THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER
The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin'
locus' trees;
And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees,
And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the
sly,
Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.
The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his
wings
And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;
And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz,
And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.
You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the
plow—
Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not
a-carin' how;
So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the
wing—
But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:
And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,
She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest;
And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin'
right,
Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite!
They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day,
And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,
And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener
still;
It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will.
Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded
out,
And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;
But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,
Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!
Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and
dry
Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?
Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way,
Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day?
Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?—Does he walk, er does
he run?
Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare just like they've
allus done?
Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er
voice?
Ort a mortul be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice?
Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot;
The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot.
Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,
And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!
Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,
Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;
Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,
And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me
and you.
"MYLO JONES'S WIFE"
"Mylo Jones's wife" was all
I heerd, mighty near, last Fall—
Visitun relations down
T'other side of Morgantown!
Mylo Jones's wife she does
This and that, and "those" and "thus"!—
Can't 'bide babies in her sight—
Ner no childern, day and night,
Whoopin' round the premises—
NER NO NOTHIN' ELSE, I guess!
Mylo Jones's wife she 'lows
She's the boss of her own house!—
Mylo—consequences is—
Stays whare things seem SOME like HIS,—
Uses, mostly, with the stock—
Coaxin' "Old Kate" not to balk,
Ner kick hoss-flies' branes out, ner
Act, I s'pose, so much like HER!
Yit the wimmern-folks tells you
She's PERFECTION.—Yes they do!
Mylo's wife she says she's found
Home hain't home with MEN-FOLKS round
When they's work like HERN to do—
Picklin' pears and BUTCHERN, too,
And a-rendern lard, and then
Cookin' fer a pack of men
To come trackin' up the flore
SHE'S scrubbed TEL she'll scrub no MORE!—
Yit she'd keep things clean ef they
Made her scrub tel Jedgmunt Day!
Mylo Jones's wife she sews
Carpet-rags and patches clothes
Jest year IN and OUT!—and yit
Whare's the livin' use of it?
She asts Mylo that.—And he
Gits back whare he'd ruther be,
With his team;—jest PLOWS—and don't
Never sware—like some folks won't!
Think ef HE'D CUT LOOSE, I gum!
'D he'p his heavenly chances some!
Mylo's wife don't see no use,
Ner no reason ner excuse
Fer his pore relations to
Hang round like they allus do!
Thare 'bout onc't a year—and SHE—
She jest GA'NTS 'em, folks tells me,
On spiced pears!—Pass Mylo one,
He says "No, he don't chuse none!"
Workin'men like Mylo they
'D ort to have MEAT ev'ry day!
Dad-burn Mylo Jones's wife!
Ruther rake a blame caseknife
'Crost my wizzen than to see
Sich a womern rulin' ME!—
Ruther take and turn in and
Raise a fool mule-colt by hand'
MYLO, though—od-rot the man!—
Jest keeps ca'm—like some folks CAN—
And 'lows sich as her, I s'pose,
Is MAN'S HE'PMEET'—Mercy knows!
HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM
Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and
John,
Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time
comes on,—
And THEN, I want to say to you, we NEEDED he'p about,
As you'd admit, ef you'd a-seen the way the crops turned
out!
A better quarter-section ner a richer soil warn't found
Than this-here old-home place o' ourn fer fifty miles
around!—
The house was small—but plenty-big we found it from
the day
That John—our only livin' son—packed up and went
away.
You see, we tuk sich pride in John—his mother more'n
me—
That's natchurul; but BOTH of us was proud as proud
could be;
Fer the boy, from a little chap, was most oncommon
bright,
And seemed in work as well as play to take the same
delight.
He allus went a-whistlin' round the place, as glad at heart
As robins up at five o'clock to git an airly start;
And many a time 'fore daylight Mother's waked me up
to say—
"Jest listen, David!—listen!—Johnny's beat the birds
to-day!"
High-sperited from boyhood, with a most inquirin' turn,—
He wanted to learn ever'thing on earth they was to learn:
He'd ast more plaguy questions in a mortal-minute here
Than his grandpap in Paradise could answer in a year!
And READ! w'y, his own mother learnt him how to read
and spell;
And "The Childern of the Abbey"—w'y, he knowed that
book as well
At fifteen as his parents!—and "The Pilgrim's
Progress," too—
Jest knuckled down, the shaver did, and read 'em through
and through.
