Marthy's Younkit.

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.