IN the farmhouse kitchen were Nan and John,
With only the sunflowers looking on.
Now, a farm-house kitchen is scarce the place
For a knight or lady of courtly grace.
But this was a common, everyday pair
That held the old kitchen, this morning fair.
A persistent and saucy thorn-tree limb
Had sacrified a part of the brim
Of the youth’s straw hat, so his face was brown,
Save his well-shaped forehead, which wore a frown,
And his boots were splashed with the mud and clay
Of the marsh land pastures, over the way,
Where the alders tall, and the spicewood grew,
And the frogs croaked noisily all night through.
’Neath the muslin curtains, snowy and thin,
The big homely sunflowers nodded in.
Nan was worth the watching, her gingham gown
Had, it may be, old-fashioned grown,
But it fitted the slender shape so well,
Was low at the neck where the soft lace fell;
Of sleeves, it had none, from the elbow down,
While in length—well, you see, the maid had grown.
A labor of love was her homely task
To share it, no mortal need hope or ask,
For Nan she was washing each trace of dirt
From fluted bodice, and ruffled skirt.
There are few that will, and fewer that can,
Bend over a tub like our pretty Nan,
As she took each piece from its frothy lair,
The soap bubbles flying high in the air,
And rubbed in a cruel, yet tender way,
Till her curls were wet with the steam and spray,
Then wrung with her two hands, slender and strong,
Examined with care, and shook slowly and long,
Then flung in clear water to lie in state—
Each dainty piece met with the same hard fate.
“There!” and she gave a look of conscious pride
At the rinsing-bucket, so deep and wide,
Then wiping the suds from each rounded arm,
She turned to the youth with a smile so warm;
“I have kept you waiting, excuse me please—
The soap suds just ruin such goods as these.”
“And you are so fond of finery, Nan,
Nice dresses, and furbelows,” he began.
“Ah, maybe I am, of a truth,” she said,
And each sunflower nodded its golden head.
“Well, Ned Brown’s getting rich,” John’s words came slow,
“And, he’s loved you a long while as you know;
My house and my acres, I held them fast,
Was so stubborn over them to the last,
For when my father was carried forth,
And the men were asking, ‘what was he worth?’
I knew that they said, with a nod and a smile,
As they whispered together all the while,
‘’Tis a fine old homestead, but mortgaged so,
What a foolish thing for a man to do!’
And I said, my father is dead and gone,
But he’s left behind him a strong-armed son,
And my heart was hot with a purpose set,
To pay off that mortgage, to clear off that debt.
I’ve worked, heaven knows it, like any slave,
I’ve learned well the lesson of pinch and save,
I’ve kept a good horse, but dressed like a clown—
I haven’t a dollar to call my own.
O, I’m beaten—well beaten! yesterday
Everything went to Ned Brown from me;
My meadows, my acres of tassled corn,
The big orchard planted when I was born.
What I would have saved had I had the choice,
Was my chestnut mare, for she knows your voice.
So I’m only a beggar, Nan, you see—
Don’t fancy I’m begging for sympathy,
You see for yourself that I don’t care much—
Thank God, health’s a thing the law can’t touch!
Why! the happiest man I ever knew
Was born a beggar—and died one too.”
And so wisely nodding each yellow head
The sunflowers they listened to what was said,
As Nan in her careful and easy way,
In the old farmhouse kitchen that summer day,
Set a great and a mighty problem forth—
“Tell me the truth, John, how much am I worth?”
The question has stood since the world began
With Adam, a lone and a lonesome man.
Now the sunbeams kissing her golden hair,
Her cheeks, and her round arms dimpled and bare,
Seemed stamping a value of mighty wealth
On youth and love, and the bloom of health.
John looked, and looked, till his eyes grew dim,
Then tilted the hat with the worthless brim,
To hide what he would not have her see,
“You’re—you’re just worth the whole world, Nan,” said he.
“Then you are no beggar”—O sweet, bold Nan!
“You’re the whole world richer than any man.”
Now, a girl queen wearing a crown of gold
Did something like this, so the tale is told;
But no royal prince that the world has seen
Ever felt quite so proud as John, I ween,
As he clasped both her hands with new-born hope—
Hands all crinkley with water and soap.
Only the sunflowers, now looking on,
So—he kissed the maiden, O foolish John!
As he hastened out through the garden gate,
Ned Brown was just coming to learn his fate.
He was riding a handsome chestnut mare
But, somehow, our John didn’t seem to care.
Ned thought of the acres he’d won from John,
“Poor beggar,” he said, and rode slowly on;
John thought of all he had won from Ned,
“O you poor, poor beggar,” was what he said.
Why? Under the heavens smiling and blue,
Only John and the yellow sunflowers knew.