Classic Poem

Yes, indeed, Sir,
'Tis pretty up here this time o' year,
With th' sumachs an' th' maples fer red,
An' th' birches an' th' oaks fer yaller,
Sometimes you'd think th' sun was shinin'
When 'tain't nothin' but leaves.
Ef you was to go up Tollman's hill,
You'd see th' country layin' out in front o' yer
Jest like a big flower garden.
I don't wonder city folks is so partial to th' mountains in th' Fall.
But they don't all care enough fer it
To come a-ridin' shanks's mare
The way you're doin'.
What was it you wanted I should tell yer?
Oh, yes, 'bout th' brick house over on th' Danbridge road.
I know well th' one you mean.
Sort o' tumble down, ain't it?
Run to seed?
That's th' one.
Th' old Steele farm, we call it.
It's in a dretful state.
Th' last folks had it was a pack o' Finns,
An' I never see such a shiftless set as they be.
Don't seem to have no idea o' nothin'.
But th' way they can grub a livin' outer stones
Do beat all.
Ther's a whole lot on 'mdash settled around here,
But I guess they wouldn't ha' got aholt o' th' Steele place
Only fer it havin' a kind o' bad name.
Sort o' got set in a streak o' cross luck, somehow.
You hitch your chair up clost t' th' fire,
And I'll tell yer 'bout it.
It's a funny story;
An' it ain't so funny neither,
Come to think of it.
I remember Tim'thy Adams well
When I was a girl.
He was innercent an' feeble enough by then.
My father's told me th' story often,
But it all happened long 'fore my day.
It must ha' been nigh on to eighty year ago.
Ther' was two brothers livin' over to Danbridge at that time,
Name of Steele.
George an' Clif Steele.
Between 'mdash, they owned that farm you seen,
An' a hardware store to Main Street.
My father used ter say
Nobody hereabouts thought they could cut a rakeful o' hay
Or split a log,
Onless they'd bought th' scythe, or th' saw, or th' sickle,
To Steele's.
Funny name for a hardware store, warn't it,
But them things do happen.
Well, as I said,
They owned th' store an' th' farm, 'tween 'mdash,
Old Steele left it that way.
But 'twas real onhandy,
An' nat'rally, they kep' a-treadin' on each other's toes.
So 'bout th' time I'm speakin' of,
They made up their minds to do th' splittin' therselves,
An' they'd fixed it up that George was to have th' store
An' Clif was to take th' farm.
Clif warn't more'n five an' twenty, then,
An' he warn't married,
An' he seen, well as another,
That a farm without a wife's a mighty ticklish thing.
So he told his brother
He'd look around a bit,
And when he found a likely woman,
He'd marry her,
An' settle right away.
I guess he warn't quite square 'bout th' lookin' around,
'Cause everyone knowed he'd be'n keepin' comp'ny
Fer some time.
Mirandy Eccles, 'twas;
And Father al'ays said she was a fine, sensible girl,
And a credit to th' man that chose her.
Clif used ter take her buggy-ridin'
With a fast sorrel mare he had,
Done two thirty or somethin'
Over to th' County Fair.
Clif was proud as punch of her, an' of th' girl too.
Father said th' whole street 'ud set up to look
When they two druv along it
Like a streak o' lightnin'.
Clif thought his courtin' was goin' elegant,
An' I guess 'twas,
When all of a suddint,
He was drawed for jury duty.
That put a stop to th' junketin's,
An' Clif was like a bear with a sore head.
'Twas a kind of a queer case.
A man called Tim'thy Adams was bein' tried
Fer 'saulting his employer an' stealin' four dimonds.
I don't rec'lect th' name o' th' man whose store 'twas,
But he was a jeweler an' watch-maker,
Th' only one ther' was to Danbridge.
One mornin' they found him most beat to a jelly,
An' bound an' gagged,
An' four big dimonds was missin' outer th' stock.
Ther' was a candle in th' store
Guttered to nothin',
An' Mrs.—th' storekeeper's wife—
Said when she last seed it,
Jest as she was goin' to bed,
It was good an' long,
An' would ha' burned a couple o' hours, anyway.
Tim'thy used to come mornin's an' open up th' store.
He had a key,
An' that was th' only other ther' was,
So suspicion fastened on him, good an' tight.
