FEEDIN’ THE STOCK
Hear the chorus in that tie-up, runch, ger-
runch, and runch and runch!
—There’s a row of honest critters! Does me
good to hear ’em munch.
When the barn is gettin’ dusky and the sun’s
behind the drifts,
—Touchin’ last the gable winder where the
dancin’ hay-dust sifts,
When the coaxin’ from the tie-up kind o’ hints
it’s five o’clock—
Wal, I’ve got a job that suits me—that’s the
chore of feedin’ stock.
We’ve got patches down to our house—honest
patches, though, and neat,
But we’d rather have the patches than to skinch
on what we eat.
Lots of work, and grub to back ye—that’s a
mighty wholesome creed.
—Critters fust, s’r, that’s my motto—give the
critters all they need. ‘
And the way we do at our house, marm and
me take what is left,
And—wal,—we ain’t goin’ hungry, as you’ll
notice by our heft.
Drat the man that’s calculatin’ when he meas-
ures out his hay,
Groanin’ ev’ry time he pitches ary forkful out
the bay;
Drat the man who feeds out ruff-scuff, wood
and wire from the swale,
’Cause he wants to press his herds’-grass, send
his clover off for sale.
Down to our house we wear patches, but it
ain’t nobody’s biz
Jest as long as them ‘ere critters git the best of
hay there is.
When the cobwebs on the rafters drip with
winter’s early dusk
And the rows of critters’ noses, damp with
breath as sweet as musk,
Toss and tease me from the tie-up—ain’t a job
that suits me more
Than the feedin’ of the cattle—that’s the reg’-
lar wind-up chore.
When I grain ’em or I meal ’em—wal, there’s
plenty in the bin,
And I give ’em quaker measure ev’ry time I
dip down in;
And the hay, wal, now I’ve cut it, and I own
it and it’s mine
And I jab that blamed old fork in, till you’d
think I’d bust a tine.
I ain’t doin’ it for praises—no one sees me but
the pup,
—And I get his apperbation, ‘cause he pounds
his tail, rup, rup!
No, I do it ‘cause I want to; ‘cause I couldn’t
sleep a wink,
If I thought them poor dumb critters lacked for
fodder or for drink.
And to have the scufflin’ barnful give a jolly
little blat
When you open up o’ mornin’s, ah, there’s com-
fort, friend, in that!
And you’ve prob’ly sometimes noticed, when
his cattle hate a man,
That it’s pretty sure his neighbors size him up
on that same plan.
But I’m solid in my tie-up; when I’ve finished
up that chore,
I enjoy it standin’ list’nin’ for a minit at the
door.
And the rustle of the fodder and the nuzzlin’
in the meal
And the runchin’s of their feedin’ make this
humble feller feel
That there ain’t no greater comfort than this
’ere—to understand
That a dozen faithful critters owe their com-
fort to my hand.
Oh, the dim old barn seems homelike, with its
overhanging mows,
With its warm and battened tie-up, full of well-
fed sheep and cows.
Then I shet the door behind me, drop the bar
and drive the pin
And, with Jeff a-waggin’ after, lug the foamin’
milk pails in.
That’s the style of things to our house—marm
and me we don’t pull up
Until ev’ry critter’s eatin’, from the cattle to
the pup.
Then the biskits and the spare-rib and plum
preserves taste good,
For we’re feelin’, me and mother, that we’re
actin’ ’bout’s we should.
Like as can be, after supper mother sews an-
other patch
And she says the duds look trampy, ’cause she
ain’t got goods to match.
Fust of all, though, comes the mealbins and
the hay-mows; after those
If there’s any extry dollars, wal, we’ll see about
new clothes.
But to-night, why, bless ye, mother, pull the
rug acrost the door;
—Warmth and food and peace and comfort—
let’s not pester God for more.