At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a better
chance-
That we ort to educate him, under any circumstance;
And John he j'ined his mother, and they ding-donged and
kep' on,
Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he was
gone.
But—I missed him—w'y, of course I did!—The Fall and
Winter through
I never built the kitchen-fire, er split a stick in two,
Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrel-pin,
But what I thought o' John, and wished that he was home
ag'in.
He'd come, sometimes—on Sund'ys most—and stay the
Sund'y out;
And on Thanksgivin'-Day he 'peared to like to be about:
But a change was workin' on him—he was stiller than
before,
And didn't joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle any
more.
And his talk was all so proper; and I noticed, with a sigh,
He was tryin' to raise side-whiskers, and had on a striped
tie,
And a standin'-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as bone;
And a breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat of
his own.
But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was to
come home
And he'p me through the season, I was glad to see him
come,
But my happiness, that evening, with the settin' sun went
down,
When he bragged of "a position" that was offered him in
town.
"But," says I, "you'll not accept it?" "W'y, of course I
will," says he.—
"This drudgin' on a farm," he says, "is not the life fer
me;
I've set my stakes up higher," he continued, light and
gay,
"And town's the place fer ME, and I'm a-goin' right
away!"
And go he did!—his mother clingin' to him at the gate,
A-pleadin' and a-cryin'; but it hadn't any weight.
I was tranquiller, and told her 'twarn't no use to worry
so,
And onclasped her arms from round his neck round mine
—and let him go!
I felt a little bitter feelin' foolin' round about
The aidges of my conscience; but I didn't let it out;—
I simply retch out, trimbly-like, and tuk the boy's hand,
And though I didn't say a word, I knowed he'd under-
stand.
And—well!—sence then the old home here was mighty
lonesome, shore!
With me a-workin' in the field, and Mother at the door,
Her face ferever to'rds the town, and fadin' more and
more—
Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin' in a store!
The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes the
boy would write
A letter to his mother, sayin' that his work was light,
And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit—
Though his business was confinin', he was gittin' used
to it.
And sometimes he would write and ast how I was gittin'
on,
And ef I had to pay out much fer he'p sence he was gone;
And how the hogs was doin', and the balance of the stock,
And talk on fer a page er two jest like he used to talk.
And he wrote, along 'fore harvest, that he guessed he
would git home,
Fer business would, of course, be dull in town.—But
DIDN'T come:—
We got a postal later, sayin' when they had no trade
They filled the time "invoicin' goods," and that was why
he stayed.
And then he quit a-writin' altogether: Not a word—
Exceptin' what the neighbers brung who'd been to town
and heard
What store John was clerkin' in, and went round to in-
quire
If they could buy their goods there less and sell their
produce higher.
And so the Summer faded out, and Autumn wore away,
And a keener Winter never fetched around Thanksgivin'-
Day!
The night before that day of thanks I'll never quite fergit,
The wind a-howlin' round the house-it makes me creepy
yit!
And there set me and Mother—me a-twistin' at the
prongs
Of a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair of
tongs,
And Mother sayin', "DAVID! DAVID!" in a' undertone,
As though she thought that I was thinkin' bad-words
unbeknown.
"I've dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow," Mother
said,
A-tryin' to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubborn
head,—
"And the mince-meat I'm a-mixin' is perfection mighty
nigh;
And the pound-cake is delicious-rich—" "Who'll eat
'em?" I—says—I.
"The cramberries is drippin'-sweet," says Mother, runnin'
on,
P'tendin' not to hear me;—"and somehow I thought of
John
All the time they was a-jellin'—fer you know they allus
was
His favorITE—he likes 'em so!" Says I "Well, s'pose
he does?"
"Oh, nothin' much!" says Mother, with a quiet sort o'
smile—
"This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you after
while!"
And as I turnt and looked around, some one riz up and
leant
And putt his arms round Mother's neck, and laughed in
low content.
"It's ME," he says—"your fool-boy John, come back to
shake your hand;
Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you un-
derstand
How dearer yit than all the world is this old home that
we
Will spend Thanksgivin' in fer life—jest Mother, you
and me!"
Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,
Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time
comes on;
And then, I want to say to you, we NEED sich he'p about,
As you'd admit, ef you could see the way the crops turn
out!