JOHNNY—
Yes, an' he
Better not tell things on me!
His old circus haint no good!—
'Cause he's got the neighborhood
Down on me he thinks 'at I'm
Goin' to stand it all the time;
Thinks ist 'cause my Pa don't 'low
Me to fight, he's got me now.
An' can say I lie, an' call
Me ist anything at all!
Billy Miller thinks I am
'Feared to say 'at he says "dam"—
Yes, and worser ones! and I'm
Goin' to tell his folks sometime!—
An' ef he don't shet his head
I'll tell worse 'an that he said
When he fighted Willie King—
An' got licked like ever'thing!—
Billy Miller better shin
Down his Daddy's lane agin,
Like a cowardy-calf, an' climb
In fer home another time!
Better—
[Here BILLY leaps down from the loft upon his unsuspecting victim; and two minutes, later, JOHNNY, with the half of a straw hat, a bleeding nose, and a straight rent across one trouser-knee, makes his inglorious—exit.]
WHAT CHRIS'MAS FETCHED THE WIGGINSES.
Wintertime, er Summertime,
Of late years I notice I'm,
Kindo'-like, more subjec' to
What the weather is. Now, you
Folks 'at lives in town, I s'pose,
Thinks its bully when it snows;
But the chap 'at chops and hauls
Yer wood fer ye, and then stalls,
And snapps tuggs and swingletrees,
And then has to walk er freeze,
Haint so much "stuck on" the snow
As stuck in it—Bless ye, no!—
When its packed, and sleighin's good,
And church in the neighborhood,
Them 'at's got their girls, I guess,
Takes 'em, likely, more er less,
Tell the plain facts o' the case,
No men-folks about our place
On'y me and Pap—and he
'Lows 'at young folks' company
Allus made him sick! So I
Jes don't want, and jes don't try!
Chinkypin, the dad-burn town,
'S too fur off to loaf aroun'
Either day er night—and no
Law compellin' me to go!—
'Less 'n some Old-Settlers' Day,
Er big-doin's thataway—
Then, to tell the p'inted fac',
I've went more so's to come back
By old Guthrie's 'still-house, where
Minors has got licker there—
That's pervidin' we could show 'em
Old folks sent fer it from home!
Visit roun' the neighbors some,
When the boys wants me to come.—
Coon-hunt with 'em; er set traps
Fer mussrats; er jes, perhaps,
Lay in roun' the stove, you know,
And parch corn, and let her snow!
Mostly, nights like these, you'll be
(Ef you' got a writ fer me)
Ap' to skeer me up, I guess,
In about the Wigginses.
Nothin' roun' our place to keep
Me at home—with Pap asleep
'Fore it's dark; and Mother in
Mango pickles to her chin;
And the girls, all still as death,
Piecin' quilts.—Sence I drawed breath
Twenty year' ago, and heerd
Some girls whispern' so's it 'peared
Like they had a row o' pins
In their mouth—right there begins
My first rickollections, built
On that-air blame old piece-quilt!
Summertime, it's jes the same—
'Cause I've noticed,—and I claim,
As I said afore, I'm more
Subjec' to the weather, shore,
'Proachin' my majority,
Than I ever ust to be!
Callin' back last Summer, say,—
Don't seem hardly past away—
With night closin' in, and all
S' lonesome-like in the dew-fail:
Bats—ad-drat their ugly muggs!—
Flickern' by; and lightnin'-bugs
Huckstern' roun' the airly night
Little sickly gasps o' light;—
Whip-poor-wills, like all possessed,
Moanin' out their mournfullest;—
Frogs and katydids and things
Jes clubs in and sings and sings
Their ding-dangdest!—Stock's all fed,
And Pap's washed his feet fer bed;—
Mother and the girls all down
At the milk-shed, foolin' roun'—
No wunder 'at I git blue,
And lite out—and so would you!
I caint stay aroun' no place
Whur they haint no livin' face:—
'Crost the fields and thue the gaps
Of the hills they's friends, perhaps,
Waitin' somers, 'at kin be
Kindo' comfertin' to me!
