The Loom of Life Part 8

If you are looking for The Loom of Life Part 8 you are coming to the right place.
The Loom of Life is a Webnovel created by Cotton Noe.
This lightnovel is currently completed.


In the mountains of Kentucky, Where the ivy’s astral bloom And the laurel’s waxen petals Shed a rich and rare perfume; Where the purple rhododendron And the wild forget-me-not Bloom in amorous profusion Round a little mossy grot.

It was there I left Rowena, She is waiting now for me, While I linger here impatient, For my love I long to see.

Oh, but soon I know I’ll see her, And never more we’ll part– In the mountains of Kentucky, Lives my own, my true sweetheart.


She’s a fairy, I’ll admit, a little airy; But her eyes are like the blue Aegean sea: And her auburn hair, it would drive you to despair, For Rowena’s heart is true to none but me.

In the mountains of Kentucky, Though the gra.s.s may not be blue, Yet the streams are swift and sparkling, And Rowena’s heart is true: And I love the lofty mountains, And the deep and darkling coves, Where the redbirds gloom and glimmer, And Rowena lives and loves.

‘Tis the home, they say, of feudist, Where the hand of man is red; But I know a hundred places, Where blood’s as wanton shed: Yet no spot in all creation Has a sky of such a hue– In the mountains of Kentucky Lives my sweetheart pure and true.


In the Blue-gra.s.s of Kentucky Now Rowena waits for me, With a brood of little fairies That my heart so longs to see; For their eyes are bright and sparkling As the drops of diamond dew– In the Blue-gra.s.s of Kentucky, Live my sweethearts pure and true: Yes, I love the lofty mountains, And the deep and darkling cove, Where the redbirds gloom and glimmer, And the sky is bright above; But one spot to me is dearer Than all the world apart, In the Blue-gra.s.s of Kentucky, Lives my own, my true sweetheart.



(_Double Acrostic_)

Romance by the little stream, Where the wild-rose blooms so fair; Oh, who would mar that happy dream I see enacted there?

Beauteous orioles are they– Little timid, tongueless birds– Each listening to the voiceless lay, Love strives to put in words.

Roses drop their petals round; In the air a sweet perfume; Till time no longer baffles sound– Eternal love hath burst its bloom!


Oh! couldst thou know her faithful art!

When troubled dreams disturb the brain, Though rattling sleet be on the pane, Beneath the window of my heart, I hear her cheering strain– My _Muse_ who never will depart For life’s cold wintry rain.



Have you never heard the story of the good old country school With its rude split-bottomed benches and its ancient _dunce’s stool_?

Where Webster’s Blue-back Speller was the only standard text, And supplied the place of grammar that our late forefathers vexed; Where they never heard of Latin or the Greek subjunctive mode, But sang their mult-plication like a patriotic ode?

The Master, he was skinny, with a lean and hungry look; And a countenance as placid as a frozen winter brook; His brow was broad and Grecian, and his eye was snell and keen, And his head was stuffed with knowledge of a dozen books, I ween; And they say his nose was Roman as the bill of any hawk, And his boys were all perfection, for they had to walk the chalk.

And yet I’ve often wondered if they really always walked, And sat upright like statues, and never laughed or talked, For I’ve often heard my father say the model of the school Got licked at least three times a day as a pretty general rule, And lament the good old method, as a lost, forgotten art, Of imparting knowledge in a way that made a fellow _smart_.

I wish we had the secret now of making boys walk Instead of always watching for a chance to throw some chalk; But the art, I think, was buried with the Blue-back Spelling Book, And the piercing eye of Skinny, that no mortal boy could brook; ‘Twas buried with the benches and the ancient dunce’s stool And the grease-glazed paper windows of the good old country school.

It may be through psychology and molly-coddle stuff, We often talk in inst.i.tutes, we’ve lost the power to bluff; Perhaps ’twas Pestalozzi, Froebel and John Herbart Who robbed the wand of Skinny of its pedagogic art; We’ll not discuss philosophy, but we know about the chalk, That no theoretic dream of man can make a boy walk.


Ricollect ol’ _One-Armed Joe_?

Lost it grindin’ cane.

Same blame feller ‘t used to go Round with Lizy Jane Grindin’ sorghum ever fall.

Lizy Jane wuz Joe’s ol’ mare; Never showed her at a fair, But blamed ‘f she couldn’t beat all Ringsters to an ol’ cane sweep That ever stepped a mile. Never fat, Ring-bone an’ bob-tail an’ all that, But law! she made the cane-mill weep!

An’ us chillern, we’d allus go Over where they’s grindin’ cane An’ git to ride ol’ Lizy Jane, An’ hear the jokes of _One-Armed Joe_; An’ maybe git the sorghum skimmin’s, Thwuzzent allus so many wimmins Bossin’ round, cause _One-Armed Joe_, He loved us chillern bettern them.

(Bet he wears a diadem In the world where preachers go).

Joe had grit and feelin’s, too, An’ they wuzzent nothin’ he couldn’t do, ‘Cept to do another harm: Ketch a possum, kill a bear, Cuss an’ dance, or lead in prayer; Jump a rope, or skin a cat, Make a speech or guess a riddle, Sing a song, or play the fiddle– No, Joe couldn’t quite do that, Cause _One-Armed Joe_ had lost an arm, But that’s all he couldn’t do.

One night dogs treed a c.o.o.n Up a leanin’ poplar tree; Joe could by the glimmerin’ moon See the leanin’ poplar leant: Jerked his coat and up he went; Ketched the possum, let him go, Slipped his holts and hollered, “Oh!”

An’ down into eternity Limp and warm, fell poor old _Joe_!

Don’t remember _One-Armed Joe_?

Feller I’ll bet the angels know!


I’ve read of Bob Burdett, And Billin’s, Twain and Bret And the whole endurin’ set Of funny men, I guess; But I never yit have found, No matter how renowned, A wit that’s ever downed Our Perkins, boys call Wes.

You sildom ketch him lyin’; Not much for speechifyin’; And he ‘pears just half-way tryin’

When he does git off his wit: But dogged if th’aint blame’d few ‘Ll probe you through and through, As Wes is sure to do, For he allus makes a hit.

He’s a humble sort of feller With an eye as soft and meller As an apple golden yeller In the mild September sun: Kinder quare and unconcerned, Like he didn’t kere a derned, But many a feller’s learned That Wes is in for fun.

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