IN DIALECT
Old Fashioned Roses
They ain't no style about 'em,
And they're sorto' pale and faded,
Yit the doorway here, without 'em,
Would be lonesomer, and shaded
With a good 'eal blacker shudder
Than the morning-glories makes,
And the sunshine would look sadder
Fer their good old-fashion' sakes.
I like 'em 'cause they kindo'—
Sorto' make a feller like 'em!
And I tell you, when I find a
Bunch out whur the sun kin strike 'em,
It allus sets me thinkin'
O' the ones 'at used to grow
And peek in thro' the chinkin'
O' the cabin, don't you know!
And then I think o' mother,
And how she ust to love 'em—
When they wuzn't any other,
'Less she found 'em up above 'em!
And her eyes, afore she shut 'em,
Whispered with a smile and said
We must pick a bunch and putt 'em
In her hand when she wuz dead.
But as I wuz a-sayin',
They ain't no style about 'em
Very gaudy er displayin',
But I wouldn't be without 'em—,
'Cause I'm happier in these posies,
And the hollyhawks and sich,
Than the hummin'-bird 'at noses
In the roses of the rich.
Griggsby's Station
Pap's got his patent-right, and rich is all creation;
But where's the peace and comfort that we all had before?
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
The likes of us a-livin' here! It's jest a mortal pity
To see us in this great big house, with cyarpets on the stairs,
And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! City! City
And nothin' but the city all around us ever'wheres!
Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple,
And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree!
And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people,
And none that neighbors with us or we want to go and see!
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—
Back where the latch-strings a-hangin' from the door,
And ever' neighbor round the place is dear as a relation—
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit-and-bilin',
A-drivin' up from Shallor Ford to stay the Sunday through;
And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their son-in-law's and pilin'
Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they ust to do!
I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones girls is makin';
And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired hand,
And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigh a-takin',
Till her Pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his land.
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—
Back where they's nothin' aggervatin' any more,
Shet away safe in the woods around the old location—
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
I want to see Marindy and he'p her with her sewin',
And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and gone,
And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he's growin',
And smile as I have saw her 'fore she putt her mournin' on.
And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower eighty,
Where John, our oldest boy, he was tuk and burried— for
His own sake and Katy's—, and I want to cry with Katy
As she reads all his letters over, writ from The War.
What's in all this grand life and high situation,
And nary pink nor hollyhawk a-bloomin' at the door—?
Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—
Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
Knee Deep in June
1
Tell you what I like the best—
'Long about knee-deep in June,
'Bout the time strawberries melts
On the vine—, some afternoon
Like to jes' git out and rest,
And not work at nothin' else!
2
Orchard's where I'd ruther be—
Needn't fence it in fer me—!
Jes' the whole sky overhead,
And the whole airth underneath—
Sorto' so's a man kin breathe
Like he ort, and kindo' has
Elbow-room to keerlessly
Sprawl out len'thways on the grass
Where the shadders thick and soft
As the kivvers on the bed
Mother fixes in the loft
Allus, when they's company!
3
Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there—
S'lazy, 'at you peeks and peer
Through the wavin' leaves above,
Like a feller 'ats in love
And don't know it, ner don't keer!
Ever'thing you hear and see
Got some sort o' interest—
Maybe find a bluebird's nest
Tucked up there conveenently
Fer the boy 'at's ap' to be
Up some other apple-tree!
Watch the swallers skootin' past
'Bout as peert as you could ast;
Er the Bob-white raise and whiz
Where some other's whistle is.
4
Ketch a shadder down below,
And look up to find the crow—
Er a hawk—, away up there
'Pearantly froze in the air—!
Hear the old hen squawk, and squat
Over ever' chick she's got,
Suddent-like—! And she knows where
That-air hawk is, well as you—!
You jes' bet yer life she do—!
Eyes a-glittern' like glass,
Waitin' till he makes a pass!
5
Pee-wees' singin', to express
My opinion, 's second class,
Yit you'll hear 'em more er less;
Sapsucks gittin' down to biz,
Weedin' out the lonesomeness;
Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass,
In them base-ball clothes o' his,
Sportin' round the orchard jes'
Life he owned the premises!
Sun out in the fields kin sizz,
But flat on yer back, I guess,
In the shade's where glory is!
That's jes' what I'd like to do
Stiddy fer a year er two!
6
Plague! Ef they ain't somepin' in
Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in'
My convictions—! 'Long about
Here in June especially—!
Under some old apple-tree,
Jes' a-restin' through and through,
I could git along without
Nothin' else at all to do
Only jes' a-wishin' you
Wuz a-gittin' there like me,
And June was eternity!
7
Lay out there and try to see
Jes' how lazy you kin be—!
Tumble round and souse yer head
In the clover-bloom, er pull
Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes
And peek through it at the skies,
Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead,
Maybe, smilin' back at you
In betwixt the 'beautiful
Clouds o' gold and white and blue—!
Month a man kin railly love
June, you know, I'm talkin' of!
8
March ain't never nothin' new—!
Aprile's altogether too
Brash fer me! And May— I jes'
'Bominate its promises—,
Little hints o' sunshine and
Green around the timber-land—
A few blossoms, and a few
Chip-birds, and a sprout er two—,
Drap asleep, and it turns in
'Fore daylight and snows ag'in—!
But when June comes— Clear my th'oat
With wild honey—! Rench my hair
In the dew! And hold my coat!
Whoop out loud! And th'ow my hat—!
June wants me, and I'm to spare!
Spread them shadders anywhere,
I'll git down and waller there,
And obleeged to you at that!
When The Hearse Comes Back
A thing 'at's 'bout as tryin' as a healthy man kin meet
Is some poor feller's funeral a-joggin' 'long the street:
The slow hearse and the hosses— slow enough, to say at least,
Fer to even tax the patience of gentleman deceased!
The low scrunch of the gravel— and the slow grind of the wheels—,
The slow, slow go of ev'ry woe 'at ev'rybody feels!
So I ruther like the contrast when I hear the whip-lash crack
A quickstep fer the hosses,
When the
Hearse
Comes
Back!
Meet it goin' to'rds the cimet'ry, you'll want to drap yer eyes—
But ef the plumes don't fetch you, it'll ketch you otherwise—
You'll haf to see the caskit, though you'd ort to look away
And 'conomize and save yer sighs fer any other day!
Yer sympathizin' won't wake up the sleeper from his rest—
Yer tears won't thaw them hands o' his 'at's froze acrost his breast!
And this is why— when airth and sky's a gittin blurred and black—
I like the flash and hurry
When the
Hearse
Comes
Back!
It's not 'cause I don't 'preciate it ain't no time fer jokes,
Ner 'cause I' got no common human feelin' fer the folks—;
I've went to funerals myse'f, and tuk on some, perhaps—
Fer my hearth's 'bout as mal'able as any other chap's—,
I've buried father, mother— But I'll haf to jes' git you
To "excuse me," as the feller says—. The p'int I'm drivin' to
Is simply when we're plum broke down and all knocked out o' whack,
It he'ps to shape us up like,
When the
Hearse
Comes
Back!
The idy! Wadin round here over shoe-mouth deep in woe,
When they's a graded 'pike o' joy and sunshine don't you know!
When evening strikes the pastur', cows'll pull out fer the bars,
And skittish-like from out the night'll prance the happy stars.
And so when my time comes to die, and I've got ary friend
'At wants expressed my last request— I'll mebby, rickommend
To drive slow, ef they haf to, goin' 'long the out'ard track,
But I'll smile and say, "You speed 'em
When the
Hearse
Comes
Back!"
A Canary At the Farm
Folks has be'n to town, and Sahry
Fetched 'er home a pet canary—,
And of all the blame', contrary,
Aggervatin' things alive!
I love music— that I love it
When it's free— and plenty of it—;
But I kindo' git above it,
At a dollar-eighty-five!
Reason's plain as I'm a-sayin'—,
Jes' the idy, now, o' layin'
Out yer money, and a-payin'
Fer a willer-cage and bird,
When the medder-larks is wingin'
Round you, and the woods is ringin'
With the beautifullest singin'
That a mortal ever heard!
Sahry's sot, tho'—. So I tell her
He's a purty little feller,
With his wings o' creamy-yeller,
And his eyes keen as a cat;
And the twitter o' the critter
'Pears to absolutely glitter!
Guess I'll haf to go and git her
A high-priceter cage 'n that!
A Liz Town Humorist
Settin' round the stove, last night,
Down at Wess's store, was me
And Mart Strimples, Tunk, and White,
And Doc Bills, and two er three
Fellers o' the Mudsock tribe
No use tryin' to describe!
And says Doc, he says, says he—,
"Talkin' 'bout good things to eat,
Ripe mushmillon's hard to beat!"
I chawed on. And Mart he 'lowed
Wortermillon beat the mush—.
"Red," he says, "and juicy— Hush—!
I'll jes' leave it to the crowd!"
Then a Mudsock chap, says he—,
"Punkin's good enough fer me—
Punkin pies, I mean," he says—,
Them beats millons—! What say, Wess?
I chawed on. And Wess says—, "Well,
You jes' fetch that wife of mine
All yer wortermillon-rine—,
And she'll bile it down a spell—
In with sorghum, I suppose,
And what else, Lord only knows—!
But I'm here to tell all hands
Them p'serves meets my demands!"
I chawed on. And White he says—,
"Well, I'll jes' stand, in with Wess—
I'm no hog!" And Tunk says—, "I
Guess I'll pastur' out on pie
With the Mudsock boys!" says he;
"Now what's yourn?" he says to me:
I chawed on— fer— quite a spell
Then I speaks up, slow and dry—,
Jes' tobacker!" I-says-I—.
And you'd ort o' heerd 'em yell!
Kingry's Mill
On old Brandywine— about
Where White's Lots is now laid out,
And the old crick narries down
To the ditch that splits the town—,
Kingry's Mill stood. Hardly see
Where the old dam ust to be;
Shallor, long, dry trought o' grass
Where the old race ust to pass!
That's be'n forty years ago—
Forty years o' frost and snow—
Forty years o' shade and shine
Sence them boyhood-days o' mine—!
All the old landmarks o' town.
Changed about, er rotted down!
Where's the Tanyard? Where's the Still?
