Thomas R. Lounsbury, ed. (1838–1915). Yale Book of American Verse. 1912.
James Russell Lowell 18191891
James Russell Lowell126 The Courtin
G
Fur ’z you can look or listen,
Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,
All silence an’ all glisten.
An’ peeked in thru’ the winder, An’ there sot Huldy all alone, ’ith no one nigh to hender. With half a cord o’ wood in— There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin’. Towards the pootiest, bless her, An’ leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser. An’ in amongst ’em rusted The ole queen’s-arm thet gran’ther Young Fetched back f’om Concord busted. Seemed warm f’om floor to ceilin’, An’ she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin’. On sech a blessed cretur, A dogrose blushin’ to a brook Ain’t modester nor sweeter. Clear grit an’ human natur’; None could n’t quicker pitch a ton Nor dror a furrer straighter. He ’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em, Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells— All is, he could n’t love ’em. All crinkly like curled maple, The side she breshed felt full o’ sun Ez a south slope in Ap’il. Ez hisn in the choir; My! when he made Ole Hunderd ring, She knowed the Lord was nigher. When her new meetin’-bunnet Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair O’ blue eyes sot upun it. She seemed to ’ve gut a new soul, For she felt sartin-sure he ’d come, Down to her very shoe-sole. A-raspin’ on the scraper,— All ways to once her feelin’s flew Like sparks in burnt-up paper. Some doubtfle o’ the sekle, His heart kep’ goin’ pity-pat, But hern went pity Zekle. Ez though she wished him furder, An’ on her apples kep’ to work, Parin’ away like murder. “Wal .… no .… I come dasignin’”— “To see my Ma? She ’s sprinklin’ clo’es Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.” Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’; Mebby to mean yes an’ say no Comes nateral to women. Then stood a spell on t’ other, An’ on which one he felt the wust He could n’t ha’ told ye nuther. Says she, “Think likely, Mister”: Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An’ .… Wal, he up an’ kist her. Huldy sot pale ez ashes, All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips An’ teary roun’ the lashes. Whose naturs never vary, Like streams that keep a summer mind Snowhid in Jenooary. Too tight for all expressin’, Tell mother see how metters stood, An’ gin ’em both her blessin’. Down to the Bay o’ Fundy, An’ all I know is they was cried In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday.