THE HIRED MAN AND FLORETTY

The Hired Man's supper, which he sat before,

In near reach of the wood-box, the stove-door

And one leaf of the kitchen-table, was

Somewhat belated, and in lifted pause

His dextrous knife was balancing a bit

Of fried mush near the port awaiting it.

At the glad children's advent — gladder still

To find him there — “Jest tickled fit to kill

To see ye all!” he said, with unctious cheer.—

“I'm tryin’ - like to he'p Floretty here

To git things cleared away and give ye room

Accordin’ to yer stren'th. But I p'sume

It's a pore boarder, as the poet says,

That quarrels with his victuals, so I guess

I'll take another wedge o’ that-air cake,

Florett’, that you're a-learnin’ how to bake.”

He winked and feigned to swallow painfully.—

“Jest‘ fore ye all come in, Floretty she

Was boastin’‘ bout her biscuits — and they air

As good — sometimes — as you'll find anywhere.—

But, women gits to braggin’ on their bread,

I'm s'picious‘ bout their pie — as Danty said.”

This raillery Floretty strangely seemed

To take as compliment, and fairly beamed

With pleasure at it all.

— “Speakin’ o’ bread —

When she come here to live,” The Hired Man said,—

“Never ben out o’ Freeport‘ fore she come

Up here,— of course she needed‘ sperience some.—

So, one day, when yer Ma was goin’ to set

The risin’ fer some bread, she sent Florett

To borry leaven,‘ crost at Ryans’ — So,

She went and asked fer twelve.— She did n't know,

But thought, whatever‘ twuz, that she could keep

One fer herse'f, she said. O she wuz deep!”

Some little evidence of favor hailed

The Hired Man's humor; but it wholly failed

To touch the serious Susan Loehr, whose air

And thought rebuked them all to listening there

To her brief history of the city-man

And his pale wife — “A sweeter woman than

She ever saw!” — So Susan testified,—

And so attested all the Loehrs beside.—

So entertaining was the history, that

The Hired Man, in the corner where he sat

In quiet sequestration, shelling corn,

Ceased wholly, listening, with a face forlorn

As Sorrow's own, while Susan, John and Jake

Told of these strangers who had come to make

Some weeks’ stay in the town, in hopes to gain

Once more the health the wife had sought in vain:

Their doctor, in the city, used to know

The Loehrs — Dan and Rachel — years ago,—

And so had sent a letter and request

For them to take a kindly interest

In favoring the couple all they could —

To find some home-place for them, if they would,

Among their friends in town. He ended by

A dozen further lines, explaining why

His patient must have change of scene and air —

New faces, and the simple friendships there

With them, which might, in time, make her forget

A grief that kept her ever brooding yet

And wholly melancholy and depressed,—

Nor yet could she find sleep by night nor rest

By day, for thinking — thinking — thinking still \

Upon a grief beyond the doctor's skill,—

The death of her one little girl.

“Pore thing!”

Floretty sighed, and with the turkey-wing

Brushed off the stove-hearth softly, and peered in

The kettle of molasses, with her thin

Voice wandering into song unconsciously —

In purest, if most witless, sympathy.—

“‘ Then sleep no more:

Around thy heart

Some ten-der dream may i-dlee play.

But mid-night song,

With mad-jick art,

Will chase that dree muh-way!’”

“That-air besetment of Floretty's,” said

The Hired Man,— “singin — she inhairited,—

Her father wuz addicted — same as her —

To singin’ — yes, and played the dulcimer!

But — gittin’ back,— I s'pose yer talkin’‘ bout

Them Hammondses. Well, Hammond he gits out

Pattents on things — inventions-like, I'm told —

And's got more money'n a house could hold!

And yit he can n't git up no pattent-right

To do away with dyin’.— And he might

Be worth a million, but he could n't find

Nobody sellin’ health of any kind!...

But they's no thing onhandier fer me

To use than other people's misery.—

Floretty, hand me that-air skillet there

And lem me git‘ er het up, so's them-air

Childern kin have their popcorn.”

It was good

To hear him now, and so the children stood

Closer about him, waiting.

“Things to eat,”

The Hired Man went on, “‘ s mighty hard to beat!

Now, when I wuz a boy, we was so pore,

My parunts could n't‘ ford popcorn no more

To pamper me with;— so, I hat to go

Without popcorn — sometimes a year er so!—

And suffer'n’ saints! how hungry I would git

Fer jest one other chance — like this — at it!

Many and many a time I've dreamp’, at night,

About popcorn,— all busted open white,

And hot, you know — and jest enough o’ salt

And butter on it fer to find no fault —

Oomh!— Well! as I was goin’ on to say,—

After a-dreamin’ of it thataway,

Then havin’ to wake up and find it's all

A dream, and hai n't got no popcorn at-tall,

Ner haint had none — I'd think,‘ Well, where's the use!’

And jest lay back and sob the plaster'n’ loose!

And I have prayed, whatever happened, it

‘ Ud eether be popcorn er death!.... And yit

I've noticed — more'n likely so have you —

That things do n't happen when you want‘ em to.”

And thus he ran on artlessly, with speech

And work in equal exercise, till each

Tureen and bowl brimmed white. And then he greased

The saucers ready for the wax, and seized

The fragrant-steaming kettle, at a sign

Made by Floretty; and, each child in line,

He led out to the pump — where, in the dim

New coolness of the night, quite near to him

He felt Floretty's presence, fresh and sweet

As... dewy night-air after kitchen-heat.

There, still, with loud delight of laugh and jest,

They plied their subtle alchemy with zest —

Till, sudden, high above their tumult, welled

Out of the sitting-room a song which held

Them stilled in some strange rapture, listening

To the sweet blur of voices chorusing:—

“‘ When twilight approaches the season

That ever is sacred to song,

Does some one repeat my name over,

And sigh that I tarry so long?

And is there a chord in the music

That's missed when my voice is away?—

And a chord in each heart that awakens

Regret at my wearisome stay-ay —

Regret at my wearisome stay.’”

All to himself, The Hired Man thought — “Of course

They'll sing Floretty homesick!”

... O strange source

Of ecstasy! O mystery of Song!—

To hear the dear old utterance flow along:—

“‘ Do they set me a chair near the table

When evening's home-pleasures are nigh?—

When the candles are lit in the parlor.

And the stars in the calm azure sky.’”...

Just then the moonlight sliced the porch slantwise,

And flashed in misty spangles in the eyes

Floretty clenched — while through the dark — “I jing!”

A voice asked, “Where's that song‘ you'd learn to sing

Ef I sent you the ballat?’ — which I done

Last I was home at Freeport.— S'pose you run

And git it — and we'll all go in to where

They'll know the notes and sing it fer ye there.”

And up the darkness of the old stairway

Floretty fled, without a word to say —

Save to herself some whisper muffled by

Her apron, as she wiped her lashes dry.

Returning, with a letter, which she laid

Upon the kitchen-table while she made

A hasty crock of “float,” — poured thence into

A deep glass dish of iridescent hue

And glint and sparkle, with an overflow

Of froth to crown it, foaming white as snow.—

And then — poundcake, and jelly-cake as rare,

For its delicious complement,— with air

Of Hebe mortalized, she led her van

Of votaries, rounded by The Hired Man.