Tell me where's old Kingry's Mill?
Don't seem furder back, to me,
I'll be dogg'd! Than yisterd'y,
Since us fellers, in bare feet
And straw hats, went through the wheat,
Cuttin' 'crost the shortest shoot
Fer that-air old ellum root
Jest above the mill-dam— where
The blame' cars now crosses there!
Through the willers down the crick
We could see the old mill stick
Its red gable up, as if
It jest knowed we'd stol'd the skiff!
See the winders in the sun
Blink like they wuz wonderun'
What the miller ort to do
With sich boys as me and you!
But old Kingry—! Who could fear
That old chap, with all his cheer—?
Leanin' at the window-sill,
Er the half-door o' the mill,
Swoppin' lies, and pokin' fun,
'N jigglin' like his hoppers done—
Laughin' grists o' gold and red
Right out o' the wagon-bed!
What did he keer where we went—?
"Jest keep out o' devilment,
And don't fool around the belts,
Bolts, ner burrs, ner nothin' else
'Bout the blame machinery,
And that's all I ast!" says-ee.
Then we'd climb the stairs, and play
In the bran-bins half the day!
Rickollect the dusty wall,
And the spider-webs, and all!
Rickollect the trimblin' spout
Where the meal come josslln' out—
Stand and comb yer fingers through
The fool-truck an hour er two—
Felt so sorto' warm-like and
Soothin' to a feller's hand!
Climb, high up above the stream,
And "coon" out the wobbly beam
And peek down from out the lof'
Where the weather-boards was off—
Gee-mun-nee! w'y, it takes grit
Even jest to think of it—!
Lookin' 'way down there below
On the worter roarin' so!
Rickollect the flume, and wheel,
And the worter slosh and reel
And jest ravel out in froth
Flossier'n satin cloth!
Rickollect them paddles jest
Knock the bubbles galley-west,
And plunge under, and come up
Drippin' like a worter-pup!
And to see them old things gone
That I onc't was bettin' on,
In rale p'int o' fact, I feel
kindo' like that worter-wheel—,
Sorto' drippy-like and wet
Round the eyes— but paddlin' yet,
And in mem'ry, loafin' still
Down around old Kingry's Mill!
Joney
Had a hare-lip— Joney had:
Spiled his looks, and Joney knowed it:
Fellers tried to bore him, bad—
But ef ever he got mad,
He kep' still and never showed it.
'Druther have his mouth all pouted
And split up, and like it wuz,
Than the ones 'at laughed about it.
Purty is as purty does!
Had to listen ruther clos't
'Fore you knowed "what he wuz givin'
You; and yet, without no boast,
Joney he wuz jest the most
Entertainin' talker livin'!
Take the Scriptur's and run through 'em,
Might say, like a' auctioneer,
And 'ud argy and review 'em
'At wuz beautiful to hear!
Hare-lip and inpediment,
Both wuz bad, and both ag'in' him—
But the old folks where he went,
'Preared like, knowin' his intent,
'Scused his mouth fer what wuz in him.
And the childern all loved Joney—
And he loved 'em back, you bet—!
Putt their arms around him— on'y
None had ever kissed him yet!
In young company, someway,
Boys 'ud grin at one another
On the sly; and girls 'ud lay
Low, with nothin' much to say,
Er leave Joney with their mother.
Many and many a time he's fetched 'em
Candy by the paper sack,
And turned right around and ketched 'em
Makin mouths behind his back!
S'prised sometimes, the slurs he took—.
Chap said onc't his mouth looked sorter
Like a fish's mouth 'ud look
When he'd be'n jerked off the hook
And plunked back into the worter—.
Same durn feller— it's su'prisin',
But it's facts— 'at stood and cherred
From the bank that big babtizin'
'Pike-bridge accident occurred—!
Cherred for Joney while he give
Life to little childern drowndin'!
Which wuz fittenest to live—
Him 'at cherred, er him 'at div'
And saved thirteen lives...? They found one
Body, three days later, floated
Down the by-o, eight mile' south,
All so colored-up and bloated—
On'y knowed him by his mouth!
Had a hare-lip— Joney had—
Folks 'at filed apast all knowed it—.
Them 'at ust to smile looked sad,
But ef he thought good er bad,
He kep' still and never showed it.
'Druther have that mouth, all pouted
And split up, and like it wuz,
Than the ones 'at laughed about it—.
Purty is as purty does!
Like His Mother Used To Make
"Uncle Jake's Place," St. Jo, Mo., 1874
"I was born in Indiany," says a stranger, lank and slim,
As us fellers in the restarunt was kindo' guyin' him,
And Uncle Jake was slidin' him another punkin pie
And a' extry cup o' coffee, with a twinkle in his eye.
"I was born in Indiany— more'n forty year' ago—
I hain't be'n back in twenty— and I'm workin' back'ards slow;
But I've et in ever' restarunt 'twixt here and Santy Fee,
And I want to state this coffee tastes like gittin' home, to me!"
