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 VIII
Laury’s Lullaby

All day I’d b’en a-cuttin’ wheat

In the drippin’est kind o’ heat,
While Bill he’d drug the road right smart
An’ hed made what he called a start
Out on the forty west the silos
(On the road leadin’ down to Milo’s).
We both was watchin’ th’ evenin’ star,
Sort o’ smokin’ an’ dozin’ thar,
When Laury’s voice begun ter croon
With the follerin’ drowsy toon:

Sleep O, Willy bright!

The whip-poor-will’s pleadin’,
But mommy ain’t heedin’,
Fer Willy aint needin’
No beatin’ ternight.

Hushaby, Willy wise!

Tree-frogs is a pipin’,
An’ dad’s gone a-snipin’,
While mommy’s a-wipin’
Yo’ pore little eyes.

O bye Willy bye!

The screech-owl’s a-screechin’,
The veery’s beseechin’,
An’ mommy feels meachin’
Ter hear Willy cry.
In the chimly they’s chitt’rin’
An’ twitt’rin’ an’ litt’rin’,
Sleep O, sleep O, Willy wee;
Fer the swallers is cheepin’
An’ peepin’ an’ sleepin’—
That’s whar Willy wee orter be.

On ’is little bed O,

With nary dread O,
An’ a milk-weed puffy
Fer ’is coverlet fluffy,
Hushaby, hushaby, Willy O;

An’ ’is piller a gossam—

Y blow from the blossom
Thet floats from a thistle
Whar tralaloos whistle—
Hushaby, hushaby, Willy O!

Next mornin’ ’t breakfas’ Bill aver’d:

“Wal, I reckon thet tralaloo bird
Was mos’ tew much fer yew an’ me;
Did ye know it was ha’f pas’ three....”
“Shet up,” I sez. O’ co’se I knew,
’Cos my clo’es was jes’ soaked with dew!
 IX
Bill Non-Committal

I s’pose all farmers gits thet way in time,

An’ I don’t wonder; it’s enough ter make
Perfesh’nal prophits feel onsartin like.
I mean the everlastin’ buckin’ up
Agin ol’ Nacher an’ the elemunts
Year in, year out, ontil ye wouldn’t sw’ar
’T ye’ve got ’ny oats at all, f’r exampel, even
When cut an’ thrashed an’ layin’ in the bin;
Yew know thet somp’n still kin spile thet crop.
’F a farmer wants ter gamble, he don’t hev
Ter speckerlate on ’Change; I should say not;
Jes’ let ’im farm it, plain an’ orn’ry farm it—
Thet’s all he’s gotta dew. I’ll bet ye’n less
’N a fortnit he’d be plum dead sure ’t ’is chances
Fer buy’n’ a kerosene kerridge playin’ faro
Was ten ter one agin the farmin’ game.
Naow jes’ consider what the farmer’s got
Ter fight; they’s tew much rain or not enough;
’F ’e ’s got a crick, ’t will overflow an’ drownd
’Is corn, or else ’t will be a ditch o’ dust;
An’ then they’s ev’ry bug in all helnation
A-eatin’ off his truck an’ animuls;
They’s lightnin’, winter-killin’, rust, an’ smut,
An’ wind—’d yew ever see one them black twisters
Come rippin’ down an’ shave the ten foot silage
Right off a eighty slick’s a whistle? I hev.
It’s one the grandes’, weerdes’ sights on earth,
But hell on farmin’. Yew cain’t blame a farmer
’F ’e aint quite sure thet death an’ taxes might
Not leave ’im be. Mos’ farmers won’t commit
The’rsel’s on nothin’ ’t all, an’ ain’t they right?
The trooth on’t is, they don’t jes’ ’zac’ly know
The’r soul’s the’r own, an’ Bill he’s that ’a’ way.

I never seen a feller thet could git

Away with sech a everlastin’ lot
O’ beatin’ round the bush an’ dodgin’ ’s Bill.
W’y, he aint sure o’ heaven or hell, or enny
O’ them things fokes knows mostly all about.
’F I ast ’im if they’s “cats” in Four Mile, “Wal,”
He’d say—an’ mebbe Laury’d jes’ be’n cleanin’
A mess he’d ketched thet day—“they git ’em thar,
So I’ve heerd tell, but I dunno’s they is,
An’ dunno as they is.” An’ when I ’low
It looks right smart like rain, Bill squints aroun’
An’ sez he shouldn’t wonder whether ’t did
Or not. An’ when he’s stuck a pig, an’ Willy,
A-lookin’ on with bulgin’ baby eyes,
Sez breathless, “Paw, ’s ’e daid?”—all Bill kin say’s,
“Wal, I suspishun so; he’d orter be.”

