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| GOD makes sech nights, all white an’ still | |
| Fur ’z you can look or listen; | |
| Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill, | |
| All silence an’ all glisten. | |
| |
| Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown | 5 |
| 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, | |
| With half a cord o’ wood in— | 10 |
| There warn’t no stoves (tell comfort died) | |
| To bake ye to a puddin’. | |
| |
| The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out | |
| Towards the pootiest, bless her! | |
| An’ leetle flames danced all about | 15 |
| The chiny on the dresser. | |
| |
| Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung, | |
| An’ in amongst ’em rusted | |
| The ole queen’s arm thet gran’ther Young | |
| Fetched back from Concord busted. | 20 |
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| The very room, coz she was in, | |
| Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’, | |
| An’ she looked full ez rosy agin | |
| Ez the apples she was peelin’. | |
| |
| ’T was kin o’ kingdom-come to look | 25 |
| On sech a blessèd cretur, | |
| A dogrose blushin’ to a brook | |
| Ain’t modester nor sweeter. | |
| |
| He was six foot o’ man, A 1, | |
| Clean grit an’ human natur’; | 30 |
| None couldn’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— | 35 |
| All is, he couldn’t love ’em. | |
| |
| But long o’ her his veins ’ould run | |
| All crinkly like curled maple, | |
| The side she breshed felt full o’ sun | |
| Ez a south slope in Ap’il. | 40 |
| |
| She thought no v’ice hed such a swing | |
| Ez hisn in the choir; | |
| My! when he made Ole Hundred ring, | |
| She knowed the Lord was nigher. | |
| |
| An’ she ’d blush scarlit, right in prayer, | 45 |
| When her new meetin’-bunnet | |
| Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair | |
| O’ blue eyes sot upon it. | |
| |
| Thet night, I tell ye, she looked some! | |
| She seemed to ’ve gut a new soul, | 50 |
| For she felt sartin-sure he ’d come, | |
| Down to her very shoe-sole. | |
| |
| She heered a foot, an’ knowed it tu, | |
| A-raspin’ on the scraper,— | |
| All ways to once her feelin’s flew | 55 |
| Like sparks in burnt-up paper. | |
| |
| He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat, | |
| Some doubtfle o’ the sekle, | |
| His heart kep’ goin’ pitty-pat, | |
| But hern went pity Zekle. | 60 |
| |
| An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk | |
| Ez though she wished him furder, | |
| An’ on her apples kep’ to work, | |
| Parin’ away like murder. | |
| |
| “You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?” | 65 |
| “Wall no … I come dasignin’”— | |
| “To see my Ma? She ’s sprinklin’ clo’es | |
| Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.” | |
| |
| To say why gals act so or so, | |
| Or don’t, ’ould he presumin’; | 70 |
| Mebby to mean yes an’ say no | |
| Comes nateral to women. | |
| |
| He stood a spell on one foot fust, | |
| Then stood a spell on t’ other, | |
| An’ on which one he felt the wust | 75 |
| He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther. | |
| |
| Says he, “I ’d better call agin;” | |
| Says she, “Think likely, Mister;” | |
| Thet last word pricked him like a pin, | |
| An’ … Wal, he up an’ kist her. | 80 |
| |
| When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips, | |
| Huldy sot pale ez ashes, | |
| All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips | |
| An’ teary roun’ the lashes. | |
| |
| For she was jes’ the quiet kind | 85 |
| Whose naters never vary, | |
| Like streams that keep a summer mind | |
| Snow-hid in Jenooary. | |
| |
| The blood clost roun’ her heart felt glued | |
| Too tight for all expressin’, | 90 |
| Tell mother see how metters stood, | |
| And gin ’em both her blessin’. | |
| |
| Then her red come back like the tide | |
| Down to the Bay o’ Fundy, | |
| An’ all I know is they was cried | 95 |
| In meetin’ come nex’ Sunday. | |
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