I love to muse there till it kind o' seems Ez ef the world went eddyin' off in dreams. The Northwest wind thet twitches at my baird Blows out o' sturdier days not easy scared, An' the same moon thet this December shines Starts out the tents an' booths o' Putnam's lines; The rail-fence posts, acrost the hill thet runs, Turn ghosts o' sogers should'rin' ghosts o' guns; Ez wheels the sentry, glints a flash o' light Along the firelock won at Concord Fight, An' 'twixt the silences, now fur, now nigh, Rings the sharp chellenge, hums the low reply. Ez I was settin' so, it warn't long sence, Mixin' the perfect with the present tense, I heerd two voices som'ers in the air, Though, ef I was to die, I can't tell where: Voices I call 'em: 't was a kind o' sough Like pine-trees thet the wind is geth'rin' through; An', fact, I thought it _was_ the wind a spell,-- Then some misdoubted,--couldn't fairly tell,-- Fust sure, then not, jest as you hold an eel,-- I knowed, an' didn't,--fin'lly seemed to feel 'T was Concord Bridge a-talkin' off to kill With the Stone Spike thet's druv thru Bunker Hill: Whether't was so, or ef I only dreamed, I couldn't say; I tell it ez it seemed. THE BRIDGE. Wal, neighbor, tell us, wut's turned up thet's new? You're younger'n I be,--nigher Boston, tu; An' down to Boston, ef you take their showin', Wut they don't know ain't hardly wuth the knowin'. There's _sunthin'_ goin' on, I know: las' night The British sogers killed in our gret fight (Nigh fifty year they hedn't stirred nor spoke) Made sech a coil you'd thought a dam hed broke: Why, one he up an' beat a revellee With his own crossbones on a holler tree, Till all the graveyards swarmed out like a hive With faces I hain't seen sence Seventy-five. Wut _is_ the news? 'T ain't good, or they'd be cheerin'. Speak slow an' clear, for I'm some hard o' hearin'. THE MONIMENT. I don't know hardly ef it's good or bad,-- THE BRIDGE. At wust, it can't be wus than wut we've had. THE MONIMENT. You know them envys thet the Rebbles sent, An' Cap'n Wilkes he borried o' the Trent? THE BRIDGE. Wut! hev they hanged 'em? Then their wits is gone! Thet's a sure way to make a goose a swan! THE MONIMENT. No: England she _would_ hev 'em, _Fee, Faw, Fum!_ (Ez though she hedn't fools enough to home,) So they've returned 'em-- THE BRIDGE. _Hev_ they? Wal, by heaven, Thet's the wust news I've heerd sence Seventy-seven! _By George_, I meant to say, though I declare It's 'most enough to make a deacon, swear. THE MONIMENT. Now don't go off half-cock: folks never gains By usin' pepper-sarse instid o' brains. Come, neighbor, you don't understand-- THE BRIDGE. How? Hey? Not understand? Why, wut's to hender, pray? Must I go huntin' round to find a chap To tell me when my face hez hed a slap? THE MONIMENT.