POOR LITTLE JOE.
Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey,
Fur I've brought you sumpin great.
Apples? No, a deal sight better!
Don't you take no interest, wait'
Flowers, Joe,—I know'd you'd like 'em—
Ain't them scrumptious, ain't them high
Tears, my boy, what's them fur, Joey?
There—poor little Joe—don't cry.
I was skippin' past a winder,
Where a bang-up lady sot,
All amongst a lot of bushes—
Each one climbin' from a pot.
Every bush had flowers on it;
Pretty! Mebbe' not! Oh no'
Wish you could a-seen'm growin',
It was such a stunnin show.
Well, I thought of you, poor feller,
Lyin' here so sick and weak,
Never knowin' any comfort,
And I puts on lots o' cheek;
"Missus," says I, "if yo please, mum,
Could I ax you for a rose?
For my little brother, missus,
Never seed one, I suppose."
Then I told her all about you—
How I bringed you up,—poor Joe!
(Lackin' women-folks to do it)
Sich a imp you was, you know—
Till yer got that awful tumble,
Jist as I had broke yer in
(Hard work, too), to earn yer livin'
Blackin' boots for honest tin.
How that tumble crippled of you—
So's you couldn't hyper much—
Joe, it hurted when I see you
For the first time with your crutch.
"But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum,
'Pears to weaken every day."
Joe, she up and went to cuttin'—
That's the how of this bokay.
Say! it seems to me, ole feller,
You is quite yourself to-night;
Kind o' chirk, it's been a fortnight
Sence your eyes have been so bright.
Better! well, I'm glad to hear it!
Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe,
Smellin' of them's made you happy?
Well, I thought it would, you know.
Never see the country did you?
Flowers growin' everywhere!
Sometime when you're better, Joey,
Mebbe I kin take you there.
Flowers in heaven! 'M—I spose so;
Dunno much about it though;
Ain't as fly as wot I might be
On them topics, little Joe.
But I've heerd it hinted somewheres,
That in heaven's golden gates,
Things is everlastin' cheerful,
B'lieve that's wot the Bible states.
Likewise, there folks don't get hungry;
So good people when they dies,
Finds themselves well-fixed for ever—
Joe, my boy, wot ails your eyes?
Thought they looked a Jittle singler.
Oh no! don't you have no fear;
Heaven was made for such as you is—
Joe, what makes you look so queer?
Here—wake up! Oh, don't look that way!
Joe, my boy, hold up your head!
Here's your flowers you dropped 'em, Joey.
Oh, my Joe! can he be dead?
Peleg Arkwright.
* * * * *