MY HENRY

He’s jes a great, big, awk’ard, hulkin’

Feller,—humped, and sorto’ sulkin’-

Like, and ruther still-appearin’—

Kind-as-ef he wuzn’t keerin’

Whether school helt out er not—

That’s my Henry, to a dot!

Allus kindo’ liked him—whether

Childern, er growed-up together!

Fifteen year’ ago and better,

’Fore he ever knowed a letter,

Run acrosst the little fool

In my Primer-class at school.

When the Teacher wuzn’t lookin’,

He’d be th’owin’ wads; er crookin’

Pins; er sprinklin’ pepper, more’n

Likely, on the stove; er borin’

Gimlet-holes up thue his desk—

Nothin’ that boy wouldn’t resk!

But, somehow, as I was goin’

On to say, he seemed so knowin’,

Other ways, and cute and cunnin’—

Allus wuz a notion runnin’

Thue my giddy, fool-head he

Jes had be’n cut out fer me!

Don’t go much on prophesyin’,

But last night whilse I wuz fryin’

Supper, with that man a-pitchin’

Little Marthy round the kitchen,

Think-says-I, “Them baby’s eyes

Is my Henry’s, jes p’cise!”