And they was other symptums, too, that pinted, plane as day, To nothin' short of _College_!--and _one_ was the lovin' way Your mother had of cheerin' you to efforts brave and strong, And puttin' more faith in you, as you needed it along: She'd pat you on the shoulder, er she'd grab you by the hands, And _laugh_ sometimes, er _cry_ sometimes.--They's few that understands Jest _what_ theyr mother's drivin' at when they act thataway;-- But I'll say this fer _you_, John-Clark,--you answered, night and day, To ev'ry trust and hope of hers--and half your College fame Was battled fer and won fer her and glory of her name. The likes of _you_ at _College_! But you went thare. How you paid Your way nobody's astin'--but you _worked_,--you hain't afraid,-- Your _clothes_ was, more'n likely, kindo' out o' style, perhaps, And not as snug and warm as some 'at hid the other chaps;-- But when it come to _Intullect_--they tell me yourn was dressed A _leetle_ mite _superber_-like than any of the rest! And there you _stayed_--and thare you've made your rickord, fare and square-- Tel _now_ its _Fame_ 'at writes your name, approvin', _ev'rywhare_-- Not _jibblets_ of it, nuther,--but all John Clark Ridpath, set Plum at the dashboard of the whole-endurin' Alfabet! A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS Oh! tell me a tale of the airly days-- Of the times as they ust to be; "Piller of Fi-er" and "Shakspeare's Plays" Is a' most too deep fer me! I want plane facts, and I want plane words, Of the good old-fashiond ways, When speech run free as the songs of birds 'Way back in the airly days. Tell me a tale of the timber-lands-- Of the old-time pioneers; Somepin' a pore man understands With his feelin's well as ears. Tell of the old log house,--about The loft, and the puncheon flore-- The old fi-er-place, with the crane swung out, And the latch-string thrugh the door. Tell of the things jest as they was-- They don't need no excuse!-- Don't tetch 'em up like the poets does, Tel theyr all too fine fer use!-- Say they was 'leven in the fambily-- Two beds, and the chist, below, And the trundle-beds that each helt three, And the clock and the old bureau. Then blow the horn at the old back-door Tel the echoes all halloo, And the childern gethers home onc't more, Jest as they ust to do: Blow fer Pap tel he hears and comes, With Tomps and Elias, too, A-marchin' home, with the fife and drums And the old Red White and Blue! Blow and blow tel the sound draps low As the moan of the whipperwill, And wake up Mother, and Ruth and Jo, All sleepin' at Bethel Hill: Blow and call tel the faces all Shine out in the back-log's blaze, And the shadders dance on the old hewed wall As they did in the airly days.