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PREFACE
As far back into boyhood as the writer's memory may intelligently go, the "country poet" is most pleasantly recalled. He was, and is, as common as the "country fiddler," and as full of good old-fashioned music. Not a master of melody, indeed, but a poet, certainly —
"Who, through long days of labor,And nights devoid of ease,Still heard in his soul the musicOf wonderful melodies."And it is simply the purpose of this series of dialectic studies to reflect the real worth of this homely child of nature, and to echo faithfully, if possible, the faltering music of his song.
In adding to this series, as the writer has, for many years, been urged to do, and answering as steadfast a demand of Benj. F. Johnson's first and oldest friends, it has been decided that this further work of his be introduced to the reader of the volume as was the old man's first work to the reader of the newspaper of nearly ten years ago.
Directly, then, referring to the Indianapolis "Daily Journal," – under whose management the writer had for some time been employed, – from issue of date June 17, 1882, under editorial caption of "A Boone County Pastoral," this article is herewith quoted:
Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone county, who considers the Journal a "very valubul" newspaper, writes to enclose us an original poem, desiring that we kindly accept it for publication, as "many neghbors and friends is astin' him to have the same struck off."
Mr. Johnson thoughtfully informs us that he is "no edjucated man," but that he has, "from childhood up tel old enough to vote, allus wrote more er less poetry, as many of an albun in the neghborhood can testify." Again, he says that he writes "from the hart out"; and there is a touch of genuine pathos in the frank avowal, "Thare is times when I write the tears rolls down my cheeks."
In all sincerity, Mr. Johnson, we are glad to publish the poem you send, and just as you have written it. That is its greatest charm. Its very defects compose its excellence. You need no better education than the one from which emanates "The Old Swimmin'-Hole." It is real poetry, and all the more tender and lovable for the unquestionable evidence it bears of having been written "from the hart out." The only thing we find to – but hold! Let us first lay the poem before the reader:
Here followed the poem, "The Old Swimmin'-Hole," entire – the editorial comment ending as follows:
The only thing now, Mr. Johnson – as we were about to observe – the only thing we find to criticise, at all relative to the poem, is your closing statement to the effect that "It was wrote to go to the tune of 'The Captin with his Whiskers!'" You should not have told us that, O Rare Ben. Johnson!
A week later, in the "Journal" of date June 24th, followed this additional mention of "Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone":
It is a pleasure for us to note that the publication of the poem of "The Old Swimmin'-Hole," to which the Journal, with just pride, referred last week, has proved almost as great a pleasure to its author as to the hosts of delighted readers who have written in its praise, or called to personally indorse our high opinion of its poetic value. We have just received a letter from Mr. Johnson, the author, inclosing us another lyrical performance, which in many features even surpasses the originality and spirit of the former effort. Certainly the least that can be said of it is that it stands a thorough proof of our first assertion, that the author, though by no means a man of learning and profound literary attainments, is none the less a true poet and an artist. The letter, accompanying this later amaranth of blooming wildwood verse, we publish in its entirety, assured that Mr. Johnson's many admirers will be charmed, as we have been, at the delicious glimpse he gives us of his inspiration, modes of study, home-life, and surroundings:
"To the Editer of the Indanoplus Jurnal:
"Respected Sir – The paper is here, markin' the old swimmin'-hole, my poetry which you seem to like so well. I joy to see it in print, and I thank you, hart and voice, fer speakin' of its merrits in the way in which you do. I am glad you thought it was real poetry, as you said in your artikle. But I make bold to ast you what was your idy in sayin' I had ortent of told you it went to the tune I spoke of in my last. I felt highly flatered tel I got that fur. Was it because you don't know the tune refered to in the letter? Er wasent some words spelt right er not? Still ef you hadent of said somepin' aginst it Ide of thought you was makin' fun. As I said before I well know my own unedjucation, but I don't think that is any reason the feelin's of the soul is stunted in theyr growth however. 'Juge not less ye be juged,' says The Good Book, and so say I, ef I thought you was makin' fun of the lines that I wrote and which you done me the onner to have printed off in sich fine style that I have read it over and over again in the paper you sent, and I would like to have about three more ef you can spare the same and state by mail what they will come at. All nature was in tune day before yisterday when your paper come to hand. It had ben a-raining hard fer some days, but that morning opened up as clear as a whissel. No clouds was in the sky, and the air was bammy with the warm sunshine and the wet smell of the earth and the locus blossoms and the flowrs and pennyroil and boneset. I got up, the first one about the place, and went forth to the plesant fields. I fed the stock with lavish hand and wortered them in merry glee, they was no bird in all the land no happier than me. I have jest wrote a verse of poetry in this letter; see ef you can find it. I also send you a whole poem which was wrote off the very day your paper come. I started it in the morning I have so feebly tride to pictur' to you and wound her up by suppertime, besides doin' a fare day's work around the place.
