Volume 4 — A CHAPTER OF PARODIES.

From the kitchen, Martha Hopkins, as she stood there making pies, Southward looks along the turnpike, with her hand above her eyes; Where along the distant hill-side, her yearling heifer feeds, And a little grass is growing in a mighty sight of weeds. All the air is full of noises, for there isn't any school, And boys, with turned-up pantaloons, are wading in the pool; Blithely frisk, unnumbered chickens cackling for they cannot laugh, Where the airy summits brighten, nimbly leaps the little calf. Gentle eyes of Martha Hopkins! tell me wherefore do ye gaze On the ground that's being furrowed for the planting of the maize? Tell me wherefore down the valley, ye have traced the turnpike's way, Far beyond the cattle pasture, and the brick-yard with its clay? Ah! the dog-wood tree may blossom, and the door-yard grass may shine, With the tears of amber dropping from the washing on the line; And the morning's breath of balsam, lightly brush her freckled cheek,— Little recketh Martha Hopkins of the tales of spring they speak. When the summer's burning solstice on the scanty harvest glowed, She had watched a man on horseback riding down the turnpike road; Many times she saw him turning, looking backward quite forlorn, Till amid her tears she lost him, in the shadow of the barn. Ere supper-time was over, he had passed the kiln of brick, Crossed the rushing Yellow River and had forded quite a creek, And his flat-boat load was taken, at the time for pork and beans, With the traders of the Wabash, to the wharf at New Orleans. Therefore watches Martha Hopkins—holding in her hands the pans, When the sound of distant footsteps seems exactly like a man's; Not a wind the stove-pipe rattles, nor a door behind her jars, But she seems to hear the rattle of his letting down the bars. Often sees she men on horseback, coming down the turnpike rough, But they come not as John Jackson, she can see it well enough; Well she knows the sober trotting of the sorrel horse he keeps, As he jogs along at leisure with his head down like a sheep's. She would know him 'mid a thousand, by his home-made coat and vest; By his socks, which were blue woollen, such as farmers wear out west; By the color of his trousers, and his saddle, which was spread By a blanket which was taken for that purpose from the bed. None like he the yoke of hickory, on the unbroke ox can throw, None amid his father's corn-fields use like him the spade and hoe; And at all the apple-cuttings, few indeed the men are seen, That can dance with him the polka, touch with him the violin. He has said to Martha Hopkins, and she thinks she hears him now, For she knows as well as can be, that he meant to keep his vow, When the buck-eye tree has blossomed, and your uncle plants his corn, Shall the bells of Indiana usher in the wedding morn. He has pictured his relations, each in Sunday hat and gown, And he thinks he'll get a carriage, and they'll spend a day in town; That their love will newly kindle, and what comfort it will give, To sit down to the first breakfast, in the cabin where they'll live. Tender eyes of Martha Hopkins! what has got you in such scrape, 'Tis a tear that falls to glitter on the ruffle of her cape, Ah! the eye of love may brighten, to be certain what it sees, One man looks much like another, when half hidden by the trees. But her eager eyes rekindle, she forgets the pies and bread, As she sees a man on horseback, round the corner of the shed. Now tie on another apron, get the comb and smooth your hair, 'Tis the sorrel horse that gallops, 'tis John Jackson's self that's there!