"Pour us out another, Daddy," says the feller, warmin' up,
A-speakin' 'cost a saucerful, as Uncle tuk his cup—,
"When I seed yer sign out yander," he went on, to Uncle Jake- -,
"'Come in and git some coffee like yer mother used to make'—
I thought of my old mother, and the Posey County farm,
And me a little kid ag'in, a-hangin' in her arm,
As she set the pot: a-bilin', broke the eggs and poured 'em in—"
And the feller kindo' halted, with a trimble in his chin:
And Uncle Jake he fetched the feller's coffee back, and stood
As solemn, fer a minute, as a' undertaker would;
Then he sorto' turned and tiptoed to'rds the kitchen door— and nex',
Here comes his old wife out with him, a-rubbin' of her specs—
And she rushes fer the stranger, and she hollers out, "It's him—!
Thank God we've met him comin'—! Don't you know, yer mother, Jim?"
And the feller, as he grabbed her, says—, "You bet I hain't forgot—
But," wipin' of his eyes, says he, "yer coffee's mighty hot!"
The Train Misser
At Union Station
'Ll where in the world my eyes has bin—
Ef I hain't missed that train ag'in!
Chuff! And whistle! And toot! And ring!
But blast and blister the dasted train—!
How it does it I can't explain!
Git here thirty-five minutes before
The durn things due—! And, drat the thing
It'll manage to git past-shore!
The more I travel around, the more
I got no sense—! To stand right here
And let it beat me! 'Ll ding my melts!
I got no gumption, ner nothin' else!
Ticket Agent's a dad-burned bore—!
Sell you a tickets all they keer—!
Ticket Agents ort to all be
Prosecuted— and that's jes what—!
How'd I know which train's fer me?
And how'd I know which train was not—?
Goern and comin' and gone astray,
And backin' and switchin' ever'-which-way!
Ef I could jes sneak round behind
Myse'f, where I could git full swing,
I'd lift my coat, and kick, by jing!
Till I jes got jerked up and fined—!
Fer here I stood, as a durn fool's apt
To, and let that train jes chuff and choo
Right apast me— and mouth jes gapped
Like a blamed old sandwitch warped in two!
Granny
Granny's come to our house,
And ho! My lawzy-daisy!
All the childern round the place
Is ist a-runnin' crazy!
Fetched a cake fer little Jake,
And fetched a pie fer Nanny,
And fetched a pear fer all the pack
That runs to kiss their Granny!
Lucy Ellen's in her lap,
And Wade and Silas Walker
Both's a ridin' on her foot,
And 'Pollos on the rocker;
And Marthy's twins, from Aunt Marinn's
And little Orphant Annie,
All's a-eatin' gingerbread
And giggle-un at Granny!
Tells us all the fairy tales
Ever thought er wundered—
And 'bundance o' other stories—
Bet she knows a hunderd—!
Bob's the one fer "Whittington,"
And "Golden Locks" fer Fanny!
Hear 'em laugh and clap their hands,
Listenin' at Granny!
"Jack the Giant-Killer" 's good;
And "Bean-Stalk" 's another—!
So's the one of "Cinderell'"
And her old godmother—;
That-un's best of all the rest—
Bestest one of any—,
Where the mices scampers home
Like we runs to Granny!
Granny's come to our house,
Ho! My lawzy-daisy!
All the childern round the place
Is ist a runnin' crazy!
Fetched a cake fer little Jake,
And fetched a pie fer Nanny,
And fetched a pear fer all the pack
That runs to kiss their Granny!
Old October
Old October's purt' nigh gone,
And the frosts is comin' on
Little heavier every day—
Like our hearts is thataway!
Leaves is changin' overhead
Back from green to gray and red,
Brown and yeller, with their stems
Loosenin' on the oaks and e'ms;
And the balance of the trees
Gittin' balder every breeze—
Like the heads we're scratchin' on!
Old October's purt' nigh gone.
I love Old October so,
I can't bear to see her go—
Seems to me like losin' some
Old-home relative er chum—
'Pears like sorto' settin' by
Some old friend 'at sigh by sigh
Was a-passin' out o' sight
Into everlastin' night!
Hickernuts a feller hears
Rattlin' down is more like tears
Drappin' on the leaves below—
I love Old October so!
Can't tell what it is about
Old October knock me out—!
I sleep well enough at night—
And the blamedest appetite
Ever mortal man possessed—,
Last thing et, it tastes the best—!
Warnuts, butternuts, pawpaws,
'Iles and limbers up my jaws
Fer raal service, sich as new
Pork, spareribs, and sausage, too—.
Yit fer all, they's somepin' 'bout
Old October knocks me out!
Jim
He was jes a plain ever'-day, all-round kind of a jour.,
Consumpted-Iookin'— but la!
The jokeiest, wittiest, story-tellin', song-singin', laughin'est, jolliest
Feller you ever saw!
Worked at jes coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine enough in his talk,
And his feelin's too!
Lordy! Ef he was on'y back on his bench ag'in to-day, a- carryin' on
Like he ust to do!
Any shopmate'll tell you there never was, on top o' dirt,
A better feller'n Jim!
You want a favor, and couldn't git it anywheres else—
You could git it o' him!
Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess!
Give up ever' nickel he's worth—
And ef you'd a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it was his,
He'd a-give you the earth!
Allus a reachin' out, Jim was, and a-he'ppin' some
Pore feller onto his feet—
He'd a-never a-keered how hungry he was hisse'f,
So's the feller got somepin' to eat!
