The Boy Convict’s Story

I’d rather sit here, Mr. Sheriff—up near to the end of the car;

We won’t do so much advertising if we stay in the seat where we are.

That sweet little dude saw the bracelets that you on my wrists have bestowed,

And tells the new passengers promptly you’re “taking me over the road.”

I’ve had a well-patronized trial—the neighbors all know of my fall;

But when I get out among strangers, I’m sensitive-like, after all.

For I was a lad of good prospects, some three or four summers ago—

There wasn’t any boy in our township who made a more promising show!

I learned all of Solomon’s proverbs, and took in their goodness and worth,

Till I felt like a virtue-hooped barrel, chock-full of the salt of the earth.

And this precious picnic of sorrow would likely enough have been saved,

If I had had less of a heart, sir, or home had contained what it craved.

For the time when a boy is in danger of walking a little bit wild,

Is when he’s too young to be married, too old to be known as a child;

A bird in the lonely grass thickets, just out of the parent tree thrown,

Too large to be kept in the old nest, too small to have one of his own;

When desolate mid his companions, his soul is a stake to be won;

‘Tis then that the devil stands ready to get a good chance to catch on!

O yes!  I’d a good enough home, sir, so far as the house was concerned;

My parents were first-class providers; I ate full as much as I earned.

My clothes were all built of good timber, and fit every day to be seen

There wasn’t any lock on the pantry, my bedroom was tidy and clean,

And taking the home up and down, sir, I’d more than an average part.

With one quite important exception—there wasn’t any room for my heart.

The house couldn’t have been any colder with snowdrifts in every room;

The house needn’t have been any darker to make a respectable tomb!

I used to stop short on the doorstep, and brace up a minute or more,

And bid good-by to the sunshine, before I would open the door;

I used to feed daily on icebergs, take in all the freeze I could hold,

Then go out and warm in the sunshine, because my poor heart was so cold!

And hadn’t I a father and mother?  O yes! Just as good as they make—

Too good, I have often suspected (though maybe that last’s a mistake).

But they traveled so long and so steady the way to perfection’s abode,

They hadn’t any feeling for fellows who could not as yet find the road;

And so, till some far-advanced milepost on goodness’s pike I could win,

They thought of me, not as their own child, but one of the children of sin.

And hadn’t I brothers and sisters?  O yes! Till they somewhat had grown;

Then shivering, they went off and left me to stand the cold weather alone;

For I had the luck to be youngest, the last on the family page,

The one to prop up the old rooftree, the staff of my parents’ old age,

Who well understood all the uses to which a mere staff is applied;

They used me whenever convenient, then carelessly threw me aside!

And hadn’t I any associates?  O yes! I had friends, more or less,

But seldom I asked them to visit our house with the slightest success.

Whenever the project was mentioned, they’d somehow look blue-like and chill,

And mention another engagement they felt it their duty to fill;

For—now I am only a convict, there’s no harm in telling the truth—

My home was a fearful wet blanket to blood that was seasoned with youth!

Not one blessed thing that was cheerful; no festivals, frolics, or games;

No stories of any description—‘twas wicked to mention their names.

My storybooks suddenly vanished; my checkerboards never would keep;

No newspaper came through our doorway unless it was first put to sleep!

And as for love—well, that old song, sir, is very melodious and fine,

With “No place like home” in the chorus—I hope there ain’t many like mine!

And so, soon my body got hating a place which my soul couldn’t abide,

And Pleasure was all the time smiling, and motioning me to her side;

And when I start out on a journey, I’m likely to go it by leaps

For good or for bad, I’m no halfway—I’m one or the other for keeps.

My wild oats flew thicker and faster; I reaped the same crop that I sowed,

And now I am going to market, I’m taking it over the road!

Yes, it grieved my good father and mother to see me so sadly astray;

They deeply regretted my downfall, in a strictly respectable way;

They gave me some more admonition, and sent me off full of advice,

And wondered to see such a villain from parents so good and precise.

Indeed, I have often conjectured, when full of neglect and its smarts,

I must have been left on the doorstep of their uncongenial hearts!

My home in the prison is waiting—it opens up clear to my sight;

Hard work and no pay day a-coming, a close cell to sleep in at night.

And there I must lie, sad and lonesome, with more tribulation than rest,

And wake in the morning with sorrow sharp sticking like steel in my breast;

But maybe the strain and the trouble won’t quite so much o’er me prevail,

As ‘twould be to some one who wasn’t brought up in a kind of a jail.

You’ve got a good home, Mr. Sheriff, with everything cozy and nice

And ‘tisn’t for a wrist-shackle convict to offer you words of advice;

But this I must say: Of all places your children may visit or call,

Make home the most pleasant and happy, the sweetest and best of them all.

For the devil won’t offer a dollar to have his world chances improved,

When home is turned into a side show, with half the attractions removed!

Don’t think I’m too bitter, good sheriff; I like you; you’ve been very good;

I’m ever and ever so grateful, would pay it all back if I could.

I didn’t mean to slander my parents, I’ve nothing against their good name;

And as for my unrighteous actions, it’s mostly myself that’s to blame.

Still if I’d had a home—but the prison is only one station ahead—

I’m done, Mr. Sheriff; forget me, but don’t forget what I have said!

-       Will Carleton[1]

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[1] Born in 1845, in rural Michigan, Will Carleton was the fifth child and third son of John Hancock and Celeste (Smith) Carleton. In 1869, he graduated from Hillsdale College and delivered on that occasion the poem, Rifts in the Cloud. From there, he worked as a newspaper journalist in Hillsdale, then as editor of the Detroit Weekly Tribune. His first significant work published was Betsy and I Are Out, a poignant tale of a divorce first published in the Toledo Blade, but then reprinted by Harper’s Weekly.  This was followed in 1872 by Over the Hill to the Poor House, developing the plight of the aged and those with indifferent families. This captured national attention and catapulted Carleton into literary prominence —a position he was to hold the rest of his life as he continued to write and to lecture from coast to coast.

In 1878, Will moved to Boston, where he married Anne Goodell. They moved to New York City in 1882. In 1907, he returned to his hometown of Hudson, Michigan as a renowned poet. The Michigan legislature passed a law making it a duty upon teachers to teach at least one of his poems to children in school. Schools and roads are named for him in Michigan, and at one time October 21^st was “Will Carleton Day.”  He died in 1912.

On June 24, 2007, the Associated Press Michigan News reported “the neglected burial plot of the family of rural Michigan poet, Will Carleton, whose 1872 work, Over the Hill to the Poor House, thrust him into national prominence, is getting a makeover.” Sic transit gloria mundi.  (Source: Wikipedia)