TO
THE PRESIDING SPIRIT
(IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING)
HEREIN CALLED
“BILL”
OF
SKILLET FORK FARM
ON THE BORDERS OF
“EGYPT”

“Bill”

Idylls
of the
Skillet Fork

by
Payson S. Wild

Ralph Fletcher Seymour
Chicago

Copyrighted 1918
Ralph Fletcher Seymour

Foreword

Twenty-two of these Bucolics have appeared from time to time during the last three years in “A LINE O’ TYPE OR TWO” of The Chicago Tribune. For permission to reprint them here I am indebted to the genial “Conductor.”

P. S. W.

Chicago, November, 1918.

Contents

Say, Bill, ef I’ve cast sparrergrass at yew
In this ’ere book, ye needn’t think it’s trew;
Fer yew air jes’ ’s yer be from day ter day
In spite o’ what us foolin’ fellers say.

IDYLLS OF THE SKILLET FORK

I
The Skillet

I reck’n yew’ve never saw the Skillet?

Wal, ye-e-es, they’s likelier streams;

But when ye git ri’ daown to ’t, stranger,

It kind o’ hants yer dreams.

It pokes along through grayish bottoms,

An’ ’s crookeder then worms,

An’ the water’s sometimes green an’ scummy,

An’ full o’ things thet squirms.

All kinds o’ logs an’ sticks an’ driftin’s

Hez here an’ thar got grounded,

An’ almos’ everything thet’s in it

Looks ’zac’ly like ’t was drownded.

Fokes yuseter say it’s jes’ thet crooked

Yew couldn’t cross the crick

’Thout findin’ yew was whar ye started—

But thet’s lay’n ’t on tew thick.

I wan’ ter tell ye tho’ they’s somepin’

’Bout this ’ere Skillet “river”

Right naow in Aprul time thet gives ye

A reel poetic shiver.

Them gums an’ water-oaks an’ hick’ries,

Thet grows along its aidges,

Is jes’ alive with leafy swellin’s,

Fur Spring’s a-keep’n’ ’er plaidges!

Yer see thet sassafras a-greenin’,

Them voylets peekin’ at yer,

Thet bunch o’ pinkish blows a-leerin’

Jessif they’d like ter bat yer?

An’ birds! I never heerd sich music,

Nor seen sich ri’tous colors,

From “Peter-birds” to larks an’ card’nals,

An’ sparrers brown ez crullers.

Sa’, jevver hear o’ “cats”? I’ve saw ’em

Git ketched in that thar crick;

I’d tell ye haow ’f I knowed ye’d b’lieve me—

They dew it awful slick.

Yew jes’ wade in—not seein’ nothin’,

’Cos all the water’s yaller—

An’ then ye feel in ’raound the mud-holes

Whar ’t’s nice an’ warm an’ shaller.

’F a “cat” ’s to home yew tech ’im gentle,

An’ sort o’ stroke his flank;

Then suddint like yew grab his collar,

An’ sling ’im out’ the bank!

Yew’ve mebbe never saw this “river”?

Thar is, p’r’aps, likelier streams;

But when ye git ri’ daown to ’t, stranger,

It right smart hants yer dreams.

II
The Bootleg Gang at Sims’

Yep, Egyp’s dry; ’z a gin’ral rule

They ain’t much doin’ in likker;

Saloons is skurce ’z a breedin’ mule,

An’ shy ’z a nestin’ flicker.

But fokes kin git it—“bootleg stuff”—

An’ hev a reel good souse,

Tho’ most o’ them that does it ’s tough,

An’ allers startin’ rows.

Onct down ter Sims’, so people tell,

A bunch o’ pickled runts

Raised sev’ral kinds o’ p’tic’lar cain

An’ pulled some rowdy stunts.

Now ’Mersion ’s pop’lar thar ter Sims’,

Some ’d ruther hev ’t than eatin’s;

More ’n half the fokes sings Baptis’ hymns

An’ goes ter all the meetin’s.

Wal, they jes’ give ’emselves a hunch

An’ got the law behind ’em;

The sheriff rounded up the bunch,

An’ Jestice Herford fined ’em.

This made the boozers awful sore;

They’d git thet Baptis’ goat!

So fer a week they planned an’ swore

An’ kep’ their scheme remote.

Then suddint like one Sart’day night

They took a hoss ’t hed died

(They ’lowed it wan’t no pleasant sight),

An’ lugged it right inside

The Baptis’ church ’ithout a sound,

An’ cut it all ter bits,

Which they throwed ever’whar around,

A-laffin’ mos’ ter fits.