Didn't make no differ'nce at all to him how he was dressed,
He ust to say to me—,
"You togg out a tramp purty comfortable in winter-time, a huntin' a job,
And he'll git along!" says he.
Jim didn't have, ner never could git ahead, so overly much
O' this world's goods at a time—.
'Fore now I've saw him, more'n onc't, lend a dollar, and haf to, more'n
likely,
Turn round and borry a dime!
Mebby laugh and joke about it hisse'f fer awhile— then jerk his coat,
And kindo' square his chin,
Tie on his apern, and squat hisse'f on his old shoe-bench,
And go to peggin' ag'in!
Patientest feller too, I reckon, 'at ever jes natchurly
Coughed hisse'f to death!
Long enough after his voice was lost he'd laugh in a whisper and say
He could git ever'thing but his breath—
"You fellers," he'd sorto' twinkle his eyes and say,
"Is a-pilin' onto me
A mighty big debt fer that-air little weak-chested ghost o' mine to pack
Through all Eternity!"
Now there was a man 'at jes 'peared-like, to me,
'At ortn't a-never a-died!
"But death hain't a-showin' no favors," the old boss said—
"On'y to Jim!" and cried:
And Wigger, who puts up the best sewed-work in the shop—
Er the whole blame neighborhood—,
He says, "When God made Jim, I bet you He didn't do anything else that day
But jes set around and feel good!"
To Robert Burns
Sweet Singer that I loe the maist
O' ony, sin' wi' eager haste
I smacket bairn-lips ower the taste
O' hinnied sang,
I hail thee, though a blessed ghaist
In Heaven lang!
For weel I ken, nae cantie phrase,
Nor courtly airs, nor lairdly ways,
Could gar me freer blame, or praise,
Or proffer hand,
Where "Rantin' Robbie" and his lays
Thegither stand.
And sae these hamely lines I send,
Wi' jinglin' words at ilka end,
In echo o' the sangs that wend
Frae thee to me
Like simmer-brooks, wi mony a bend
O' wimplin' glee.
In fancy, as wi' dewy een,
I part the clouds aboon the scene
Where thou wast born, and peer atween,
I see nae spot
In a' the Hielands half sae green
And unforgot?
I see nae storied castle-hall,
Wi' banners flauntin' ower the wall
And serf and page in ready call,
Sae grand to me
As ane puir cotter's hut, wi' all
Its poverty.
There where the simple daisy grew
Sae bonnie sweet, and modest too,
Thy liltin' filled its wee head fu'
O' sic a grace,
It aye is weepin' tears o' dew
Wi' droopit face.
Frae where the heather bluebells fling
Their sangs o' fragrance to the Spring,
To where the lavrock soars to sing,
Still lives thy strain,
For' a' the birds are twittering
Sangs like thine ain.
And aye, by light o' sun or moon,
By banks o' Ayr, or Bonnie Doon,
The waters lilt nae tender tune
But sweeter seems
Because they poured their limpid rune
Through a' thy dreams.
Wi' brimmin' lip, and laughin' ee,
Thou shookest even Grief wi' glee,
Yet had nae niggart sympathy
Where Sorrow bowed,
But gavest a' thy tears as free
As a' thy gowd.
And sae it is we be thy name
To see bleeze up wi' sic a flame,
That a' pretentious stars o' fame
Maun blink asklent,
To see how simple worth may shame
Their brightest glent.
A New Year's Time at Willards's
1
The Hired Man Talks
There's old man Willards; an' his wife;
An' Marg'et— S'repty's sister—; an'
There's me— an' I'm the hired man;
An' Tomps McClure, you better yer life!
Well now, old Willards hain't so bad,
Considerin' the chance he's had.
Of course, he's rich, an' sleeps an' eats
Whenever he's a mind to: Takes
An' leans back in the Amen-seats
An' thanks the Lord fer all he makes—.
That's purty much all folks has got
Ag'inst the old man, like as not!
But there's his woman— jes the turn
Of them-air two wild girls o' hern—
Marg'et an' S'repty— allus in
Fer any cuttin'-up concern—
Church festibals, and foolishin'
Round Christmas-trees, an' New Year's sprees—
Set up to watch the Old Year go
An' New Year come— sich things as these;
An' turkey-dinners, don't you know!
S'repty's younger, an' more gay,
An' purtier, an' finer dressed
Than Marg'et is— but, lawzy-day!
She hain't the independentest!
"Take care!" old Willards used to say,
"Take care—! Let Marg'et have her way,
An' S'repty, you go off an' play
On your melodeum—!" But, best
Of all, comes Tomps! An' I'll be bound,
Ef he hain't jes the beatin'est
Young chap in all the country round!
Ef you knowed Tomps you'd like him, shore!
They hain't no man on top o' ground
Walks into my affections more—!
An' all the Settlement'll say
That Tomps was liked jes thataway
By ever'body, till he tuk
A shine to S'repty Willards—. Then
You'd ort'o see the old man buck
An' h'ist hisse'f, an' paw the dirt,
An' hint that "common workin'-men
That didn't want their feelin's hurt
'Ud better hunt fer 'comp'ny' where
The folks was pore an' didn't care—!"