I ast ’im onct ’f ’e tho’t th’ alfalfy’d ketch.

He spit an’ picked a blade o’ grass an’ et it.
“Seems like ’f we hed a shower o’ rain, an’ then
A warmish spell thet didn’t run ter drouth,
No killin’ frost or long wet rainy days,
An’ ’f Lon mixed in thet fosfate half way right,
An’ all thet ’nockerlatin’ ’s enny good,
An’ ’f luck should kind o’ come our way a bit,
Thet air alfalfy’d mebbe make a start.”
I knowed jes’ much then ’zif I hedn’t ast.
One time a mule kicked Bill squar’ on the jaw.
He seen it comin’—hed no chance ter dodge.
He laid in bed a week afore he woke,
An’ staid thar ’nother nursin’ up ’is face.
A few days later meetin’ that ’ar mule
Bill sez, a-shak’n’ ’is finger playful-like,
“’F I knowed fer sure ’t was yew thet done this ’ere,
I reck’n I might git mad, but I dunno,”
An’ han’s the graynose cuss a fresh pulled carrot.
That’s Bill all over. Fifty years o’ playin’
The game agin the god o’ Luck hez made
’Im jest a leetle guarded in ’is speech,
An’ l’arned ’im how ter take ’is dose ’thout squealin’.
 X
Laury’s “Eats”

“It’s quarter t’ five,” Bill hollers; yew sigh an’ mutter “Gosh!”
An’ jes’ slide int’ yer overhalls an’ shirt;
It ain’t much use ter bother with try’n’ ter take a wash,
F’r in ha’f a hour yew’ll be jes’ ’s bad fer dirt.
Yew’re ou’ the barn ’n a jiffy a-feedin’ Ball an’ Belle,
An’ rubbin’ up ol’ Zilfy’s battered hide;
Yew’re like a tired enjin’, ’cos yer didn’t sleep right well,
But say—that breakfas’ waitin’ thar inside!

It’s wonderful what eatin’ will dew ter set ye right;

It’s one the things ’bout farmin’ ’t nothin’ beats;
Yew get all riled fer sweatin’ ’ithout a break in sight,
But—yew fergit it when it’s time fer eats.
Now toast an’ egg an’ coffee’s ’bout all the av’rage feller
Kin eat fer breakfas’ in a swelt’rin’ town;
But gosh all blinkin’ blazes, yew ain’t no clerk nor teller,
Yew gotta hev reel feed, an’ wash it down.

So in yew go t’ the kitchen, a room o’ quite some size;

Yew grab a cheer an’ haul it up t’ yer place;
Matildy ’n’ Sophy ’s servin’, while Laury fans the flies,
An’ Bill he mumbles thru a form o’ grace.
I wish thet I was able ter dew Bill’s Laury jestice,
An’ tell the diff’runt things she’s set afore ye;
But I’m ez fer from doin’ thet ’ar ez east from west is,
’N’ I suttenly hev no desire ter bore ye.

But ennyhow jes’ listen: Pertaters mashed an’ wavy;

A bowl of yeller butter thick an’ creamy;
A plate o’ spicy sassage with eggs fried in the gravy,
An’ chicken fricaseed, all hot an’ steamy;
A dish o’ gravied dumplin’s, an’ one o’ beans an’ corn—
Thet suckertash o’ Laury’s hits me hard!
Her pickled beets is wonders, her slaw fresh ez the morn,
Her passnips sweeter ’n frankinsense an’ nard.

An’ then they’s jams an’ jellies, a fluffy heap o’ bread,

Hot corncake tew, ’f yew want it—which yew dew;
A leaf o’ curly lettis, or, if yew wish, a head;
An’ unyons raw, or peppered in a stew.
An’ when yew’ve et thru this ’ere a time or tew or so,
An’ drunk three cups o’ coffee ’thout a sigh
(Ye never know it’s chic’ry, an’ ye never need ter know),
Then, by the Great Lord Harry, comes the pie!