He said he hadn't be'n ther' at all
Sence closin' time.
That he'd be'n fer a walk up th' mountain.
But he hadn't be'n gunnin',
'Cause he didn't take no gun;
An' he hadn't be'n fishin',
'Cause he didn't take no pole;
An' nobody b'lieved a man 'ud go walkin' up th' mountain
Jest fer th' pleasure o' gittin' ther',
So it looked bad fer Tim'thy.
Clif set in that Court Room,
An' twiddled his fingers,
An' thought o' Mirandy,
An' never heerd so much as a haystraw o' th' evidence,
An' when lockin'-up time come,
He didn't know no more about th' case
Than th' town pump.
In them days,
Juries was locked up fer fair.
They didn't 'low 'mdash home nights,
An' they sent their meals in,
'Stead o' marchin' 'mdash out to a hotel.
Clif had got awful sick o' bein' ther'.
He'd cut his name on th' table in th' jury room
Till 'twas all pickled over with it,
(I've seed th' table, with th' name on, myself),
An' th' night after th' ev'dence was in,
Ther' was a dance to th' Town Hall,
An' Clif wanted like pisen to be ther'.
He set in that jury room,
Hackin' at th' table,
Till he couldn't stand it another minit,
Then he jumped outer th' winder,
An' shinned down a big elm-tree was outside,
An' went to th' party,
An' th' first person he run acrost when he got inter th' room
Was th' Judge!
That was a awful fix fer Clif,
But th' Judge had be'n young once,
An' he jest turned his back, an' never seed a thing.
Clif didn't waste no time.
He went straight up to Mirandy an' asked her to marry him,
An' she'd missed him so,
She said “yes” right out,
An' Clif went back, an' shinned up th' elm agin,
An' ther' he was, spick an' span,
When th' door was unlocked next mornin'!
But he hadn't voted on th' case,
An' th' foreman jest whispered to him, would he agree,
As they went inter Court.
Clif was in such good sperrits,
He'd ha' agreed to anythin',
So he jest nodded,
An' poor Tim'thy Adams was convicted o' 'sault an' batt'ray,
With stealin',
An' sent to State's Prison for twenty year.
I told you 'twas a queer story,
But it's a heap queerer than you've heerd yit.

Clif married Mirandy,
An' they went to live to th' farm.
They was a well-matched pair,
An' everythin' went as fine as roses in July,
'Cept they didn't have no children.
But after it had all be'n goin' on like that fer most fifteen year,
Somethin' turned Clif's mind back to that old jury case.
Bits o' things he'd heerd in th' Court Room
Kep' a-risin' up in his mind.
They must ha' be'n ther' all th' time,
But he'd never sensed 'mdash.
An' now they up an' slapped him in th' face.
Th' more he thought, th' more he felt
That Tim'thy couldn't ha' done it.
He was a bit of a dreamer himself,
An' he knowed a man could go up a mountain,
'Ithout hankerin' to shoot or fish.
He thought an' thought, Clif did,
Till he was so nervous an' jumpy,
He was all of a twitch from head to foot.
Then one day he druv over to Danbridge
To see Judge Proctor.
Th' Judge was a old man, an' retired,
But Clif thought it 'ud ease him some
To see him.
He told th' Judge all about it,
But th' Judge said 'twas past an' gone,
An' he'd better lay some of his fields down to red rye,
An' try replantin' his wood-lot.
But Clif didn't buy no red rye seed that day;
He went straight to th' lib'ry
An' read a lot o' old newspapers.
Then he ferreted out th' Court clerk,
An' fussed an' fussed,
Till he let him see th' records.
He druv back an' forth to Danbridge fer weeks,
Readin' all th' papers 'bout that trial.
An' th' more he read 'mdash, th' more he knowed
Tim'thy hadn't had no head nor hand to do with it.
Clif was most beside himself with worry,
An' no wonder,
He felt he'd sent a feller critter to State's Prison
Who didn't b'long ther' no more'n he did himself.
He act'ally got to feelin' he was th' one b'longed,
He'd committed a wicked crime,
An' he'd got t' expiate it.
I guess he was most mad;
Father often said so.
He was thin as a rail,
An' he couldn't eat nor sleep,
An' th' farm all went to smithereens
'Cause he hadn't no time to work it,
Fer readin' ev'dence.