The pine-blank facts is—, the old man,
Last Christmas was a year ago,
Found out some presents Tomps had got
Fer S'repty, an' hit made him hot—
Set down an' tuk his pen in hand
An' writ to Tomps an' told him so
On legal cap, in white an' black,
An' give him jes to understand
"No Christmas-gifts o' 'lily-white'
An' bear's-ile could fix matters right,"
An' wropped 'em up an' sent 'em back!
Well, S'repty cried an' snuffled round
Consid'able. But Marg'et she
Toed out another sock, an' wound
Her knittin' up, an' drawed the tea,
An' then set on the supper-things,
An' went up in the loft an' dressed—
An' through it all you'd never guessed
What she was up to! An' she brings
Her best hat with her an her shawl,
An' gloves, an' redicule, an' all,
An' injirubbers, an' comes down
An' tells 'em she's a-goin' to town
To he'p the Christmas goin's-on
Her Church got up. An' go she does—
The best hosswoman ever was!
"An" what'll We do while you're gone?"
The old man says, a-tryin' to be
Agreeable. "Oh! You?" says she—,
"You kin jaw S'repty, like you did,
An' slander Tomps!" An' off she rid!
Now, this is all I'm goin' to tell
Of this-here story— that is, I
Have done my very level best
As fur as this, an' here I "dwell,"
As auctioneers says, winkin' sly:
Hit's old man Willards tells the rest.
2
The Old Man Talks
Adzackly jes one year ago,
This New Year's day, Tomps comes to me—
In my own house, an' whilse the folks
Was gittin' dinner—, an' he pokes
His nose right in, an' says, says he:
"I got yer note— an' read it slow!
You don't like me, ner I don't you,"
He says—, "we're even there, you know!
But you've said, furder that no gal
Of yourn kin marry me, er shall,
An' I'd best shet off comin', too!"
An' then he says—, "Well, them's Your views—;
But havin' talked with S'repty, we
Have both agreed to disagree
With your peculiar notions— some;
An', that s the reason, I refuse
To quit a-comin' here, but come—
Not fer to threat, ner raise no skeer
An' spile yer turkey-dinner here—,
But jes fer S'repty's sake, to sheer
Yer New Year's. Shall I take a cheer?"
Well, blame-don! Ef I ever see
Sich impidence! I couldn't say
Not nary word! But Mother she
Sot out a cheer fer Tomps, an' they
Shuk hands an' turnt their back on me.
Then I riz— mad as mad could be—!
But Marg'et says—, "Now, Pap! You set
Right where you're settin'—! Don't you fret!
An' Tomps— you warm yer feet!" says she,
"An throw yer mitts an' comfert on
The bed there! Where is S'repty gone!
The cabbage is a-scortchin'! Ma,
Stop cryin' there an' stir the slaw!"
Well—! What was Mother cryin' fer—?
I half riz up— but Marg'et's chin
Hit squared— an' I set down ag'in—
I allus was afeard o' her,
I was, by jucks! So there I set,
Betwixt a sinkin'-chill an' sweat,
An' scuffled with my wrath, an' shet
My teeth to mighty tight, you bet!
An' yit, fer all that I could do,
I eeched to jes git up an' whet
The carvin'-knife a rasp er two
On Tomps's ribs— an' so would you—!
Fer he had riz an' faced around,
An' stood there, smilin', as they brung
The turkey in, all stuffed an' browned—
Too sweet fer nose, er tooth, er tongue!
With sniffs o' sage, an' p'r'aps a dash
Of old burnt brandy, steamin'-hot
Mixed kindo' in with apple-mash
An' mince-meat, an' the Lord knows what!
Nobody was a-talkin' then,
To 'filiate any awk'ardness—
No noise o' any kind but jes
The rattle o' the dishes when
They'd fetch 'em in an' set 'em down,
An' fix an' change 'em round an' round,
Like women does— till Mother says—,
"Vittels is ready; Abner, call
Down S'repty— she's up-stairs, I guess—."
And Marg'et she says, "Ef you bawl
Like that, she'll not come down at all!
Besides, we needn't wait till she
Gits down! Here Temps, set down by me,
An' Pap: say grace...!" Well, there I was—!
What could I do! I drapped my head
Behind my fists an' groaned; an' said—:
"Indulgent Parent! In Thy cause
We bow the head an' bend the knee
An' break the bread, an' pour the wine,
Feelin'—" (The stair-door suddently
Went bang! An' S'repty flounced by me—)
"Feelin'," I says, "this feast is Thine—
This New Year's feast—" an' rap-rap-rap!
Went Marg'ets case-knife on her plate—
An' next, I heerd a sasser drap—,
Then I looked up, an' strange to state,
There S'repty set in Tomps lap—
An' huggin' him, as shore as fate!
An' Mother kissin' him k-slap!
An' Marg'et— she chips in to drap
The ruther peert remark to me—:
"That 'grace' o' yourn," she says, "won't 'gee'—
This hain't no 'New Year's feast,'" says she—,
"This is a' Infair-Dinner, Pap!"
An' so it was—! Be'n married fer
Purt' nigh a week—! 'Twas Marg'et planned
The whole thing fer 'em, through an' through.
