Is whispered brokenly, with half A sob, like a belated laugh,-- While cloyingly their blurred kiss closes, Sweet as the dew's lip to the rose's.
Wunst I looked our pepper-box lid An' cut little pie-dough biscuits, I did, And cooked 'em on our stove one day When our hired girl she said I may.
_Honey's_ the goodest thing--Oo-_ooh_! And blackberry-pies is goodest, too! But wite hot biscuits, ist soakin'-wet Wiv tree-mullasus, is goodest yet!
Miss Maimie she's my Ma's friend,--an' She's purtiest girl in all the lan'!-- An' sweetest smile an' voice an' face-- An' eyes ist looks like p'serves tas'e'!
I _ruther_ go to the Circus-show; But, 'cause my _parunts_ told me so, I ruther go to the Sund'y School, 'Cause there I learn the goldun rule.
Say, Pa,--what _is_ the goldun rule 'At's allus at the Sund'y School?
They called him Mr. What's-his-name: From where he was, or why he came, Or when, or what he found to do, Nobody in the city knew.
He lived, it seemed, shut up alone In a low hovel of his own; There cooked his meals and made his bed, Careless of all his neighbors said.
His neighbors, too, said many things Expressive of grave wonderings, Since none of them had ever been Within his doors, or peered therein.
In fact, grown watchful, they became Assured that Mr. What's-his-name Was up to something wrong--indeed, Small doubt of it, we all agreed.
At night were heard strange noises there, When honest people everywhere Had long retired; and his light Was often seen to burn all night.
He left his house but seldom--then Would always hurry back again, As though he feared some stranger's knock, Finding him gone, might burst the lock.
Beside, he carried, every day, At the one hour he went away, A basket, with the contents hid Beneath its woven willow lid.
And so we grew to greatly blame This wary Mr. What's-his-name, And look on him with such distrust His actions seemed to sanction just.
But when he died--he died one day-- Dropped in the street while on his way To that old wretched hut of his-- You'll think it strange--perhaps it is--
But when we lifted him, and past The threshold of his home at last, No man of all the crowd but stepped With reverence,--Aye, _quailed_ and _wept_!
What was it? Just a shriek of pain I pray to never hear again-- A withered woman, old and bowed, That fell and crawled and cried aloud--