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82

THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY.

contrition start and stream from every eye; or, armed with the dread prerogatives of the inexorable judge, with the lightning of his wrath strike unrepentant souls until sinners sink on their knees and quail as Felix quailed before St. Paul.

BABY.

GEORGE MACDONALD.

HERE did you come from, baby | Where did you get that little tear?

dear?

Out of the everywhere into here.

Where did you get those eyes so
blue?

Out of the sky as I came through.

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?

Some of the starry spikes left in.

I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high?

A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose? .

I saw something better than any one knows.

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Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get this pearly ear?

God spoke and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands?
Love made itself into bonds and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling
things?

From the same box as the cherubs' wings.

How did they all just come to be you?
God thought about me,
and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, you dear?
God thought about you, and so I am here.

THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY.

F. M. WHITCHER.

ES,-he was one o' the best men that ever trod shoe-leather, husband was, though Miss Jinkins says (she 'twas Poll Bingham,) she says, I never found it out till after he died, but that's the consarndest lie that ever was told, though it's jest a piece with everything else

THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY.

83

she says about me. I guess if everybody could see the poitry I writ to his memory, nobody wouldn't think I dident set store by him. Want to hear it? Well, I'll see if I can say it; it ginerally affects me wonderfully, seems to harrer up my feelin's; but I'll try. Dident know I ever writ poitry? How you talk! used to make lots on't; haint so much late years. I remember once when Parson Potter had a bee, I sent him an amazin' great cheeze, and writ a piece o' poitry, and pasted on top on't. It says:

Teach him for to proclaim
Salvation to the folks;

No occasion give for any blame,
Nor wicked people's jokes.

And so it goes on, but I guess I won't stop to say the rest on't now, seein' there's seven and forty verses.

Parson Potter and his wife was wonderfully pleased with it; used to sing it to the tune o' Haddem. But I was gwine to tell the one I made in relation to husband; it begins as follers:

He never jawed in all his life,

He never was onkind,

And (tho' I say it that was his wife)

Such men you seldom find.

(That's as true as the Scripturs; I never knowed him to say a harsh word.)

I never changed my single lot,

I thought 'twould be a sin

(Though widder Jinkins says it's because I never had a chance.) Now 'tain't for me to say whether I ever had a numerous number o' chances or not, but there's them livin' that might tell if they wos a mind to; why, this poitry was writ on account of being joked about Major Coon, three years after husband died. I guess the ginerality o' folks knows what was the nature o' Major Coon's feelin's towards me, tho' his wife and Miss Jinkins does say I tried to ketch him. The fact is, Miss Coon feels wonderfully cut up 'cause she knows the Major took her "Jack at a pinch," —seein' he couldent get such as he wanted, he took such as he could get, -but I goes on to say

I never changed my single lot,

I thought 'twould be a sin,

For I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott,

I never got married agin.

84

THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY.

If ever a hasty word he spoke,
His anger dident last,

But vanished like tobacker smoke
Afore the wintry blast.

And since it was my lot to be
The wife of such a man,
Tell the men that's after me

To ketch me if they can.

If I was sick a single jot,
He called the doctor in-

That's a fact, he used to be scairt to death if anything ailed me. Now only jest think,—widder Jinkins told Sam Pendergrasses wife (she 'twas Sally Smith) that she guessed the deacon dident set no great store by me, or he wouldent a went off to confrence meetin' when I was down with the fever. The truth is, they couldent git along without him no way. Parson Potter seldom went to confrence meetin', and when he wa'n't there, who was ther' pray tell, that knowed enough to take the lead if husband dident do it? Deacon Kenipe hadent no gift, and Deacon Crosby hadent no inclination, and so it all come onto Deacon Bedott,—and he was always ready and willin' to do his duty, you know; as long as he was able to stand on his legs he continued to go to confrence meetin'; why, I've knowed that man to go when he couldent scarcely crawl on account o' the pain in the spine of his back.

He had a wonderful gift, and he wa'n't a man to keep his talents hid up in a napkin,-so you see 'twas from a sense o' duty he went when I was sick, whatever Miss Jinkins may say to the contrary. But where was I? Oh!

