Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, CASSANDER, by JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY


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CASSANDER, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Cassander! O cassander!' - her mother's voice seems cle'r
Last Line: "cassander! O cassander!"" jes' a-callin' thataway."
Alternate Author Name(s): Johnson Of Boone, Benj. F.
Subject(s): Children; Marriage; Mothers; Childhood; Weddings; Husbands; Wives


"CASSANDER! O Cassander!" -- her mother's voice seems cle'r
As ever, from the old back-porch, a-hollerin' fer her --
Especially in airly Spring -- like May, two year' ago --
Last time she hollered fer her, -- and Cassander didn't hear!

Cassander was so chirpy-like and sociable and free,
And good to ever'body, and wuz even good to me
Though I wuz jes' a common -- well, a farm-hand, don't you know,
A-workin' on her father's place, as pore as pore could be!

Her bein' jes' a' only child, Cassander had her way
A good-'eal more'n other girls; and neighbers ust to say
She looked most like her Mother, but wuz turned most like her Pap, --
Except he had no use fer town-folks then -- ner yit to-day!

I can't claim she incouraged me: She'd let me drive her in
To town sometimes, on Saturd'ys, and fetch her home ag'in,
Tel onc't she 'scused "Old Moll" and me, -- and some blame' city-chap,
He driv her home, two-forty style, in face o' kith-and-kin.

She even tried to make him stay fer supper, but I 'low
He must 'a' kind o' 'spicioned some objections. -- Anyhow,
Her mother callin' at her, whilst her father stood and shook
His fist, -- the town-chap turnt his team and made his partin' bow.

"Cassander! You, Cassander!" -- hear her mother jes' as plain,
And see Cassander blushin' like the peach tree down the lane,
Whilse I sneaked on apast her, with a sort o' hang-dog look,
A-feelin' cheap as sorghum and as green as sugar-cane!

(You see, I'd skooted when she met her town-beau -- when, in fact,
Ef I'd had sense I'd stayed fer her. -- But sense wuz what I lacked!
So I'd cut home ahead o' her, so's I could tell 'em what
Wuz keepin' her. And -- you know how a jealous fool'll act!)

I past her, I wuz sayin', -- but she never turnt her head;
I swallered-like and cle'red my th'oat -- but that wuz all I said;
And whilse I hoped fer some word back, it wuzn't what I got. --
That girl'll not stay stiller on the day she's layin' dead!

Well, that-air silence lasted! -- Ust to listen ever' day
I'd be at work and hear her mother callin' thataway;
I'd sight Cassander, mayby, cuttin' home acrost the blue
And drizzly fields; but nary answer -- nary word to say!

Putt in about two weeks o' that -- two weeks o' rain and mud,
Er mostly so: I couldn't plow. The old crick like a flood:
And, lonesome as a borried dog, I'd wade them old woods through --
The dogwood blossoms white as snow, and redbuds red as blood.

Last time her mother called her -- sich a morning like as now:
The robins and the bluebirds, and the blossoms on the bough --
And this wuz yit 'fore brekfust, with the sun out at his best,
And hosses kickin' in the barn -- and dry enough to plow.

"Cassander! O Cassander!" . . . And her only answer -- What? --
A letter, twisted round the cook-stove damper, smokin'-hot,
A-statin': "I wuz married on that day of all the rest,
The day my husband fetched me home -- ef you ain't all fergot!"

"Cassander! O Cassander!" seems, allus, 'long in May,
I hear her mother callin' her -- a-callin', night and day --
"Cassander! O Cassander!" allus callin', as I say,
"Cassander! O Cassander!" jes' a-callin' thataway.





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