I'm rickonciled; an' understand,
I take things jes as they occur—,
Ef Marg'et liked Tomps, Tomps 'ud do—!
But I-says-I, a-holt his hand—,
"I'm glad you didn't marry Her—
'Cause Marg'et's my guardeen— yes-sir—!
An' S'repty's good enough fer you!"
The Town Karnteel
The Town Karnteel—! It's who'll reveal
Its praises jushtifiable?
For who can sing av anything
So lovely and reliable?
Whin Summer, Spring, or Winter lies
From Malin's Head to Tipperary,
There's no such town for interprise
Bechuxt Youghal and Londonderry!
There's not its likes in Ireland—
For twic't the week, be gorries!
They're playing jigs upon the band,
And joomping there in sacks— and— and—
And racing, wid wheelborries!
Kanteel— it's there, like any fair,
The purty gurrls is plinty, sure—!
And man-alive! At forty-five
The leg's av me air twinty, sure!
I lave me cares, and hoein' too,
Behint me, as is sinsible,
And it's Karnteel I'm goin' to,
To cilebrate in principle!
For there's the town av all the land!
And twic't the week, be-gorries!
They're playing jigs upon the band,
And joomping there in sacks— and— and—
And racing, wid wheelborries!
And whilst I feel for owld Karnteel
That I've no phrases glorious,
It stands above the need av love
That boasts in voice uproarious—!
Lave that for Cork, and Dublin too,
And Armagh and Killarney thin—,
And Karnteel won't be troublin' you
Wid any jilous blarney, thin!
For there's the town av all the land
Where twic't the week, be-gorries!
They're playing jigs upon the band,
And joomping there in sacks— and— and—
And racing, wid wheelborries!
Regardin' Terry Hut
Sence I tuk holt o' Gibbses' Churn
And be'n a-handlin' the concern,
I've travelled round the grand old State
Of Indiany, lots, o' late—!
I've canvassed Crawferdsville and sweat
Around the town o' Layfayette;
I've saw a many a County-seat
I ust to think was hard to beat:
At constant dreenage and expense
I've worked Greencastle and Vincennes—
Drapped out o' Putnam into Clay,
Owen, and on down thataway
Plum into Knox, on the back-track
Fer home ag'in— and glad I'm back—!
I've saw these towns, as I say— but
They's none 'at beats old Terry Hut!
It's more'n likely you'll insist
I claim this 'cause I'm prejudist,
Bein' born'd here in ole Vygo
In sight o' Terry Hut—; but no,
Yer clean dead wrong—! And I maintain
They's nary drap in ary vein
O' mine but what's as free as air
To jest take issue with you there—!
'Cause, boy and man, fer forty year,
I've argied ag'inst livin' here,
And jawed around and traded lies
About our lack o' enterprise,
And tuk and turned in and agreed
All other towns was in the lead,
When— drat my melts—! They couldn't cut
No shine a-tall with Terry Hut!
Take even, statesmanship, and wit,
And ginerel git-up-and-git,
Old Terry Hut is sound clean through—!
Turn old Dick Thompson loose, er Dan
Vorehees— and where's they any man
Kin even hold a candle to
Their eloquence—? And where's as clean
A fi-nan-seer as Rile' McKeen—
Er puorer, in his daily walk,
In railroad er in racin' stock!
And there's 'Gene Debs— a man 'at stands
And jest holds out in his two hands
As warm a heart as ever beat
Betwixt here and the Jedgement Seat—!
All these is reasons why I putt
Sich bulk o' faith in Terry Hut.
So I've come back, with eyes 'at sees
My faults, at last—, to make my peace
With this old place, and truthful' swear—
Like Gineral Tom Nelson does—,
"They hain't no city anywhere
On God's green earth lays over us!"
Our city government is grand—
"Ner is they better farmin'-land
Sun-kissed—" as Tom goes on and says—
"Er dower'd with sich advantages!"
And I've come back, with welcome tread,
From journeyin's vain, as I have said,
To settle down in ca'm content,
And cuss the towns where I have went,
And brag on ourn, and boast and strut
Around the streets o' Terry Hut!
Leedle Dutch Baby
Leedle Dutch baby haff come ter town!
Jabber und jump till der day gone down—
Jabber und sphlutter und sphlit hees jaws—
Vot a Dutch baby dees Londsmon vas!
I dink dose mout' vas leedle too vide
Ober he laugh fon dot altso-side!
Haff got blenty off deemple und vrown—?
Hey! Leedle Dutchman come ter town!
Leedle Dutch baby, I dink me proud
Ober your fader can schquall dot loud
Ven he vas leedle Dutch baby like you
Und yoost don't gare, like he alvays do—!
Guess ven dey vean him on beer, you bet
Dot's der because dot he aind veaned yet—!
Vot you said off he dringk you down—?
Hey! Leedle Dutchman come ter town!
Leedle Dutch baby, yoost schquall avay—
Schquall fon preakfast till gisterday!
Better you all time gry und shout
Dan shmile me vonce fon der coffin out!
Vot I gare off you keek my nose
Downside-up mit your heels und toes—
Downside, oder der oopside-down—?
Hey! Leedle Dutchman come ter town!