Neighbors all 'is plenty good,
Scattered thue this neighberhood;
Yit, of all, I like to jes
Drap in on the Wigginses.—
Old man, and old lady too,
'Pear-like, makes so much o' you—,
Least, they've allus pampered me
Like one of the fambily.—
The boys, too, 's all thataway—
Want you jes to come and stay;—
Price, and Chape, and Mandaville,
Poke, Chasteen, and "Catfish Bill"—
Poke's the runt of all the rest,
But he's jes the beatinest
Little schemer, fer fourteen,
Anybody ever seen!—
"Like his namesake," old man claims,
"Jeems K. Poke, the first o' names!
Full o' tricks and jokes—and you
Never know what Poke's go' do!"
Genius, too, that-air boy is,
With them awk'ard hands o' his:
Gits this blame pokeberry-juice,
Er some stuff, fer ink—and goose-
Quill pen-p'ints: And then he'll draw
Dogdest pictures yevver saw!
Er make deers and eagles good
As a writin'-teacher could!
Then they's two twin boys they've riz
Of old Coonrod Wigginses
'At's deceast—and glad of it,
'Cause his widder's livin' yit!
Course the boys is mostly jes'
Why I go to Wigginses.—-
Though Melviney, sometimes, she
Gits her slate and algebry
And jes' sets there ciphern' thue
Sums old Ray hisse'f caint do!—
Jes' sets there, and tilts her chair
Forreds tel, 'pear-like, her hair
Jes' spills in her lap—and then
She jes' dips it up again
With her hands, as white, I swan,
As the apern she's got on!
Talk o' hospitality!—
Go to Wigginses with me—
Overhet, or froze plum thue,
You'll find welcome waitin' you:—
Th'ow out yer tobacker 'fore
You set foot acrost that floor,—
"Got to eat whatever's set—
Got to drink whatever's wet!"
Old man's sentimuns—them's his—-
And means jes the best they is!
Then he lights his pipe; and she,
The old lady, presen'ly
She lights her'n; and Chape and Poke.
I haint got none, ner don't smoke,—
(In the crick afore their door—
Sorto so's 'at I'd be shore—
Drownded mine one night and says
"I won't smoke at Wigginses!")
Price he's mostly talkin' 'bout
Politics, and "thieves turned out"—
What he's go' to be, ef he
Ever "gits there"—and "we'll see!"—
Poke he 'lows they's blame few men
Go' to hold their breath tel then!
Then Melviney smiles, as she
Goes on with her algebry,
And the clouds clear, and the room's
Sweeter 'n crabapple-blooms!
(That Melviney, she' got some
Most surprisin' ways, I gum!—
Don't 'pear like she ever says
Nothin', yit you'll listen jes
Like she was a-talkin', and
Half-way seem to understand,
But not quite,—Poke does, I know,
'Cause he good as told me so,—
Poke's her favo-rite; and he—
That is, confidentially—
He's my favo-rite—and I
Got my whurfore and my why!)
I haint never ben no hand
Much at talkin', understand,
But they's thoughts o' mine 'at's jes
Jealous o' them Wigginses!—
Gift o' talkin 's what they got,
Whether they want to er not—
F'r instunce, start the old man on
Huntin'-scrapes, 'fore game was gone,
'Way back in the Forties, when
Bears stold pigs right out the pen,
Er went waltzin' 'crost the farm
With a bee-hive on their arm!—
And—sir, ping! the old man's gun
Has plumped-over many a one,
Firin' at him from afore
That-air very cabin-door!
Yes—and painters, prowlin' 'bout,
Allus darkest nights.—Lay out
Clost yer cattle.—Great, big red
Eyes a-blazin' in their head,
Glittern' 'long the timber-line—
Shine out some, and then un-shine,
And shine back—Then, stiddy! whizz!
'N there yer Mr. Painter is
With a hole bored spang between
Them-air eyes! Er start Chasteen,
Say, on blooded racin'-stock,
Ef you want to hear him talk;
Er tobacker—how to raise,
Store, and k-yore it, so's she pays:
The old lady—and she'll cote
Scriptur' tel she'll git yer vote!
Prove to you 'at wrong is right,
Jes as plain as black is white:
Prove when you're asleep in bed
You're a-standin' on yer head,
And yer train 'at's goin' West,
'S goin' East its level best;
And when bees dies, it's their wings
Wears out—and a thousand things!
And the boys is "chips," you know;
"Off the old block"—So I go
To the Wigginses, 'cause—jes
'Cause I like the Wigginses—
Even ef Melviney she
Hardly 'pears to notice me!