An' yit I love th' unhighschooled way Ol' farmers hed when I wuz younger; Their talk wuz meatier, an' 'ould stay, While book-froth seems to whet, your hunger, For puttin' in a downright lick 'Twixt Humbug's eyes, ther' 's few can match it, An' then it helves my thoughts ez slick Ez stret-grained hickory doos a hatchet. But when I can't, I can't, thet 's all, For Natur' won't put up with gullin'; Idees you hev to shove an' haul Like a druv pig a'n't wuth a mullein; Live thoughts a'n't sent for; thru all rifts O' sense they pour an' resh ye onwards, Like rivers when south-lyin' drifts Feel thet the airth is wheelin' sunwards. Time wuz, the rhymes come crowdin' thick Ez office-seekers arter 'lection, An' into ary place 'ould stick Without no bother nor objection; But sence the war my thoughts hang back Ez though I wanted to enlist 'em, An' substitutes,--wal, _they_ don't lack, But then they 'll slope afore you 've mist 'em. Nothin' don't seem like wut it wuz; I can't see wut there is to hinder, An' yit my brains 'jes' go buzz, buzz, Like bumblebees agin a winder; 'Fore these times come, in all airth's row, Ther' wuz one quiet place, my head in, Where I could hide an' think,--but now It 's all one teeter, hopin', dreadin'. Where 's Peace? I start, some clear-blown night, When gaunt stone walls grow numb an' number, An', creakin' 'cross the snow-crust white, Walk the col' starlight into summer; Up grows the moon, an' swell by swell Thru the pale pasturs silvers dimmer Than the last smile thet strives to tell O' love gone heavenward in its shimmer. I hev ben gladder o' sech things Than cocks o' spring or bees o' clover, They filled my heart with livin' springs, But now they seem to freeze 'em over; Sights innercent ez babes on knee, Peaceful ez eyes o' pastur'd cattle, Jes' coz they be so, seem to me To rile me more with thoughts o' battle. In-doors an' out by spells I try; Ma'am Natur' keeps her spin-wheel goin', But leaves my natur' stiff an' dry Ez fiel's o' clover arter mowin'; An' her jes' keepin' on the same, Calmer than clock-work, an' not carin', An' findin' nary thing to blame, Is wus than ef she took to swearin'. Snow-flakes come whisperin' on the pane The charm makes blazin' logs so pleasant, But I can't hark to wut they 're say'n', With Grant or Sherman oilers present; The chimbleys shudder in the gale, Thet lulls, then suddin takes to flappin' Like a shot hawk, but all's ez stale To me ez so much sperit-rappin'.