That fellow's voice! how often steals Its cadence o'er my lonely days! Like something sent on wagon wheels, Or packed in an unconscious chaise. I might forget the words he said When all the children fret and cry, But when I get them off to bed, His gentle tone comes stealing by— And years of matrimony flee, And leave me sitting on his knee. The times he came to court a spell, The tender things he said to me, Make me remember mighty well My hopes that he'd propose to me. My face is uglier, and perhaps Time and the comb have thinned my hair; And plain and common are the caps, And dresses that I have to wear— But memory is ever yet With all that fellow's flat'ries writ. I have been out at milking-time Beneath a dull and rainy sky, When in the barn 'twas time to feed, And calves were bawling lustily— When scattered hay, and sheaves of oats, And yellow corn-ears, sound and hard, And all that makes the cattle pass With wilder richness through the yard— When all was hateful, then have I, With friends who had to help me milk, Talked of his wife most spitefully, And how he kept her dressed in silk; And when the cattle, running there, Threw over me a shower of mud, That fellow's voice came on the air, Like the light chewing of the cud— And resting near some spreckled cow, The spirit of a woman's spite, I've poured a low and fervent vow, To make him, if I had the might, Live all his life-time just as hard, And milk his cows in such a yard. I have been out to pick up wood When night was stealing from the dawn, Before the fire was burning good, Or I had put the kettle on The little stove—when babes were waking With a low murmur in the beds, And melody by fits was breaking Above their little yellow heads— And this when I was up perhaps From a few short and troubled naps— And when the sun sprang scorchingly And freely up, and made us stifle, And fell upon each hill and tree The bullets from his subtle rifle— I say a voice has thrilled me then, Hard by that solemn pile of wood, Or creeping from the silent glen, Like something on the unfledged brood, Hath stricken me, and I have pressed Close in my arms my load of chips, And pouring forth the hatefulest Of words that ever passed my lips, Have felt my woman's spirit rush On me, as on that milking night, And, yielding to the blessed gush Of my ungovernable spite, Have risen up, the wed, the old, Scolding as hard as I could scold.

"Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever."—Shelley.

Love knoweth every body's house, And every human haunt, And comes unbidden, every where, Like people we don't want. The turnpike roads and little creeks Are written with love's words, And you hear his voice like a thousand bricks In the lowing of the herds. He peeps into the teamster's heart, From his Buena Vista's rim, And the cracking whips of many men Can never frighten him. He'll come to his cart in the weary night, When he's dreaming of his craft; And he'll float to his eye in the morning light, Like a man on a river raft. He hears the sound of the cooper's adz, And makes him too his dupe, For he sighs in his ear from the shaving pile As he hammers on the hoop. The little girl, the beardless boy, The men that walk or stand, He will get them all in his mighty arms Like the grasp of your very hand. The shoemaker bangs above his bench, And ponders his shining awl, For love is under the lap-stone hid, And a spell is on the wall. It heaves the sole where he drives the pegs, And speaks in every blow, 'Till the last is dropped from his crafty hand, And his foot hangs bare below. He blurs the prints which the shopmen sell, And intrudes on the hatter's trade, And profanes the hostler's stable-yard In the shape of a chamber-maid. In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, Knowing that he can win, In every home of good-looking folks Will human love come in.

It was many and many a year ago, In a dwelling down in town, That a fellow there lived whom you may know By the name of Samuel Brown; And this fellow he lived with no other thought Than to our house to come down. I was a child and he was a child, In that dwelling down in town, But we loved with a love that was more than love, I and my Samuel Brown— With a love that the ladies coveted, Me and Samuel Brown. And this was the reason that, long ago, To that dwelling down in town, A girl came out of her carriage, courting My beautiful Samuel Brown; So that her high-bred kinsman came And bore away Samuel Brown, And shut him up in a dwelling-house, In a street quite up in town. The ladies, not half so happy up there, Went envying me and Brown; Yes! that was the reason, (as all men know, In this dwelling down in town,) That the girl came out of the carriage by night Coquetting and getting my Samuel Brown. But our love is more artful by far than the love Of those who are older than we— Of many far wiser than we— And neither the girls that are living above, Nor the girls that are down in town, Can ever discover my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Samuel Brown. For the morn never shines without bringing me lines From my beautiful Samuel Brown; And the night is never dark, but I sit in the park With my beautiful Samuel Brown. And often by day, I walk down in Broadway, With my darling, my darling, my life, and my stay, To our dwelling down in town, To our house in the street down town.