It seems like sackerlege or libel,

But fac’s is allers fac’s;

Thet hoss’es head laid on the Bible,

All bludjunned with a ax.

The sexton cleaned the mess some way,

An’ services was held;

But no one hed no word ter say—

Jes’ prayed an’ sang an’—smelled.

The foll’rin’ week some roughneck pup

Shet caows up in the church;

Which kind o’ het the members up—

Enough ter start a search.

But nothin’ doin’ till one dark night

Thet rummy boozin’ crew

Blowed up the church with dynamite,

An’ then lit aout an’ flew.

Say, jevver see a Baptis’ hot,

Not Christyun hot but human?

The kind thet kin, jes’ ’s easy’s not,

Coagerlate albewman?

That’s what they was, jes’ reg’lar hellers;

No more o’ heapin’ coals!

They swore they’d jug them bootleg fellers

’F it cost their mortal souls.

They done it tew. Some tracks they seen

They kivered up with pails;

’N’ a coupl’ o’ “bloods” thet wasn’t green

Was sicked upon the trails.

They chased the bums ter Hick’ry Run,

An’ thar the Baptis’s tarred

An’ feathered ev’ry doggone one,

An’ chucked ’em under guard.

Them boys is crackin’ stun terday;

A new church stan’s in Sims’,

An’ now in peace they watch an’ pray

An’ sing their Baptis’ hymns.

Yep, Egyp’s dry; ’z a gin’ral thing

The toughs don’t dast ter dicker

With enny kind o’ Baptis’ ring—

Leastways when’t comes ter likker.

III
The Mocking Bird

I was drinkin’ in the glory on a day

Late in May,

Feelin’ dreamy an’ delishus, like a chick’n,

When she’s pick’n

Tiny pebbles out o’ gravel, or a-fluffin’

An’ a-puffin’

All her feathers in a sunny nest o’ dust;

An’ I cussed

Sich a foolish world fer sweatin’ an’ a-swinkin’,

An’ a-thinkin’

Thet a feller hez ter rustle an’ be snappy

Tew be happy.

’Twas a nawful loafy mornin’—tell ye thet—

An’ I set

Watchin’ ev’ry livin’ critter feel ’is oats.

My, them shoats!

Say, yew’d orter heerd ’em gruntin’ an’ a-crunchin’

An’ a-munchin’,

Jessif nuthin’ ever mattered in their creed

’Ceptin’ feed.

An’ the pidjuns was a-cooin’ quite aloof

On the roof;

Thar was hosses, thar was heffers, thar was steers,

Chanticleers,

Perky hens, an’ turkey cocks, an’, ’pon my word,

Ev’ry bird

Thet I ever seen or heerd of—all a-croakin’,

An’ a-soakin’

In ol’ Feebus’ dazzlin’ rajunce—all a-eatin’

An’ a-tweetin’—

Jim’ny Crickets, Holy Kittens! Dew ye wonder

Now, by thunder,

’T I was glad ter jes’ be livin’ on the earth?

W’y, ’twas worth

All the sorrer, all the pain ’t I ever had,

’Twas, by gad!

But I gotta tell ye suthin’ ’t ’appened then;

Ever b’en

Whar a mockin’-bird was tunin’ up ’is fiddle?

It’s a riddle

How ’e symfonizes ev’ry sort o’ noise

An’ employs

A composer’s subterfujes (ez ye’ve noted)

Single throated.

Wal, I seen one settin’ up thar (knowed ’twas him)

On a limb

Of a deadish kind o’ ellum, ’n’ I could tell

Jes’ ez well

’T ’e was cockyer than a roarin’ swearin’ pirate

By the high rate

He was thrashin’ o’ them wings o’ his, an’ tail

Like a flail.

First I tho’t I was a-list’nin’ tew a martin

Sure for sartin;

Then a blue-jay almos’ give me ’n awful shock

With ’is squawk;

I was jest a-gittin’ used ter hearin’ that bird,

When a cat-bird

Started in ter yowl an’ sputter, julluk Tabby

When she’s gabby;

Then some swallers, chickadees, an’ whippoorwills

Give me thrills,

An’ I tell ye I was altergether foozled,

Jes’ bamboozled,

Ez I watched that clever cynnic keep a-rockin’

An’ a-mockin’,

Till at last he got so bubbly full o’ fizz

Thet ’e riz

Off thet lonely perch o’ his’n right up square

Int’ the air,

Still a-swingin’ an’ a-singin’ in ’is revel

Like the devil!

