UNCLE MICAJAH STROUT
Guess that more’n a dozen lawyers, off and on,
from time to time,
Tried to settle down in Hudson, but they
couldn’t earn a dime.
Never got a speck of business, never had a single
case,
Said they never in their travels struck so
blimmed-blammed funny place.
People did a lot of hustling, town was flourish-
ing enough,
—Everybody but the lawyers had his fingers
full of stuff.
Lawyers stayed till they got hungry, then they’d
pull their shingles down
And go tearing off to somewhere, damning right
and left the town.
Told the lawyers round the county, “Hudson’s
bound to starve you out
Till some patriot up and poisons one old cuss
down there named Strout.
’Cause they won’t fork up a fee,
Long’s he’s round to referee.
’Case of difference or doubt
Folks say, 6 Wal, we’ll leave her out
To Uncle Micajah Strout.’”
If a farmer bought a heifer and she didn’t run
to milk,
If a dickerer in horse trades struck a snag or
tried to bilk,
If two parties got to haggling over what a farm
was worth,
Or if breeders split in squabbling over weight or
age or girth;
If a stubborn line-fence quarrel, right-of-way dis-
pute, or deed,
Claim of heirship or of debtor, honest error,
biassed greed,
Rose to foster litigation, no one scurried to the law,
No one belched out objurgations, sputtered oaths,
or threatened war,
For there was a ready resource in a certain plain
old gent,
Unassuming, blunt, and honest. When he said
a thing it went.
So there was no chance for wrangle, disputations,
snarls, or fray,
When the people of the village universally could
say,
“Oh, what’s the use to fuss?
We shall only make a muss.
We can fix it in about
Half a minute. Leave it out
To Uncle Micajah Strout.”
So no wonder all the lawyers banned and cursed
the place, and left;
For contention was but fleeting and the town
was never cleft
By a quarrel or dissension. Rows were always
settled young
By the pacifying magic of. Micajah’s ready
tongue.
When at last his days were ended and he passed
—well, now you bet
That he had the biggest funeral ever seen in
Somerset.
Miss him? Guess we miss Micajah, but if ever
dreams come true,
I’ve a sort of sneaking notion that he hasn’t yet
got through
Settling things for us in Hudson; for I dreamed
—and this is straight—
That I died and went to Heaven, but was yanked
up at the gate.
Peter showed me facts and figures, all the
records, and allowed
That I’d have to take my chances down below
with t’other crowd;
—Said the thing was pretty even, but he had to
draw it fine,
Then commenced to hunt the index for the next
shade in the line.
I protested, and we had it, this and that, and pro
and con,
And I hung and begged and argued when he
told me to move on.
Till at last he called a cherub, sent the little
chap inside,
Owning up that he was bothered as to how he
should decide.
“But I’ll give you all the show.
That I can,” said he. “You know,
I’ve arranged, in case of doubt,
—When it’s close,—to leave it out
To Uncle Micajah’s trout.”