He played when summer sunsets glowed and

twilight deepened down,

His shrilling flute throbbed out and out in the

ears of the little town;

When the chores were done and his cattle fed

and the old horse munched his oats,

He took his flute to his racked old porch and

chirped his wavering notes.

And far and wide on the evening breeze from

the old house on the hill,

Went trinkling off the thin, long strains, like

the cry of the whip-poor-will.

And the women paused with the supper things

and harkened at the door,

And to the questioning stranger said, “Why,

that’s old Figger-Four.”

He bobbed to his work in his little field and

tidied his lonesome home;

He’d the light of peace in his quiet face, though

his shape was that of a gnome.

One knee was angled, hooked and stiff, the

mark of a fever sore,

And the saucy wits of the countryside had

dubbed him “Figger-Four.”

Yet those who knew him never thought of the

twist in the poor, bent limb,

And only strangers had a smile for the name

bestowed on him.

For if ever a man was a neighbor true, that

man, my friend, was he,

And the name he bore of “Figger-Four” was

our symbol of constancy.

’Twas he who came to the stricken homes and

closed the dead men’s eyes;

’Twas he who watched by the poor men’s biers

with a care no money buys;

’Twas he who sat by the fretful sick, and ne’er

could rash complaint

Disturb the placid soul and smile of the gnarled

old village saint.

And all came straight from out his heart, for

when one spoke of pay,

He simply smiled a wistful smile and said:

“That ain’t my way.”

A glistening eye was prized by him above a

golden store;

An. earnest clasp of neighbor’s hand paid every

debt and more.

And when there was no call for him from Tom,

or Dick or Jim,

He took his lip-stained flute and played a good

old gospel hymn.

So, when the placid, sunset skies were banked

above the town,

To every home and every ear those notes came

softly down.

And truly, friend, it used to seem the good old

man would play,

As if, for lack of else to do, to pipe our cares

away.

And tongues were hushed and heads were bent,

and angry home dispute

Gave way to silence, then to smiles, when

“Figger-Four’s” old flute

Sent down its long-drawn, mild reproach from

off the little hill—

Expostulation in its notes, a pleading in its

thrill.

And somehow, though the hearts were hot and

tongues were stirring fray,

Those dripping tones came down like balm and

cooled the wrath away.

He’d lived his lesson in our gaze; he was not

one who talked;

His life was straight, although, alas, he bobbed

so when he walked!

And though we’ve lost our richest men, we

mourn far more, far more,

The man we loved and who loved us, poor bent

old “Figger-Four.”