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.