"Ef you print this one I think you will like it better than the other. This ain't a sad poem like the other was, but you will find it full of careful thought. I pride myself on that. I also send you 30 cents in stamps fer you to take your pay out of fer the other papers I said, and also fer three more with this in it ef you have it printed and oblige. Ef you don't print this poem, keep the stamps and send me three more papers with the other one in – makin' the sum totul of six (6) papers altogether in full. Ever your true friend,
Benj. F. Johnson."N. B. – The tune of this one is 'The Bold Privateer.'"
Here followed the poem, "Thoughts Fer The Discuraged Farmer"; – and here, too, fittingly ends any comment but that which would appear trivial and gratuitous.
Simply, in briefest conclusion, the hale, sound, artless, lovable character of Benj. F. Johnson remains, in the writer's mind, as from the first, far less a fiction than a living, breathing, vigorous reality. – So strong, indeed, has his personality been made manifest, that many times, in visionary argument with the sturdy old myth over certain changes from the original forms of his productions, he has so incontinently beaten down all suggestions as to a less incongruous association of thoughts and words, together with protests against his many violations of poetic method, harmony, and grace, that nothing was left the writer but to submit to what has always seemed – and in truth still seems – a superior wisdom of dictation.
J. W. R.Indianapolis, July, 1891.
SALUTATION
TO BENJ. F. JOHNSON
THE OLD MANLo! steadfast and serene,In patient pause betweenThe seen and the unseen,What gentle zephyrs fanYour silken silver hair, —And what diviner airBreathes round you like a prayer,Old Man?Can you, in nearer viewOf Glory, pierce the blueOf happy Heaven through;And, listening mutely, canYour senses, dull to us,Hear Angel-voices thus,In chorus glorious —Old Man?In your reposeful gazeThe dusk of Autumn daysIs blent with April haze,As when of old beganThe bursting of the budOf rosy babyhood —When all the world was good,Old Man.And yet I find a slyLittle twinkle in your eye;And your whisperingly shyLittle laugh is simply anInternal shout of gleeThat betrays the fallacyYou'd perpetrate on me,Old Man!So just put up the frownThat your brows are pulling down!Why, the fleetest boy in town,As he bared his feet and ran,Could read with half a glance —And of keen rebuke, perchance —Your secret countenance,Old Man!Now, honestly, confess:Is an old man any lessThan the little child we blessAnd caress when we can?Isn't age but just a placeWhere you mask the childish faceTo preserve its inner grace,Old Man?Hasn't age a truant day,Just as that you went astrayIn the wayward, restless way,When, brown with dust and tan,Your roguish face essayed,In solemn masquerade,To hide the smile it madeOld Man?Now, fair, and square, and true,Don't your old soul tremble through,As in youth it used to doWhen it brimmed and overranWith the strange, enchanted sights,And the splendors and delightsOf the old "Arabian Nights,"Old Man?When, haply, you have faredWhere glad Aladdin sharedHis lamp with you, and daredThe Afrite and his clan;And, with him, clambered throughThe trees where jewels grew —And filled your pockets, too,Old Man?Or, with Sinbad, at sea —And in veracityWho has sinned as bad as he,Or would, or will, or can? —Have you listened to his lies,With open mouth and eyes,And learned his art likewise,Old Man?And you need not denyThat your eyes were wet as dry,Reading novels on the sly!And review them, if you can,And the same warm tears will fall —Only faster, that is all —Over Little Nell and Paul,Old Man!O, you were a lucky lad —Just as good as you were bad!And the host of friends you had —Charley, Tom, and Dick, and Dan;And the old School-Teacher, too,Though he often censured you;And the girls in pink and blue,Old Man.And – as often you have leant,In boyish sentiment,To kiss the letter sentBy Nelly, Belle, or Nan —Wherein the rose's hueWas red, the violet blue —And sugar sweet – and you,Old Man, —So, to-day, as lives the bloom,And the sweetness, and perfumeOf the blossoms, I assume,On the same mysterious planThe master's love assures,That the self-same boy enduresIn that hale old heart of yours,Old Man."THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE"
AND
'LEVEN MORE POEMS
BY
BENJ. F. JOHNSON, OF BOONE
The delights of our childhood is soon passed away,And our gloryus youth it departs, —And yit, dead and burried, they's blossoms of MayOre theyr medderland graves in our harts.So, friends of my bare-footed days on the farm,Whether truant in city er not,God prosper you same as He's prosperin' me,Whilse your past haint despised er fergot.Oh! they's nothin', at morn, that's as grand unto meAs the glorys of Nachur so fare, —With the Spring in the breeze, and the bloom in the trees,And the hum of the bees ev'rywhare!The green in the woods, and the birds in the boughs,And the dew spangled over the fields;And the bah of the sheep and the bawl of the cowsAnd the call from the house to your meals!Then ho! fer your brekfast! and ho! fer the toilThat waiteth alike man and beast!Oh! its soon with my team I'll be turnin' up soil,Whilse the sun shoulders up in the EastOre the tops of the ellums and beeches and oaks,To smile his godspeed on the plow,And the furry and seed, and the Man in his need,And the joy of the swet of his brow!THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE
Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deepLooked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest belowSounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to knowBefore we could remember anything but the eyesOf the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore,When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tideThat gazed back at me so gay and glorified,It made me love myself, as I leaped to caressMy shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his tollFrom the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy daysWhen the hum-drum of school made so many run-a-ways,How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so planeYou could tell by the dent of the heel and the soleThey was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole.But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow rollLike the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;And it mottled the worter with amber and goldTel the glad lillies rocked in the ripples that rolled;And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered byLike the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controleAs it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place,The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spotWhare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be —But never again will theyr shade shelter me!And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER
The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees;And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees,And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the sly,Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wingsAnd roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz,And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow —Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a-carin' how;So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing —But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest;And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' right,Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite!They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day,And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still;It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will.Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out,And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and dryThrough the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way,Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day?Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'? – Does he walk, er does he run?Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they've allus done?Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er voice?Ort a mortul be complanin' when dumb animals rejoice?Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot;The June is here this mornin', and the sun is shining hot.Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,Any banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you.A SUMMER'S DAY
The Summer's put the idy inMy head that I'm a boy again;And all around's so bright and gayI want to put my team away,And jest git out whare I can layAnd soak my hide full of the day!But work is work, and must be done —Yit, as I work, I have my fun,Jest fancyin' these furries hereIs childhood's paths onc't more so dear: —And as I walk through medder-lands,And country lanes, and swampy trailsWhare long bullrushes bresh my hands;And, tilted on the ridered railsOf deadnin' fences, "Old Bob White"Whissels his name in high delight,And whirrs away. I wunder still,Whichever way a boy's feet will —Whare trees has fell, with tangled topsWhare dead leaves shakes, I stop fer breth,Heerin' the acorn as it drops —H'istin' my chin up still as deth,And watchin' clos't, with upturned eyes,The tree where Mr. Squirrel triesTo hide hisse'f above the limb,But lets his own tale tell on him.I wunder on in deeper glooms —Git hungry, hearin' female criesFrom old farm-houses, whare perfumesOf harvest dinners seems to riseAnd ta'nt a feller, hart and brane,With memories he can't explane.I wunder through the underbresh,Whare pig-tracks, pintin' to'rds the crick,Is picked and printed in the freshBlack bottom-lands, like wimmern pickTheyr pie-crusts with a fork, some way,When bakin' fer camp-meetin' day.I wunder on and on and on,Tel my gray hair and beard is gone,And ev'ry wrinkle on my browIs rubbed clean out and shaddered nowWith curls as brown and fare and fineAs tenderls of the wild grape-vineThat ust to climb the highest treeTo keep the ripest ones fer me.I wunder still, and here I amWadin' the ford below the dam —The worter chucklin' round my kneeAt hornet-welt and bramble-scratch,And me a-slippin' 'crost to seeEf Tyner's plums is ripe, and sizeThe old man's wortermelon-patch,With juicy mouth and drouthy eyes.Then, after sich a day of mirthAnd happiness as worlds is wurth —So tired that heaven seems nigh about, —The sweetest tiredness on earthIs to git home and flatten out —So tired you can't lay flat enugh,And sorto' wish that you could spredOut like molasses on the bed,And jest drip off the aidges inThe dreams that never comes again.A HYMB OF FAITH
O, Thou that doth all things deviseAnd fashon fer the best,He'p us who sees with mortul eyesTo overlook the rest.They's times, of course, we grope in doubt,And in afflictions sore;So knock the louder, Lord, without,And we'll unlock the door.Make us to feel, when times looks badAnd tears in pitty melts,Thou wast the only he'p we hadWhen they was nothin' else.Death comes alike to ev'ry manThat ever was borned on earth;Then let us do the best we canTo live fer all life's wurth.Ef storms and tempusts dred to seeMakes black the heavens ore,They done the same in GalileeTwo thousand years before.But after all, the golden sunPoured out its floods on themThat watched and waited fer the OneThen borned in Bethlyham.Also, the star of holy writMade noonday of the night,Whilse other stars that looked at itWas envious with delight.The sages then in wurship bowed,From ev'ry clime so fare;O, sinner, think of that glad crowdThat congergated thare!They was content to fall in ranksWith One that knowed the wayFrom good old Jurden's stormy banksClean up to Jedgmunt Day.No matter, then, how all is mixedIn our near-sighted eyes,All things is fer the best, and fixedOut straight in Paradise.Then take things as God sends 'em here,And, ef we live er die,Be more and more contenteder,Without a-astin' why.O, Thou that doth all things deviseAnd fashon fer the best,He'p us who sees with mortul eyesTo overlook the rest.WORTERMELON TIME