Then ’e come ri’ down agin an’ hit the spot

Whar ’e’d sot;

Hadn’t lost a single note—jes’ kep’ ’er goin’

’S if he’s mowin’.

Dew ye reckon I’ll fergit thet garrylus

Little cuss?

Wal, ye got anuther “reckon” comin’ then—

Mebbe ten.

IV
The Siren

They’s a hull snarl o’ potes hez driveled ’bout Joon

With its leefyness, freshness an’ greenth;

’N’ if I was anuther, I s’pose—which I ain’t—

I’d be the four umpty an’ steenth.

Ez regards ter the Skillet—wal, pardner, b’leeve me,

It’s right in its prime, buggosh;

Yew kin talk all yer wanter, it’s fine ter jes’ sawnter

An’ look at ol’ Nacher a-slosh.

I was thar spell ago—druv sixteen mile

With Bill an’ a load o’ soy beans;

An’ I swar ter the Dooce thet I never hed knowed

Afore what greenin’ means.

Be’n a-rainin’ like sin, but hed then faired up

An’ the sky was julluk a gentian;

I ain’t never knew sich a hevvenly blue,

Ef ye’ll ’low me in passin’ ter mention.

The river was full, plum full ter the top,

A matter o’ thirty odd feet,

An’ the water hed backed ont’ the bottoms right smart,

But was dreenin’ off fast with the heat.

’Twas a sarpent o’ choc’lit a-rithin’ an’ twistin’

Ri’ down a arborial tunnel;

An’ Bill ’e sez, “Naow, ef we hed a ol’ scaow,

We could flote ter Noorleans thru a funnel!”

But the way them fiel’s was enjoyin’ thersel’s!

They was fairly yellin’ with glee;

I reckon I must ’a’ be’n pretty high keyed,

An’ I tell ye it jes’ got me.

I kind o’ suspishun Bill heerd suthin’ tew,

Fer a exstasy hit ’im like pain;

It looked like fer sure he was feelin’ the lure

O’ the siren thet sings after rain.

V
Laury at the ’Phone

Will’s drove ter Keene’s fer ’nockerlated seed;

Queer, ain’t it, ’bout thet nitrigin—Down Rover!

Will sez we git mos’ twict ez much o’ feed

Fer growin’ them thar teeny warts on clover....

Uh huh.... We’re limin’ tew; Will sez the sile

Hez soured bad an’ needs a “alkali”....

I do’ know what ’tis—never heerd it—I’ll

Ax him; on sich like words I’m kind o’ shy....

Malviny? Reely? Throwed anuther fit?

Yew better call, I reckon, Docter Mott;

Seems like she’s gittin’ old enuff ter quit—

Will sez he ’lows it’s jes’ plain fits she’s got.

Our Duroc “Iphijeny” ’s littered ... eight....

Jes’ walkin’ cherries! My, but how they’ll grow!

Will’s figg’rin’ now on what’ll be the’r weight

Come Fall; he sez our corn’s a-runnin’ low....

D’yew say it’s yaller? Prob’ly got “damp feet”;

Will sez alfalfy’ll do thet when’t’s tew wet....

The way it gits ter rain is hard ter beat;

But then, Will sez it ain’t no use ter fret....

No, couldn’t go las’ night—set up fer Nell;

Vern Rowell druv ’er out—seemed like all night;

’Twas nine afore they come.... He means reel well,

But Will he sez the Rowells ain’t quite right....

She was? She’s led the singin’ awful good;

I never tho’t she’d be baptized; Will sez—

O Willie! Git right off!—He’s clum the wood

Pile; that ’ar’ way he’ll fall—Lan’ sakes, he hez!

Four Mile
Creek

VI
The ’Possum Hunt

“Four Mile” was jes’ kind o’ googlin’ along

(It ketches the Skillet in “Thirty-three”

Whar the woods is thick an’ the moon ain’t strong,

An’ the ’possum hides in a holler tree);

’T was shimmerin’ thar all gold an’ bright

Ez we loafed threw the medder thet Awtum night.

We’d et a light supper—sow belly, corn bread,

Pickled beets, fried eggs an’ two kinds o’ pie—

When Bill, sort o’ cazuel, shoved back an’ said,

A-squintin’ aloft at a perfec’ sky: