And read! w’y, his own mother learnt him how to read
      and spell;
And “The Childern of the Abbey”—­w’y, he knowed that
      book as well
At fifteen as his parents!—­and “The Pilgrim’s Prog-
      ress,” too—­
Jest knuckled down, the shaver did, and read ’em through
      and through.

At eighteen, Mother ’lowed the boy must have a better
      chance-
That we ort to educate him, under any circumstance;
And John he j’ined his mother, and they ding-donged and
      kep’ on,
Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he was
      gone.

But—­I missed him—­w’y, of course I did!—­The Fall and
      Winter through
I never built the kitchen-fire, er split a stick in two,
Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrel-
      pin,
But what I thought o’ John, and wished that he was home
      ag’in.

He’d come, sometimes—­on Sund’ys most—­and stay the
      Sund’y out;
And on Thanksgivin’-Day he ’peared to like to be about: 
But a change was workin’ on him—­he was stiller than
      before,
And didn’t joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle any
      more.

And his talk was all so proper; and I noticed, with a sigh,
He was tryin’ to raise side-whiskers, and had on a striped
      tie,
And a standin’-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as bone;
And a breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat of
      his own.

But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was to
      come home
And he’p me through the season, I was glad to see him
      come,
But my happiness, that evening, with the settin’ sun went
      down,
When he bragged of “a position” that was offered him in
      town.

“But,” says I, “you’ll not accept it?” “W’y, of course I
       will,” says he.—­
“This drudgin’ on a farm,” he says, “is not the life fer
      me;
I’ve set my stakes up higher,” he continued, light and
      gay,
“And town’s the place fer me, and I’m a-goin’ right
      away!”

And go he did!—­his mother clingin’ to him at the gate,
A-pleadin’ and a-cryin’; but it hadn’t any weight. 
I was tranquiller, and told her ’twarn’t no use to worry
      so,
And onclasped her arms from round his neck round mine
      —­and let him go!

I felt a little bitter feelin’ foolin’ round about
The aidges of my conscience; but I didn’t let it out;—­
I simply retch out, trimbly-like, and tuk the boy’s hand,
And though I didn’t say a word, I knowed he’d under-
     stand.

And—­well!—­sence then the old home here was mighty
     lonesome, shore! 
With me a-workin’ in the field, and Mother at the door,
Her face ferever to’rds the town, and fadin’ more and
      more—­
Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin’ in a store!

The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes the
      boy would write
A letter to his mother, sayin’ that his work was light,
And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit—­
Though his business was confinin’, he was gittin’ used
      to it.