The Hoosier Folk-Child's chubby face Has scant refinement, caste or grace,-- From crown to chin, and cheek to cheek, It bears the grimy water-streak Of rinsings such as some long rain Might drool across the window-pane Wherethrough he peers, with troubled frown, As some lorn team drives by for town. His brow is elfed with wispish hair, With tangles in it here and there, As though the warlocks snarled it so At midmirk when the moon sagged low, And boughs did toss and skreek and shake, And children moaned themselves awake, With fingers clutched, and starting sight Blind as the blackness of the night! The Hoosier Folk-Child!--Rich is he In all the wealth of poverty! He owns nor title nor estate, Nor speech but half articulate,-- He owns nor princely robe nor crown;-- Yet, draped in patched and faded brown, He owns the bird-songs of the hills-- The laughter of the April rills; And his are all the diamonds set. In Morning's dewy coronet,-- And his the Dusk's first minted stars That twinkle through the pasture-bars, And litter all the skies at night With glittering scraps of silver light;-- The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim, In beaten gold, belongs to him. JACK THE GIANT KILLER. _Bad Boy's Version_. Tell you a story--an' it's a fac':-- Wunst wuz a little boy, name wuz Jack, An' he had sword an' buckle an' strap Maked of gold, an' a "'visibul cap;" An' he killed Gi'nts 'at et whole cows-- Th' horns an' all--an' pigs an' sows! But Jack, his golding sword wuz, oh! So awful sharp 'at he could go An' cut th' ole Gi'nts clean in two Fore 'ey knowed what he wuz goin' to do! An' _one_ ole Gi'nt, he had four Heads, and name wuz "Bumblebore"-- An' he wuz feered o' Jack--'cause he, _Jack_, he killed six--five--ten--three, An' all o' th' uther ole Gi'nts but him: An' thay wuz a place Jack haf to swim 'Fore he could git t' ole "Bumblebore"-- Nen thay was "griffuns" at the door: But Jack, he thist plunged in an' swum Clean acrost; an' when he come To th' uther side, he thist put on His "'visibul cap," an' nen, dog-gone! You could n't see him at all!--An' so He slewed the "griffuns"--_boff_, you know! Nen wuz a horn hunged over his head High on th' wall, an' words 'at read,-- "Whoever kin this trumput blow Shall cause the Gi'nt's overth'ow!" An' Jack, he thist reached up an' blowed The stuffin' out of it! an' th'owed Th' castul-gates wide open, an' Nen tuck his gold sword in his han', An' thist marched in t' ole "Bumblebore," An', 'fore he knowed, he put 'bout four Heads on him--an' chopped 'em off, too!-- Wisht 'at _I'd_ been Jack!--don't you? WHILE THE MUSICIAN PLAYED.