Down On Wriggle Crick
"Best time to kill a hog's when he's fat." —Old Saw.
Mostly folks is law-abidin'
Down on Wriggle Crick—,
Seein' they's no Squire residin'
In our bailywick;
No grand juries, no suppeenies,
Ner no vested rights to pick
Out yer man, jerk up and jail ef
He's outragin' Wriggle Crick!
Wriggle Crick hain't got no lawin',
Ner no suits to beat;
Ner no court-house gee-and-hawin'
Like a County-seat;
Hain't no waitin' round fer verdick,
Ner non-gittin' witness-fees;
Ner no thiefs 'at gits "new heain's,"
By some lawyer slick as grease!
Wriggle Cricks's leadin' spirit
Is old Johnts Culwell—,
Keeps post-office, and right near it
Owns what's called "The Grand Hotel—"
(Warehouse now—) buys wheat and ships it;
Gits out ties, and trades in stock,
And knows all the high-toned drummers
'Twixt South Bend and Mishawauk'
Last year comes along a feller—
Sharper 'an a lance—
Stovepipe-hat and silk umbreller,
And a boughten all-wool pants—,
Tinkerin of clocks and watches:
Says a trial's all he wants—
And rents out the tavern-office
Next to Uncle Johnts.
Well—. He tacked up his k'dentials,
And got down to biz—.
Captured Johnts by cuttin' stenchils
Fer them old wheat-sacks o' his—.
Fixed his clock, in the post-office—
Painted fer him, clean and slick,
'Crost his safe, in gold-leaf letters,
"J. Culwells's Wriggle Crick."
Any kindo' job you keered to
Resk him with, and bring,
He'd fix fer you— jest appeared to
Turn his hand to anything—!
Rings, er earbobs, er umbrellers—
Glue a cheer er chany doll—,
W'y, of all the beatin' fellers,
He Jest beat 'em all!
Made his friends, but wouldn't stop there—,
One mistake he learnt,
That was, sleepin' in his shop there—.
And one Sund'y night it burnt!
Come in one o' jest a-sweepin'
All the whole town high and dry—
And that feller, when they waked him,
Suffocatin', mighty nigh!
Johnts he drug him from the buildin',
He'pless— 'peared to be—,
And the women and the childern
Drenchin' him with sympathy!
But I noticed Johnts helt on him
With a' extry lovin' grip,
And the men-folks gethered round him
In most warmest pardership!
That's the whole mess, grease-and-dopin'!
Johnt's safe was saved—,
But the lock was found sprung open,
And the inside caved.
Was no trial— ner no jury—
Ner no jedge ner court-house-click—.
Circumstances alters cases
Down on Wriggle Crick!
When De Folks Is Gone
What dat scratchin' at de kitchin do'?
Done heah'n dat foh an hour er mo'!
Tell you Mr. Niggah, das sho's yo' bo'n,
Hit's mighty lonesome waitin' when de folks is gone!
Blame my trap! How de wind do blow!
An' dis is das de night foh de witches, sho'!
Dey's trouble gon' to waste when de old slut whine,
An' you heah de cat a-spittin' when de moon don't shine!
Chune my fiddle, an' de bridge go "bang!"
An' I lef' 'er right back whah she allus hang,
An' de tribble snap short an' de apern split
When dey no mortal man wah a-tetchin' hit!
Dah! Now, what? How de ole j'ice cracks!
'Spec' dis house, ef hit tell plain fac's,
'Ud talk about de ha'nts wid dey long tails on
What das'n't on'y come when de folks is gone!
What I tuk an' done ef a sho'-nuff ghos'
Pop right up by de ole bed-pos'?
What dat shinin' fru de front do' crack...?
God bress de Lo'd! Hit's de folks got back!
The Little Town O' Tailholt
You kin boast about yer cities, and their stiddy growth and size,
And brag about yer County-seats, and business enterprise,
And railroads, and factories, and all sich foolery—
But the little Town o' Tailholt is big enough fer me!
You kin harp about yer churches, with their steeples in the clouds,
And gas about yer graded streets, and blow about yer crowds;
You kin talk about yer "theaters," and all you've got to see—
But the little Town o' Tailholt is show enough fer me!
They hain't no style in our town— hit's little-like and small—
They hain't no "churches," nuther—, jes' the meetin' house is all;
They's no sidewalks, to speak of— but the highway's allus free,
And the little Town o' Tailholt is wide enough fer me!
Some find it discommodin'-like, I'm willin' to admit,
To hev but one post-office, and a womern keepin' hit,
And the drug-store, and shoe-shop, and grocery, all three—
But the little Town o' Tailholt is handy 'nough fer me!
You kin smile and turn yer nose up, and joke and hev yer fun,
And laugh and holler "Tail-holts is better holts'n none!
Ef the city suits you better w'y, hit's where you'd ort'o be—
But the little Town o' Tailholt's good enough fer me!
Little Orphant Annie
Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers—,
An' when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess;
But all they found was thist his pants an' roundabout—:
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh and grin,
An' make fun of ever'one, an' all her blood an' kin;
An' onc't, when they was "company," an' ole folks was there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!
An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightn'-bugs in dew is all squenched away—,
You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear,
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!