RAIN
Rainin’, is it? So it is—
An’ I knew it would.
When a man has rheumatiz
In this old left stem of his
He can tell as good
When it’s go’n’ to leak
As your fancy weatherman
Down here in Chicago can,
If he thinks a week.
An’ I guess it’s jest because
Rheumatiz an’ Nature’s laws
Sort of work together—
Lots of moisture in the air,
Rheumatiz a-plenty there,
Both mean stormy weather.
This left stem of mine can smell
Water miles away;
This old stem of mine can tell
Fifty furlongs from a well
Where it ought to lay.
An’ I’ll tell you why:
This old stem an’ me has tramped,
Waded, swum an’ drove an’ camped,
Never gittin’ dry,
Forty Winters, forty Springs;
Do you wonder thet she sings
When she smells the water?
If you fellahs really knew
All that laig an’ me went through
Guess you’d think she oughter.
You ain’t never had the luck
Swampin’ in the snow;
None of you ain’t never stuck
To your boot-tops in the muck
When it’s ten below.
There ain’t none of you
Ever drove the Chippeway
In the early days of May
When a norther blew,
When the river water froze
In your boots an’ in your clo’es—
Freezin’, thawin’, freezin’.
If this stem of mine finds out
When there’s water ’round about,
Surely there’s a reason.
An’, besides, there’s quite a line
Of such signs of rain;
There is many another sign
’Ceptin’ this old stem of mine
Thet is just as plain.
There is bunions yet—
Fer a corn er bunion is
’Most as good as rheumatiz
Prophesyin’ wet.
When you see a cat eat grass,
When you see the small-mouth bass
Sendin’ up a bubble,
When you hear a rain-crow caw—
It is simply Nature’s law
Indicatin’ trouble.
Rainin’, is it? So it seems;
It’s a nasty night.
Yonder how the street lamp gleams!—
Like the light you see in dreams,
Soft an’ far an’ white,
Like the light you see
When you let life’s half-hitch slip,
When you kind of lose your grip
On the things thet be.
An’ I sometimes think the shore
Thet we all are headin’ for
Looks so far an’ ghostly
’Cause we’re lookin’ (like to-night
We are lookin’ at the light)
Through a fog-bank mostly.
How the asphalt pavements shine!—
Almost lookin’ clean.
Ev’ry lamp post makes a line
Like the shadow of a pine
On a snowy scene.
In the gutter nigh
Little ripples curl an’ comb,
Little dirty rivers foam,
In an hour to die.
They are like the stream of life,
Full of work an’ play an’ strife,
Proud with splash an’ splutter.
Each believes himself a flood—
Most of us is only mud
Runnin’ down a gutter.
Rainin’? Sure enough it is,
But it ain’t the goods;
Doesn’t git right down to biz
Like the whirling raindrops whiz
Up there in the woods.
It’s a city shower,
Like the other kinds of stuff
In the city, mostly bluff,
Lastin’ fer an hour.
Up there, when it rains, it rains,
Fillin’ rivers, floodin’ plains,
Down the mountains washin’.
Up there when a rain we git,
When we’re really through with it,
Things are jest a-sloshin’.
Fer a rainstorm in the brush
Is the wettest thing,
Ground beneath you soft as mush
An’ around you all a hush,
Not a bird to sing—
Jest the drippin’ slow
Of the raindrops on the leaves,
Spillin’ from a billion eaves
On the earth below;
Jest a blanket in the mire,
Jest a smudgy kind of fire,
Weak an’ slow an’ smoky;
Breakfast—pancakes simply lead;
Dinner—wet an’ soggy bread;
Supper—biscuits soaky.
Rainin’, is it? So it is.
Glad I’m high an’ dry.
When a man has rheumatiz
In this old left stem of his
Keep inside, say I.
Now, this city stuff
Ain’t like woods rain near as wet,
Ain’t like woods rain is, an’ yet
It is wet enough.
Course the woods rain is the best,
It is dampest, healthiest,
Better altogether;
But I guess I’ll stay inside
Tryin’ to be satisfied
With this city weather.