree and wall     Alike whitewashed, and order in it all:     The scythe hooked in the tree-fork; and the spade     And hoe and rake and shovel all, when laid     Aside, were in their places, ready for     The hand of either the possessor or     Of any neighbor, welcome to the loan     Of any tool he might not chance to own.