The Continental Monthly, Vol. 2, No. 1, July, 1862
TekstFRANK WILSON
'Twas night at the farm-house. The fallen sun
Shot his last red arrow up in the west;
Shadows came wolfishly stealing forth,
And chased the flush from the mountain's crest.
Night at the farm-house. The hickory fire
Laughed and leaped in the chimney's hold,
And baffled, with its warm mirth, the frost,
As he pried at the panes with his fingers cold.
The chores were finished; and farmer West,
As he slowly sipped from his foaming mug,
Toasted his feet in calm content,
And rejoiced that the barns were warm and snug.
Washing the tea-things, with bared white arms,
And softly humming a love refrain;
With smooth brown braids, and cheeks of rose,
Washed and warbled his daughter Jane.
She was the gift that his dear wife left,
When she died, some nineteen Mays before;
The light and the warmth of the old farm-home,
And cherished by him to his great heart's core.
A sweet, fair girl; yet 'twas not so much
The fashion of feature that made her so;
'Twas love's own tenderness in her eyes,
And on her cheeks love's sunrise glow.
Done were the tea-things; the rounded arms
Again were covered, the wide hearth brushed;
Then from the mantle she took some work,
'Twas a soldier's sock, and her song was hushed.
Her song was hushed; for tenderer thoughts
Than ever were bodied in word or sound,
Trembled like stars in her downcast eyes,
As she knit in the dark yarn round and round.
A neighbor's rap at the outer door
Was answered at once by a bluff 'Come in!'
And he came, with stamping of heavy boots,
Frost-wreathed brow and muffled chin.
Come up to the fire! Pretty cold to-night.
What news do you get from the village to-day?
Did you call for our papers? Ah! yes, much obliged.
What news do you get from our Company K?'
'Bad news!—bad news!' He slowly unwinds
His muffler, and wipes his frost-fringed eyes.
'Frank Wilson was out on the picket last night,
And was killed by some cursed rebel spies.'
O God! give strength to that writhing heart!
Fling the life back to that whitening cheek!
Let not the pent breath forever stay
From the lips, too white and dumb to speak!
'Frank Wilson killed? ah! too bad—too bad,
The finest young man, by far, in this town;
Such are the offerings we give to war,
Jane, draw a fresh mug for our neighbor Brown.'
Neither did notice her faltering step;
Neither gave heed to her quivering hand,
That awkwardly fumbled the cellar-door,
And spilled the cider upon the stand.
But the father dreamed, as he slept that night,
That his darling had met some fearful woe;
And he dreamed of hearing her stifled moans,
And her slow steps pacing to and fro.
II
'Twas an April day, in the balmy spring,
The farmhouse fires had gone to sleep,
The windows were open to sun and breeze,
The hills were dotted with snowy sheep.
The great elms rustled their new-lifed leaves
Softly over the old brown roof,
And the sunshine, red with savory smoke,
Fell graciously through their emerald woof.
Sounds—spring sounds—which the country yields:
Voices of laborers, lowing of herds,
The caw of the crow, the swollen brook's roar,
The sportsman's gun, and the twitter of birds,
Melted like dim dreams into the air;
'Twas the azure shadow of summer,
Which fell so sweetly on plain and wood,
And brought new gladness to eye and ear.
But a face looks out to the purple hills,
A wasted face that is full of woe,
Wan yet calm, like a summer moon
That has lost the round of its fullest glow.
The smooth brown braids still wreathe her head;
Her simple garments are full of grace,
As if, with color and taste, she fain
Would ward off eyes from her paling face.
'Tis a morning hour, but the work is done;
The house so peacefully bright within,
And the wild-wood leaves on the mantel-shelf
Tell how busy her feet have been.
She sits by the window and watches a cloud
Fading away in the hazy sky;
And 'Like that cloud,' she says in heart,
'When summer is over, I too shall die.'
The door-yard gate swings to with a clang,
She must not sadden her father so;
She springs to her feet with a merrier air,
And pinches her face to make it glow.
But ah! no need; for a ruddier red
Than pinches can bring floods brow and cheek;
She stands transfixed by a mighty joy;
For millions of worlds she can not speak.
Frank Wilson gathers her close to his heart,
With brightening glance, he reads that glow,
And draws from the wells of her joy-lit eyes
The secret he long has yearned to know.
'Frank Wilson! living and strong and well;
Were you not killed by the rebels? say!'
'Thank God! I was not. 'Twas another man—
There were two Frank Wilsons in Company K.'
The one church-bell in the distant town
Chimes softly forth for twelve o'clock;
Another clang of the door-yard gate,
A sudden hush in the tender talk.
She flies to meet him—the transformed child!—
Her heart keeps time to her ringing tread;
'O father! he's come!' and she needs no more
To pinch her cheeks to make them red.
Marie Mignonette.
A friend who doth such things has kindly jotted down for us the following 'authentics':
Sometimes I have thought that the reply our Irish girl gave the other day, was of the nature of her usual blunders, and again that it meant a good deal. On her return from a funeral, where a man, who had previously lost his wife, had buried his only child, an infant a few weeks old, I asked her how the father appeared?
'Oh! he was a dale sorry; but I guess he's glad to get rid of it!'
It was only a way he had.—Whiggles, on being told that a boy down-town, only sixteen years old, weighed six hundred and fifty pounds, was further enlightened by the information that he weighed that amount of coal on a platform Fairbanks.
The Southern press has proposed that, even in case of defeat, the wealthy class shall retire to their plantations, 'live comfortably' on what they can raise, let cotton go for two years, and thereby starve Europe and the North into a conviction that Cotton is King.
But how will the poor whites of the South like this? What is to become of them? Or what, indeed, is to become of us, if no cotton be forthcoming? The truth is, and every day makes it more apparent, the raising of cotton must pass into other hands. The army has its rights—the right to land-grants—and the only effectual means of putting an end to our dependence on the South will be found in settling soldiers in the cotton country. Texas would be, perhaps, best suited for the purpose, and other regions may be selected as opportunity may suggest. With this course fully determined on, it would hardly be necessary to further agitate Emancipation, it would come of itself, and slave-labor would yield to the energy of the free Northern farmer.
Very little has been said as yet on this subject of properly rewarding our troops. But it is destined to rise into becoming the great question of the day; and if the Democratic pro-slavery party sets itself in opposition to it, it will be ground to powder. Events are tending to this issue with irresistible and tremendous power, and the days of planterdom are numbered.