He didn't know much law,
An' it 'curred to him,
That ef he got all th' jury that done th' convictin'
To change their minds,
That would stop th' sentence right where 'twas,
An' Tim'thy could walk out o' jail.
So th' poor lunatic started to git aholt o' th' jury.
'Twarn't no easy matter to do,
Fer some was moved away, an' some was dead;
But he wrote, an' he travelled,
An' he run here an' ther' like a hen without its head,
An', in th' end, he got all th' livin members o' that jury
To sign papers reversin' their decision.
Is that very remarkable, Sir?
P'r'aps you're right.
Anyhow, he done it.
When he'd got all th' papers,
He went back to Judge Proctor,
An' asked him, would he please arrange things
So Tim'thy'd be free.
O'course, th' Judge told him 'twarn't no manner o' use.
That all th' papers in th' world wouldn't git Tim'thy out,
Onless ther' was new ev'dence,
Which, don't you see, ther' warn't,
Not a scrap.
So Clif went home, all broke to bits,
An' put his papers in th' chimbly cupboard,
An' Mirandy had all she could do
To git a little bacon an' coffee down him.
It's al'ays th' women gits it in th' end, you know, Sir?

Well, bimeby it come time fer Tim'thy to be let out o' jail.
He'd served his term, barrin' what was took off fer good conduct.
Th' very day he stepped out o' prison,
Standin' directly in front o' th' gate
Wher' he couldn't miss him,
Was Clif Steele.
Tim'thy was took all aback
An' made to git out o' th' way,
But Clif up an' hitched his arm inter his
An' marched him off, real brotherly.
“Tim'thy Adams,” says Clif,
“I done yer a great wrong.
I know you never 'saulted nobody
An' never took no dimonds,
An' I come here to-day to make it up to yer best I can,” he says.
“Come to yer senses, have yer?” says Tim'thy.
“Yes, I have,” says Clif.
“An' I'm goin' to take yer right along home with me.”
Mebbe Tim'thy wouldn't ha' gone,
Only his sperrits was all squeezed to nothin'
By bein' so long in jail.
Anyhow, Cliff wouldn't hear no.
An' them two went home together
Like a pair o' old shoes.
Folks wondered, would Mirandy like it?
All I c'n say is, ef she didn't, she darsn't say so.
I guess she was some feared 'bout Clif's stayin' in his right mind.
Whatever was th' reason, she acted pleased as pie.
So th' three on 'mdash lived in th' brick house,
An' after a little, nobody heeded 'mdash no more.
But Clif was all played out;
Th' worry'd done fer him,
An' two year come th' next Winter
He died o' pneumony.

Tim'thy an' th' widder
Stuck it out fer a bit as they was.
But tongues got to waggin'
An' they must ha' heerd 'mdash,
Anyways, one fine day they up an' got married,
An' that settled th' talk for keeps.
Then th' good times seemed come fer Tim'thy an' Mirandy.
They warn't young no more, but they was real well suited.
Folks kind o' fergot 'bout th' jail,
An' Mirandy took a new lease o' life.
Why, th' kitchen winders was all jammed full o' flower-pots!
You never seed sich rose-geraniums,
Everybody wanted slips from 'mdash.
I don't know jest how it come 'bout,
But one way or 'tother, Tim'thy took to tinkerin' clocks agin.
He had a wonderful knack at makin' 'mdash go.
Not th' batteredest old clock as ever was, beat him.
He'd set ther' in that kitchin,
Snuffin' up th' smell o' them geraniums
An' foolin' with little wheels an' wires,
An' all of a suddint he'd have th' clock as good as new.
Most everybody has a broken clock;
Well, they brought 'mdash all to Tim'thy.
Th' house was full on 'mdash.
Now comes th' queer part,
An' ther' ain't no explainin' it, no how.
Many's th' time I've heerd my Father tell it,
But I never give over startin' when I think of it.
One day, Tim'thy was overhaulin' a fine wall clock,
Th' kind with big weights hangin' down under it,
When he give a cry,
So loud Mirandy heerd it out in th' clo'es-yard.
She come runnin' in
With her heart in her mouth,
An' ther' was Tim'thy,
Starin' as though he seed a ghost,
An' holdin' four big dimonds in his hand.
