to be, what he'll do then."—
  Takes out his jack-knife dreamily
  And makes the Folk-Child two or three
  Crude corn-stalk figures,—a wee span
  Of horses and a little man.

  The Hoosier Folk-Child's eyes are wise
  And wide and round as Brownies' eyes:
  The smile they wear is ever blent
  With all-expectant wonderment,—
  On homeliest things they bend a look
  As rapt as o'er a picture-book,
  And seem to ask, whate'er befall,
  The happy reason of it all:—
  Why grass is all so glad a green,
  And leaves—and what their lispings mean;—
  Why buds grow on the boughs, and why
  They burst in blossom by and by—
  As though the orchard in the breeze
  Had shook and popped its popcorn-trees,
  To lure and whet, as well they might,
  Some seven-league giant's appetite!

  The Hoosier Folk-Child's chubby face
  Has scant refinement, caste or grace,—
  From crown to chin, and cheek to cheek,
  It bears the grimy water-streak
  Of rinsings such as some long rain
  Might drool across the window-pane
  Wherethrough he peers, with troubled frown,
  As some lorn team drives by for town.
  His brow is elfed with wispish hair,
  With tangles in it here and there,
  As though the warlocks snarled it so
  At midmirk when the moon sagged low,
  And boughs did toss and skreek and shake,
  And children moaned themselves awake,
  With fingers clutched, and starting sight
  Blind as the blackness of the night!

  The Hoosier Folk-Child!—Rich is he
  In all the wealth of poverty!
  He owns nor title nor estate,
  Nor speech but half articulate,—
  He owns nor princely robe nor crown;—
  Yet, draped in patched and faded brown,
  He owns the bird-songs of the hills—
  The laughter of the April rills;
  And his are all the diamonds set.
  In Morning's dewy coronet,—
  And his the Dusk's first minted stars
  That twinkle through the pasture-bars,
  And litter all the skies at night
  With glittering scraps of silver light;—
  The rainbow's bar, from rim to rim,
  In beaten gold, belongs to him.

JACK THE GIANT KILLER.

Bad Boy's Version.

  Tell you a story—an' it's a fac':—
  Wunst wuz a little boy, name wuz Jack,
  An' he had sword an' buckle an' strap
  Maked of gold, an' a "'visibul cap;"
  An' he killed Gi'nts 'at et whole cows—
  Th' horns an' all—an' pigs an' sows!
  But Jack, his golding sword wuz, oh!
  So awful sharp 'at he could go
  An' cut th' ole Gi'nts clean in two
  Fore 'ey knowed what he wuz goin' to do!
  An' one ole Gi'nt, he had four
  Heads, and name wuz "Bumblebore"—
  An' he wuz feered o' Jack—'cause he,
  Jack, he killed six—five—ten—three,
  An' all o' th' uther ole Gi'nts but him:
  An' thay wuz a place Jack haf to swim
  'Fore he could git t' ole "Bumblebore"—
  Nen thay was "griffuns" at the door:
  But Jack, he thist plunged in an' swum
  Clean acrost; an' when he come
  To th' uther side, he thist put on
  His "'visibul cap," an' nen, dog-gone!
  You could n't see him at all!—An' so
  He slewed the "griffuns"—boff, you know!
  Nen wuz a horn hunged over his head
  High on th' wall, an' words 'at read,—
  "Whoever kin this trumput blow
  Shall cause the Gi'nt's overth'ow!"
  An' Jack, he thist reached up an' blowed
  The stuffin' out of it! an' th'owed
  Th' castul-gates wide open, an'
  Nen tuck his gold sword in his han',
  An' thist marched in t' ole "Bumblebore,"
  An', 'fore he knowed, he put 'bout four
  Heads on him—an' chopped 'em off, too!—
  Wisht 'at I'd been Jack!—don't you?