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God makes sech nights, all white an’ still
Fur ’z you can look or listen, Moonshine an’ snow on field an' hill,
All silence an' all glisten.
Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown
An' peeked in thru' the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone,
'ith no one nigh to hender.
A fireplace filled the room's one side
With half a cord o’ wood in There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin'.
The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.
Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An' in amongst 'em rusted The ole queen’s-arm thet gran’ther Young
Fetched back f’om Concord busted.
very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm f’om floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez the apples she was peelin'.
'Twas kin' o' kingdom-come to look
On sech a blessed cretur,
Ain't modester nor sweeter.
He was six foot o' man, A 1,
Clear grit an' human natur', None could n't quicker pitch a ton
Nor dror a furrer straighter.
He'd sparked it with full twenty gals,
Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells –
All is, he could n't love 'em.
But long o' her his veins ’ould run
All crinkly like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o' sun
Ez a south slope in Ap’il.
She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing
Ez hisn in the choir ;
She knowed the Lord was nigher.
An’ she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer,
When her new meetin’-bunnet Felt somehow thru' its crown a pair O' blue eyes sot upun
Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some !
She seemed to 've gut a new soul,
For she felt sartin-sure he'd
come, Down to her
She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu,
A-raspin' on the scraper, — All ways to once her feelins flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.
He kin' o' l'itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o' the sekle, His heart kep' goin' pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.
An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder, An' on her apples kep' to work,
Parin' away like murder.
“ You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?” 66 Wal .
I come dasignin' “ To see my Ma ? She's sprinklin' clo’es
Agin to-morrer's i'nin'."
To say why gals acts so or so,
Or don't, 'ould be presumin’; Mebby to mean yes an' say no
Comes nateral to women.
He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on t'other, An' on which one he felt the wust
He could n't ha' told ye nuther.
Says he, “I'd better call agin ”;
Says she, “ Think likely, Mister": Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
An'... Walhe up an' kist her.
When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips,
Huldy sot pale ez ashes,
An' teary roun' the lashes.
For she was jes' the quiet kind
Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snowhid in Jenooary.
The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin',
An' gin 'em both her blessin’.
Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o' Fundy, An' all I know is they was cried
In meetin' come nex' Sunday..
THE BIGLOW PAPERS
BIRDOFREDUM SAWIN, ESQ., TO MR. HOSEA
LETTER FROM THE REVEREND HOMER WILBUR, M. A.,
ENCLOSING THE EPISTLE AFORESAID.
JAALAM, 15th Nov., 1861.
It is not from any idle wish to obtrude my
humble person with undue prominence upon the publick view that I resume my pen upon the present occasion. Juniores ad labores. But having been a main instrument in rescuing the talent of my young parishioner from being buried in the ground, by giving it such warrant with the world as could be derived from a name already widely known by several printed discourses (all of which I may be permitted without immodesty to state have been deemed worthy of preservation in the Library of Harvard College by my esteemed friend Mr. Sibley), it seemed becoming that I should not only testify to the genuineness of the following production, but call attention to it, the more as Mr. Biglow had so long been silent as to be in danger of absolute oblivion. I insinuate no claim to any