They was sparklin' like icicles on a South winder,
All green, an' blue, an' red.
Father seed 'mdash,
An' he said they was so bright
You could most see to read by th' flashin' they made.
“Wher'd you git them things, Tim'thy Adams?” Mirandy hollered out.
She was struck all of a heap
An' couldn't scarcely fetch her breath fer wonder.
“Out o' th' clock,” says Tim'thy, quick, as ef a bee stung him.
“Who put 'mdash in?” asked Mirandy, kind o' snappin' out th' words.
“I ain't no notion,” says Tim'thy.
Now ther' was a fine fix, an' dimonds agin!
Mirandy leaned up agin th' door-jamb to save herself from fallin'—
“Whose clock is it?” says she.
'Twas old man Smart's clock, an' Tim'thy telled her so.
Well, not to keep a-talkin' all day, they sent fer old man Smart,
An' showed him th' dimonds.
But he said they warn't none o' his.
Tim'thy acted as ef he was afeared on 'mdash.
He'd put 'mdash on th' chimbly,
An' he wouldn't tech 'mdash agin, nohow.
Mirandy said she couldn't sleep with 'mdash in th' house,
An' ther' was a fine hurrah-boys.
Th' neighbours got wind on it somehow,
An' they all come flockin' to ask fool questions
An' git a sight o' th' dimonds.
Tim'thy seemed kind o' crazed, all to oncet.
He jest set ther', an' whispered: “In th' clock! In th' clock!”
Nobody couldn't git another thing out o' him.
Mirandy'd got to cryin' by then,
An' all th' women was soothin' her,
An' burnin' feathers under her nose.
'Twas th' awfullest mess ever was,
An' all along o' them pesky dimonds.
Somebody called in Lawyer Cary to Dan-bridge,
An' he took charge o' th' dimonds,
An' they got th' house cleared somehow.
But nothin' ever warn't th' same after.
Mirandy went inter a sort o' decline,
An' died 'fore Thanksgivin'.
Tim'thy didn't die, but he didn't git well neither.
He wouldn't tech a clock agin fer love nor money.
If anyone said: “Clock,” he'd commence shiv'rin'
As though he had th' ague.
Then a nasty whisper got about,
You know how folks talk,
Well, 'twas said th' dimonds warn't really in th' clock at all.
That Tim'thy had 'mdash all these years,
An' that he only pretended to find 'mdash
So's he could sell 'mdash at last.
Some said 'twas a trade 'twixt him an' Clif.
Clif had kep' 'mdash fer him while he was to State's Prison.
I guess that was all foolishness,
But what made 'mdash think so
Was that old man Smart 'lowed he'd bought th' clock
To a auction;
An' it turned out 'twas th' auction o' that jewel'ry store
Where Tim'thy worked.
Th' man that owned it had sold out an' gone away.
Lawyer Cary tried to trace him,
But 'twarn't a mite o' use.
He'd gone to Boston, an' they couldn't find out another thing.
But ther' was th' dimonds, an' ther' was poor old Tim'thy,
Half cracked with findin' 'mdash.
Property like that's a terrible nuisance.
Old man Smart wouldn't look at th' things,
An' he told how he'd burnt th' clock,
Considerin' it a sort o' party.
They warn't Tim'thy's, that was sure,
An' Lawyer Cary said he wouldn't keep 'mdash after New Year's.
So th' Selectmen voted to sell 'mdash,
An' buy books for th' lib'ry with th' money.
You c'n see 'mdash now, with a card in 'mdash:
“Bought with th' proceeds o' th' sale o' four dimonds.”
I must ha' be'n 'bout ten when Tim'thy died,
I mind it well, 'cause Father told th' story at supper
Th' day they buried him,
An' I ain't never fergot it.
Ther' was some trouble 'bout th' house too.
George Steele had moved to Boston years afore
An' his daughter (he didn't have no son) had married,
An' they had a time findin' her under her new name.
Anyhow, she didn't want th' farm, an' 'twas sold.
It's be'n goin' down hill ever sence.
Lor's Mercy! Ain't this world a queer place!
Ther' was three lives all gone to smash
Over them dimonds,
An' nothin' to show fer it but a ramshackle house,
An' a passel o' books in th' lib'ry!
Well, that's th' story,
An' I must be seein' to your supper.
It's gittin' late.