Old wortermelon time is a-comin' round again,And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me,Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin —Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.Oh! it's in the sandy soil wortermelons does the best,And it's thare they'll lay and waller in the sunshine and the dewTel they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyr breast;And you bet I ain't a-findin' any fault with them; air you?They ain't no better thing in the vegetable line;And they don't need much 'tendin', as ev'ry farmer knows;And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine,I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows.It's some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red.And it's some says "The Little Californy" is the best;But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head,Is the old "Edingburg Mounting-sprout," of the west.You don't want no punkins nigh your wortermelon vines —'Cause, some-way-another, they'll spile your melons, shore; —I've seed 'em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines,Which may be a fact you have heerd of before.But your melons that's raised right and 'tended to with care,You can walk around amongst 'em with a parent's pride and joy,And thump 'em on the heads with as fatherly a airAs ef each one of them was your little girl er boy.I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin' soundWhen you split one down the back and jolt the halves in two,And the friends you love the best is gethered all around —And you says unto your sweethart, "Oh, here's the core fer you!"And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 'em all,Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delightAs one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls,And they holler fer some more, with unquenched appetite.Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see 'em eat —A slice of wortermelon's like a frenchharp in theyr hands,And when they "saw" it through theyr mouth sich music can't be beat —'Cause it's music both the sperit and the stummick understands.Oh, they's more in wortermelons than the purty-colored meat,And the overflowin' sweetness of the worter squshed betwixtThe up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth,And it's the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood mixed.Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies awayTo the summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn,And the fadin' afternoon of the long summer day,And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the night a'comin' on.And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves and trees,And the stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silver mice,And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and knees,And the new-moon hangin' ore us like a yeller-cored slice.Oh! it's wortermelon time is a-comin' round again,And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me,Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin —Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.MY PHILOSOFY
I ain't, ner don't p'tend to be,Much posted on philosofy;But thare is times, when all alone,I work out idees of my own.And of these same thare is a fewI'd like to jest refer to you —Pervidin' that you don't objectTo listen clos't and rickollect.I allus argy that a manWho does about the best he canIs plenty good enugh to suitThis lower mundane institute —No matter ef his daily walkIs subject fer his neghbor's talk,And critic-minds of ev'ry whimJest all git up and go fer him!I knowed a feller onc't that hadThe yeller-janders mighty bad, —And each and ev'ry friend he'd meetWould stop and give him some receetFer cuorin' of 'em. But he'd sayHe kindo' thought they'd go awayWithout no medicin', and boastThat he'd git well without one doste.He kep' a-yellerin' on – and theyPerdictin' that he'd die some dayBefore he knowed it! Tuck his bed,The feller did, and lost his head,And wundered in his mind a spell —Then rallied, and, at last, got well;But ev'ry friend that said he'd dieWent back on him eternally!Its natchurl enugh, I guess,When some gits more and some gits less,Fer them-uns on the slimmest sideTo claim it ain't a fare divide;And I've knowed some to lay and wait,And git up soon, and set up late,To ketch some feller they could hateFer goin' at a faster gait.The signs is bad when folks commenceA-findin' fault with Providence,And balkin' 'cause the earth don't shakeAt ev'ry prancin' step they take.No man is grate tel he can seeHow less than little he would beEf stripped to self, and stark and bareHe hung his sign out anywhare.My doctern is to lay asideContensions, and be satisfied:Jest do your best, and praise er blameThat follers that, counts jest the same.I've allus noticed grate successIs mixed with troubles, more or less,And it's the man who does the bestThat gits more kicks than all the rest.WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;O, its then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock,When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfereWhen the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here —Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the hazeOf a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn daysIs a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock —When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;The stubble in the furries – kindo' lonesome-like, but stillA-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;The hosses in theyr stalls below – the clover overhead! —O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keepsIs poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is throughWith their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!..I don't know how to tell it – but ef sich a thing could beAs the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—I'd want to 'commodate 'em – all the whole-indurin' flock —When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!