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Marthy's Younkit.
By Eugene Field
The mountain brook sung lonesomelike
And loitered on its way
Ez if it waited for a child
To jine it in its play;
The wild flowers of the hillside
Bent down their heads to hear
The music of the little feet
That had, somehow, grown so dear;
The magpies, like winged shadders,
Wuz a-flutterin' to and fro
Among the rocks and holler stumps
In the ragged gulch below;
The pines 'nd hemlock tosst their boughs
(Like they wuz arms) 'nd made
Soft, sollum music on the slope
Where he had often played.
But for these lonesome, sollum voices
On the mountain side,
There wuz no sound the summer day
That Marthy's younkit died.
We called him Marthy's younkit,
For Marthy wuz the name
Uv her ez wuz his mar, the wife
Uv Sorry Tom--the same
Ez taught the school-house on the hill
Way back in sixty-nine
When she married Sorry Tom wich ownt
The Gosh-all-Hemlock mine;
And Marthy's younkit wuz their first,
Wich, bein' how it meant
The first on Red Hoss mountain,
Wuz trooly a event!
The miners sawed off short on work
Es soon ez they got word
That Dock Devine allowed to Casey
What had just occurred;
We loaded 'nd whooped around
Until we all wuz hoarse,
Salutin' the arrival,
Wich weighed ten pounds, uv course!
Three years, and sech a pretty child!
His mother's counterpart--
Three years, and sech a holt ez he
Had got on every heart!
A peert and likely little tyke
With hair ez red ez gold,
A laughin', toddlin' everywhere--
And only three years old!
Up yonder, sometimes, to the store,
And sometimes down the hill
He kited (boys is boys, you know--
You couldn't keep him still!)
And there he'd play beside the brook
Where purpel wild flowers grew
And the mountain pines 'nd hemlocks
A kindly shadder threw
And sung soft, sollum toons to him,
While in the gulch below
The magpies, like strange sperrits,
Went flutterin' to and fro.
Three years, and then the fever come;
It wuzn't right, you know,
With all us old ones in the camp,
For that little child to go!
It's right the old should die, but that
A harmless little child
Should miss the joy uv life 'nd love--
That can't be reconciled!
That's what we thought that summer day,
And that is what we said
Ez we looked upon the piteous face
Uv Marthy's younkit dead;
But for his mother sobbin'
The house wuz very still,
And Sorry Tom wuz lookin' through
The winder down the hill
To the patch beneath the hemlocks
Where his darlin' used to play,
And the mountain brook sung lonesomelike
And loitered on its way.
A preacher come from Roarin' Forks
To comfort 'em 'nd pray,
And all the camp wuz present
At the obsequies next day,
A female teacher staged it twenty miles
To sing a hymn,
And we jined her in the chorus--
Big, husky men 'nd grim
Sung "Jesus, Lover uv my Soul,"
And then the preacher prayed
And preacht a sermon on the death
Uv that fair blossom laid
Among them other flow'rs he loved--
Which sermon set sech weight
On sinners bein' always heelt
Against the future state
That, though it had been fash'nable
To swear a perfect streak,
There warnt no swearin' in the camp
For pretty nigh a week!
Last thing uv all, six strappin' men
Took up the little load
And bore it tenderly along
The windin' rocky road
To where the coroner had dug
A grave beside the brook--
In sight uv Marthy's winder, where
The same could set and look
And wonder if his cradle in
That green patch long 'nd wide
Wuz ez soothin' ez the cradle that
Wuz empty at her side;
And wonder of the mournful songs
The pines wuz singin' then
Wuz ez tender ez the lullabies
She'd never sing again;
And if the bosom uv the earth
In which he lay at rest
Wuz half ez lovin' 'nd ez warm
Ez wuz his mother's breast.
The camp is gone, but Red Hoss mountain
Rears its kindly head
And looks down sort uv tenderly,
Upon its cherished dead;
And I reckon that, through all the years
That little boy wich died
Sleeps sweetly 'nd contentedly
Upon the mountain-side;
That the wild flowers of the summer time
Bend down their heads to hear
The footfall uv a little friend they
Know not slumbers near;
That the magpies on the sollum rocks
Strange flutterin' shadders make.
And the pines 'nd hemlocks wonder that
The sleeper doesn't wake;
That the mountain brook sings lonesomelike
And loiters on its way
Ez if it waited f'r a child
To jine it in its play.
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