  Stranger! hav yu ever been to Pordunk Village, my natiff place? It iz a dear little lulaby ov a place, sleeping between two small mountains, in the State of Pennsylvania. It kontains about 1000 souls now, and is watered by goose crik, whitch meanders thru the village az crooked and az lazy az a skool boy, on hiz way tew the distrikt skool hous. I waz born here, and the ground on whitch the old hous stood, iz thare yet. Mi ancesters are all here too, but they 469 hav retired from bizzness, and are taking their eaze, in the old graveyard ov the little one story church. The red painted tavern, whare years ago, the townsfolks gathered in, on Saturday nights, to wet their whistles, and brag on their bush beans, and other gardin sass, iz gone, and departed. And Roger Williams, where iz he? Roger waz the village blacksmith, and could out argy the parson, on a bit ov skripture, hiz anvil iz still, and he now livs in his new house, with the rest of the old people, just back ov the little one story church. Whare iz Square Watkins, the justiss of the peace? he knu law, and the stattews, just az eazy az he did the 10 commands, hiz little old offiss, for 50 years unpainted, iz now no more. No one ov hiz name iz left, he and Roger the blacksmith, lay side by side, just back ov the little one story church, az still az deth kan make them. Sue Dunham, the crazy woman, I don’t see her! Poor Sue, she waz not alwus welkum, but no one turned her away, a night’s lodgeing no one refused, she was even butiful still, when i waz a boy, but i shrunk from the flash ov her misterious eye. The old folks knu her story, it waz that sad one, so often told, and so soon forgotten, a mans perfidy. Sue Dunham raves no more, but in the farther korner, just 470 bak ov the little one story church, whare the ded lay the thikest, lays Sue. A weep in willow, sown bi aksident, hangs over her grave, and on her hed stone, theze words, almost knawed away bi time, kan be made out, “Sue Dunham, aged 59.” Parson Powell, who led hiz flok bi the side ov still waters who wet with hallowed drops at christnings, who jined in wedlok, and who asked God to take the departing ones, I miss him too; peacefully he sleeps, just bak ov the little one story church. Deakon Tucker, who sold sugar bi the pound, and mollassis bi the pint, who delt in whale ile, and bar sope, who kept raizen and razor straps, who could mezzure a yard ov kotton, ov kaliko, tew a thred, and who, 4th ov Julys, sold 3 fire krackers, tew us boys, for a penny, what haz bekum ov the deakon? Years ago, he fled, not far away, but cluss up tew the back wall ov the little one story church, near to Parson Powell. An odd phellow waz Ez Farnham, and withal az keen at a trade az a hornet, Them that swopped hosses with Ez once, didn’t hanker tew do it again, he waz honest, but oh! how fatal tew dicker. No one now, in the whole village remember him, he haz gone whare they don’t giv, nor git boot, they put him in the halfaker, just bak ov the little one story church. Job Pierson iz ded too, and so is Job’s wife, and all ov Job’s sons, and dauters. I go up, and I go down, the good old village of Pordunk, the people all stare at me, az i stop here and stop thare, to say tew miself, “here it waz that Lige Turner, threw Dave Larkins, 40 years ago, in a wrassle on the village green, and thare stood the old town pump.” “Here old Beverly, the barber, shaved for three cents a shave, and thare, Burbanks haff soled boots for a quarter.” “Here—let me see! was it here? Yes Old Mother Benneway sold taffy here, each stick at least 8 inches long, and made out of Deakon Tuckers best Porto Rico molassis.” 471“Thare stood the little red skool hous, right thare, it waz the forks ov a road then, it is the korner of a block now. “Who kan tell me whare Daniel Purdy the skool master lives now, no one! I hav asked a dozen, but no one remember Daniel Purdy. “It iz a sad thing tew be a skoolmaster, no one ever seems tew kno whare they go when yu miss them. They just seem to depart that’s all. I never knu one tew die, and be buried.” Ah, it iz pleasant!—it is sad, to go bak tew the village of Pordunk, thare is more people now thare, than there waz when i waz a boy, but how different are they,—or how different am I. The old trees are the same, man kant alter them, goose krik runs jist whare it did, with willows in all ov its elbows, the mountains each side haven’t grown enny smaller, the birds sing the same songs, but i don’t kno enny one that i meet, and what is more lonesome, no one that i meet knows me. When i go tew Pordunk, and want tew see enny boddy that I remember, i go down the main street to the fust korner, just whare Joel Parker once lived, then i turn tew the left, and keep on for a ways, till i cum tew the little one story church. Just bak ov that they are all living now. They don’t remember me when i go thare, but I remember them. It won’t be very long now before I shall jine them. 472 |
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