  What are yer askin', stranger, about that lock o' har That's kep' so nice and keerful in the family Bible thar? Wal, then, I don't mind tellin', seein' as yer wants ter know. It's from the head of our baby. Yes, that's him.—Stand up, Joe. Joe is our only baby, nigh on ter six foot tall; And he'll be one-and-twenty comin' this next fall. But he can't yet beat his daddy in the hay-field or the swales, A-pitchin' on the wagon, or splittin' up the rails. For I was a famous chopper, jest eighteen year ago, When this strange thing happened, that came to me and Joe. Curly-head we called him then, sir—his hair is curly yet, But them long silky ringlets I never shall forget. Them was tough times, stranger, when all around was new, And all the kentry forests, with only "blazes" through. We lived in the old log-house then, Sally and me and Joe, In the old Black-river country, whar we made our clearin' show. Wal, one day I was choppin' nigh to our cabin door,— A day that I'll remember till kingdom come and more,— And Curly-head was playin' around among the chips; A beauty, if I do say it, with rosy cheeks and lips. I don't know how it happened; but quicker'n I can tell, Our Curly-head had stumbled, and lay thar whar he fell On the log that I was choppin', with his yellow curls outspread; And the heavy axe was fallin' right on his precious head; The next thing, I knew nothin', and all was dark around. When I come to, I was lyin' stretched out thar on the ground; And Curly-head was callin', "O daddy, don't do so!" I caught him to my bosom, my own dear little Joe. All safe, sir. Not a sliver had touched his little head; But one of his curls was lyin' thar on the log outspread. It lay whar the axe was stickin', cut close by its sharpened edge; And what then was my feelin's, per'aps, sir, you can jedge. I took the little ringlet, and pressed it to my lips; Then I kneeled down and prayed, sir, right thar on the chips. We put it in the Bible, whar I often read to Joe,— "The hairs of your head are numbered;" and, sir, I believe it's so. B. S. Brooks. |
|
