| Slow the Kansas sun was setting, |
| O'er the wheat fields far away, |
| Streaking all the air with cobwebs |
| At the close of one hot day; |
| And the last rays kissed the forehead |
| Of a man and maiden fair, |
| He with whiskers short and frowsy, |
| She with red and glistening hair, |
| He with shut jaws stern and silent; |
| She, with lips all cold and white, |
| Struggled to keep back the murmur, |
| "Towser shall be tied to-night." |
|
| |
| "Papa," slowly spoke the daughter, |
| "I am almost seventeen, |
| And I have a real lover, |
| Though he's rather young and green; |
| But he has a horse and buggy |
| And a cow and thirty hens,— |
| Boys that start out poor, dear Papa, |
| Make the best of honest men, |
| But if Towser sees and bites him, |
| Fills his eyes with misty light, |
| He will never come again, Pa; |
| Towser must be tied to-night." |
| |
| "Daughter," firmly spoke the farmer, |
| (Every word pierced her young heart |
| Like a carving knife through chicken |
| As it hunts the tender part)— |
| "I've a patch of early melons, |
| Two of them are ripe to-day; |
| Towser must be loose to watch them |
| Or they'll all be stole away. |
| I have hoed them late and early |
| In dim morn and evening light; |
| Now they're grown I must not lose them; |
| Towser'll not be tied to-night." |
| |
| Then the old man ambled forward, |
| Opened wide the kennel-door, |
| Towser bounded forth to meet him |
| As he oft had done before. |
| And the farmer stooped and loosed him |
| From the dog-chain short and stout; |
| To himself he softly chuckled, |
| "Bessie's feller must look out." |
| But the maiden at the window |
| Saw the cruel teeth show white; |
| In an undertone she murmured,— |
| "Towser must be tied to-night." |
| |
| Then the maiden's brow grew thoughtful |
| And her breath came short and quick, |
| Till she spied the family clothesline, |
| And she whispered, "That's the trick." |
| From the kitchen door she glided |
| With a plate of meat and bread; |
| Towser wagged his tail in greeting, |
| Knowing well he would be fed. |
| In his well-worn leather collar, |
| Tied she then the clothesline tight, |
| All the time her white lips saying: |
| "Towser shall be tied to-night," |
| |
| "There, old doggie," spoke the maiden, |
| "You can watch the melon patch, |
| But the front gate's free and open, |
| When John Henry lifts the latch. |
| For the clothesline tight is fastened |
| To the harvest apple tree, |
| You can run and watch the melons, |
| But the front gate you can't see." |
| Then her glad ears hear a buggy, |
| And her eyes grow big and bright, |
| While her young heart says in gladness, |
| "Towser dog is tied to-night." |
| |
| Up the path the young man saunters |
| With his eye and cheek aglow; |
| For he loves the red-haired maiden |
| And he aims to tell her so. |
| Bessie's roguish little brother, |
| In a fit of boyish glee, |
| Had untied the slender clothesline, |
| From the harvest apple tree. |
| Then old Towser heard the footsteps, |
| Raised his bristles, fixed for fight,— |
| "Bark away," the maiden whispers; |
| "Towser, you are tied to-night." |
| |
| Then old Towser bounded forward, |
| Passed the open kitchen door; |
| Bessie screamed and quickly followed, |
| But John Henry's gone before. |
| Down the path he speeds most quickly, |
| For old Towser sets the pace; |
| And the maiden close behind them |
| Shows them she is in the race. |
| Then the clothesline, can she get it? |
| And her eyes grow big and bright; |
| And she springs and grasps it firmly: |
| "Towser shall be tied to-night." |
| |
| Oftentimes a little minute |
| Forms the destiny of men. |
| You can change the fate of nations |
| By the stroke of one small pen. |
| Towser made one last long effort, |
| Caught John Henry by the pants, |
| But John Henry kept on running |
| For he thought that his last chance. |
| But the maiden held on firmly, |
| And the rope was drawn up tight. |
| But old Towser kept the garments, |
| For he was not tied that night. |
| |
| Then the father hears the racket; |
| With long strides he soon is there, |
| When John Henry and the maiden, |
| Crouching, for the worst prepare. |
| At his feet John tells his story, |
| Shows his clothing soiled and torn; |
| And his face so sad and pleading, |
| Yet so white and scared and worn, |
| Touched the old man's heart with pity, |
| Filled his eyes with misty light. |
| "Take her, boy, and make her happy,— |
| Towser shall be tied to-night." |