If any, born of kindlier blood, That tried to blossom in the snow, JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. [U. S. A.] THE HERITAGE. THE rich man's son inherits lands, And tender flesh that fears the cold, The rich man's son inherits cares; The bank may break, the factory burn, A breath may burst his bubble shares, And soft, white hands could hardly earn A living that would serve his turn; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. The rich man's son inherits wants, His stomach craves for dainty fare; With sated heart, he hears the pants Of toiling hinds with brown arms bare, And wearies in his easy chair; A heritage, it seems to me, One scarce would wish to hold in fee. What doth the poor man's son inherit? Stout muscles and a sinewy heart, A hardy frame, a hardier spirit; King of two hands, he does his part A heritage, it seems to me, What doth the poor man's son inherit? What doth the poor man's son inherit? A patience learned by being poor, Courage, if sorrow come, to bear it, A fellow-feeling that is sure To make the outcast bless his door; A heritage, it seems to me, A king might wish to hold in fee. O rich man's son! there is a toil, But only whiten, soft, white hands, This is the best crop from thy lands; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being rich to hold in fee. O poor man's son! scorn not thy state; There is worse weariness than thine, In merely being rich and great; Toil only gives the soul to shine, And makes rest fragrant and benign; A heritage, it seems to me, Worth being poor to hold in fee. Both, heirs to some six feet of sod, Are equal in the earth at last; JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. Thet's Northun natur', slow an' apt to doubt, But when it does git stirred, there's no gin-out! Fust come the blackbirds clatt'rin' in tall trees, An' settlin' things in windy Congresses,Queer politicians, though, for I'll be skinned Ef all on 'em don't head against the wind. 'Fore long the trees begin to show belief, The maple crimsons to a coral-reef, Then saffron swarms swing off from all the willers, So plump they look like yaller caterpillars, Then gray hosschesnuts leetle hands unfold Softer 'n a baby's be a' three days old: Thet 's robin-red breast's almanick; he knows Thet arter this ther' 's only blossom Jes' so our Spring gits everythin' in tune An' gives one leap from April into June; Then all comes crowdin' in; afore you think, Young oak-leaves mist the side-hill woods with pink; The cat-bird in the laylock-bush is loud; The orchards turn to heaps o' rosy cloud; Red-cedars blossom tu, though few folks know it, An' look all dipt in sunshine like a poet; The lime-trees pile their solid stacks o' shade An' drows'ly simmer with the bees' sweet trade; 225 In ellum shrouds the flashin' hang-bird clings, An' for the summer vy'ge his hammock slings; All down the loose-walled lanes in archin' bowers The barb'ry droops its strings o' golden flowers, Whose shrinkin' hearts the school-gals love to try With pins-they'll worry yourn so, boys, bimeby! But I don't love your cat'logue style, — do you? Ez ef to sell off Natur' by vendoo; One word with blood in 't 's twice ez good ez two: Nuff sed, June's bridesman, poet of the year, Gladness on wings, the bobolink, is here; Half hid in tip-top apple-blooms he swings, Or climbs aginst the breeze with quiverin' wings, Or, givin' way to 't in a mock despair, Runs down, a brook o' laughter, thru the air. THE COURTIN'. GOD makes sech nights, all white an' still Zekle crep' up quite unbeknown An' peeked in thru the winder, An' there sot Huldy all alone, 'Ith no one nigh to hender. A fireplace filled the room's one side There warnt no stoves (tell comfort died) The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, The very room, coz she was in, Seemed warm from floor to ceilin', An' she looked full ez rósy agin 'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look He was six foot o' man, A 1, Clean grit an' human natur'; None could n't quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter. He'd sparked it with full twenty gals, Hed squired 'em, danced 'em, druv 'em, Fust this one, an' then thet, by spells All is, he could n't love 'em. But long o' her his veins 'ould run All crinkly like curled maple, She thought no v'ice hed sech a swing My when he made Ole Hunderd ring, An' she'd blush scarlit, right in prayer, Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! Down to her very shoe-sole. She heered a foot, an' knowed it tu, He kin' o' l'itered on the mat, But hern went pity Zekle. An' yit she gin her cheer a jerk "You want to see my Pa, I s'pose?" "Wal .... signin' I come da To say why gals act so or so, He stood a spell on one foot fust, Says he, "I'd better call agin"; Says she, "Think likely, Mister"; For she was jes' the quiet kind The blood clost roun' her heart felt glued Then her red come back like the tide AMBROSE. NEVER, surely, was holier man Through earnest prayer and watchings long He sought to know 'twixt right and wrong, Much wrestling with the blessed Word At last he builded a perfect faith, "To see my Ma? She's sprinklin' clo'es To himself he fitted the doorway's size, Agin to-morrer's i'nin'.' Meted the light to the need of his eyes, |