One day I was pickin' currants down by the old quince tree, When I heerd Jake's voice a-sayin', "Be ye willin' ter marry me?" An' Mary Ann kerrectin', "Air ye willin', yeou sh'd say." Our Jake he put his foot daown in a plum decided way. "No wimmen-folks is a-goin' ter be rearrangin' me, Hereafter I says 'craps,' 'them is,' 'I calk'late,' an' 'I be.' Ef folks don't like my talk they needn't hark ter what I say; But I ain't a-goin' to take no sass from folks from Injun Bay; I ask you free an' final, 'Be ye goin' to marry me?'" An' Mary Ann sez, tremblin', yet anxious-like, "I be."
Whichever way the wind doth blow, Some heart is glad to have it so; Then blow it east, or blow it west, The wind that blows, that wind is best. My little craft sails not alone,-- A thousand fleets, from every zone, Are out upon a thousand seas, And what for me were favoring breeze Might dash another with the shock Of doom upon some hidden rock.
I leave it to a higher Will To stay or speed me, trusting still That all is well, and sure that He Who launched my bark will sail with me Through storm and calm, and will not fail, Whatever breezes may prevail, To land me, every peril past, Within His Haven at the last. Then blow it east, or blow it west, The wind that blows, that wind is best.
The district school-master was sitting behind his great book-laden desk, Close-watching the motions of scholars, pathetic and gay and grotesque. As whisper the half-leafless branches, when autumn's brisk breezes have come, His little scrub-thicket of pupils sent upward a half-smothered hum. There was little Tom Timms on the front seat, whose face was withstanding a drouth. And jolly Jack Gibbs just behind him, with a rainy new moon for a mouth; There were both of the Smith boys, as studious as if they bore names that could bloom, And Jim Jones, a heaven-built mechanic, the slyest young knave in the room, With a countenance grave as a horse's, and his honest eyes fixed on a pin, Queer-bent on a deeply-laid project to tunnel Joe Hawkins's skin. There were anxious young novices, drilling their spelling-books into their brain, Loud-puffing each half-whispered letter, like an engine just starting its train; There was one fiercely muscular fellow, who scowled at the sums on his slate, And leered at the innocent figures a look of unspeakable hate; And set his white teeth close together, and gave his thin lips a short twist, As to say, "I could whip you, confound you! could such things be done with the fist!" There were two knowing girls in the corner, each one with some beauty possessed, In a whisper discussing the problem which one the young master likes best; A class in the front, with their readers, were telling, with difficult pains, How perished brave Marco Bozzaris while bleeding at all of his veins; And a boy on the floor to be punished, a statue of idleness stood, Making faces at all of the others, and enjoying the scene all he could.