If I was sick a single jot,

He called the doctor in

I sot so much store by Deacon Bedott

I never got married agin.

A wonderful tender heart he had,
That felt for all mankind,-

It made him feel amazin' bad

To see the world so blind.

Whiskey and rum he tasted not

That's as true as the Scripturs, but if you'll believe it, Betsy, Ann Kenipe told my Melissy that Miss Jinkins said one day to their house,

THE WIDOW BEDOTT'S POETRY.

85

how't she'd seen Deacon Bedott high, time and agin! did you ever! Well, I'm glad nobody don't pretend to mind anything she says. I've knowed Poll Bingham from a gal, and she never knowed how to speak the truth—besides she always had a partikkeler spite against husband and me, and between us tew I'll tell you why if you won't mention it, for I make it a pint never to say nothin' to injure nobody. Well, she was a ravin'distracted after my husband herself, but it's a long story, I'll tell you about it some other time, and then you'll know why widder Jinkins is etarnally runnin' me down. me down. See,-where had I got to? Oh, I remember

now,―

Whiskey and rum he tasted not,—

He thought it was a sin,—

I thought so much o' Deacon Bedott

I never got married agin.

But now he's dead! the thought is killin',

My grief I can't control

He never left a single shillin'

His widder to console.

afore

But that wa'n't his fault-he was so out o' health for a number o' year he died, it ain't to be wondered at he dident lay up nothin'-however, it dident give him no great oneasiness, he never cared much for airthly riches, though Miss Pendergrass says she heard Miss Jinkins say Deacon Bedott was as tight as the skin on his back,—begrudged folks their vittals when they came to his house! did you ever! why, he was the hull-souldest man I ever see in all my born days. If I'd such a husband as Bill Jinkins was, I'd hold my tongue about my neighbors' husbands. He was a dretful mean man, used to git drunk every day of his life, and he had an awful high temper,-used to swear like all possest when he got mad,—and I've heard my husband say, (and he wa'n't a man that ever said anything that wa'n't true),—I've heard him say Bill Jinkins would cheat his own father out of his eye teeth if he had a chance. Where was I? Oh! "His widder to console,"―ther ain't but one more verse, 'tain't a very lengthy poim. When Parson Potter read it, he says to me, says he,-"What did you stop so soon for?"—but Miss Jinkins told the Crosby's she thought I'd better a' stopt afore I'd begun,-she's a purty critter to talk so, I must say. I'd like to see some poitry o' hern,-I guess it would be astonishin' stuff; and mor'n all that, she said there wa'n't a word o' truth in the hull on't, said I never cared tuppence for the deacon. What an everlastin' lie! Why, when he died, I took it so hard I went deranged, and took on so for a spell

86

BINGEN ON THE RHINE.

they was afraid they should have to send me to a Lunattic Arsenal. But that's a painful subject, I won't dwell on't. I conclude as follers:—

I'll never change my single lot,

I think 'twould be a sin,

The inconsolable widder o' Deacon Bedott

Don't intend to get married agin.

Excuse my cryin' -my feelin's always overcomes me so when I say that poitry-0-0-0-0-0-0 !

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Take a message, and a token, to some distant And with boyish love I hung it where the

friends of mine,

For I was born at Bingen-at Bingen on the Rhine.

"Tell my brothers and companions, when they meet and crowd around

bright light used to shine,

On the cottage-wall at Bingen-calm Bingen

on the Rhine!

"Tell my sister not to weep for me, and sob with drooping head,

To hear my mournful story in the pleasant When the troops come marching home again,

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with glad gallant tread;

But to look upon them proudly, with a calm and steadfast eye,

For her brother was a soldier too, and not afraid to die;

And if a comrade seek her love, I ask her in my name

To listen to him kindly, without regret or shame;

And to hang the old sword in its place (my father's sword and mine,)

And one had come from Bingen-fair Bingen For the honor of old Bingen-dear Bingen

on the Rhine !

on the Rhine!

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