Two kinds at Laury’s allers, an’ a hunk o’ cheese with it,

An’ top it off with do’nuts, milk, an’ cake;
Bill passes yew a teethpick, yew settle back a bit,
An’ reely think yew’re gittin’ wide awake.
Wal, ye need thet kind o’ fuel, ’cos farm work’s tur’bel grillin’,
On freezy days or in a b’ilin’ heat;
It ain’t farm life or workin’, ez mos’ fokes thinks, is killin’—
It’s when ye cain’t git all ye want ter eat!
 XI
Bill on Seth Watts

Seth Watts hed died, an’ Bill was tellin’ us

Suthin’ about ’im. Bill he’d be’n a bearer ’t
The funerel, an’ now hed jes’ got home,
Hung up ’is Sunday clo’es an’ derby hat,
And on the way out tew the thrashin’ enjin’
Paid tribute to Seth’s mem’ry. “Me an’ him
Hed deakin’d it up thar t’ our church”—he jerked
His head toward town—“for twenty years tergether.
A right smart moodish feller Seth was, no
Mistakin’ thet; I’ve offen saw ’t myself
An’ heerd ’is naybers tell. Some mornin’s he
Would git up with a feelin’ he must jes’
Be let alone an’ not be ast ter dew
One solitary thing by ennyone,
No matter who. He tried Almiry (that’s
Mis’ Watts) more’n she’d let on. I reckon tho’
She didn’t git ter onderstand him’s much
She might; ’f she’d left ’im be ontil he come
Around hisself, they’d both ’a’ be’n all right;
A hour or two o’ sleep would fixt ’im up.
But ’stid o’thet she ’peared ter feel a call
Ter hev him dew a reg’ler mess of chores
On them ’ar mornin’s. Wal, he’d stew an’ sw’ar,
An’ kick the dawg, an’ onct he said he’s goin’
Ter quit an’ jes’ go off—but knowed he wouldn’t.
Almiry’d cry an’ Seth would cuss, an’ then
They’d shet the’r lips an’ never say a word
Fer mebbe quite a spell, when suthin’ funny
(It might ’a’ be’n most ennything) would up
An’ happen; Seth would snort, Almiry’d giggle,
An’ thet would end his moodin’. That ’ar way
O’ doin’ ’s a hull lot better, ’pears ter me,
Then fer a man ter never hev no chanct
Ter hev a mood, ’f ’e wants ter, ’n know ’t will prob’ly
Work out all right somehow.”
Bill stopped a minnit,
’N’I seen ’im kind o’ turn an’ look ’t the house,
An’ knowed what he was thinkin’ better’n if
He’d said it plum ri’t out. His crows-feet showed
Up awful plain. Bimeby I seen ’im grin:
“I s’pose yew’ve noticed lots o’ fokes, when one
The fambly’s daid, sez funny things about
’Im—funny ’cos yew knowed the one diseased
Yerself, an’ seen right thru their line o’ talk.
I like ter weigh fokes on a human scale,
Daid or alive. It ain’t onkind ter size
’Em up fer what they was, onless they’s jes’
Plain or’n’ry trash, an’ then it ain’t wuth w’ile;
I’d ruther keep my mouth shet ’n’ let ’em go.
But reely human fokes thet hez good p’ints
An’ bad all mixed tergether—like Seth was—
I cain’t see why we try ter make ’em out
Ez hevin’ be’n perfecshun; ’tain’t the trewth.
I heerd Almiry ’smornin’ ’fore the fun’rel
Say this ter one the naybers thar, sez she:
‘Seth never said no ha’sh or hasty word
In all ’is life ter me,’ an’ bust out cry’n’.
Jest then she ketched my eye—I dunno how
It was, I reck’n she sensed the laff inside
O’ me, ’n’ we both looked over t’ whar Seth laid—
She knowed me ’n’ Seth was purty clost—’n’ I’m sure
She ha’f expected he would set ri’t up
An’ look at her, fer he could never stand
Fer no Saphiry stuff, ’n’ Almiry knowed it.
She quit her takin’ on, an’ carr’d herself
So ca’m but wownded like, it made me swaller.
I wouldn’t give a dam”—his minister
Sez Bill kin carry off those kind o’ words
The niftiest he ever heerd fer deakins—
“Fer enny man ’bout who thet pious kind
O’ rot might possibly be trew. They ain’t
Sich people nohow, leastways not in this
’Ere Skillet deestric’.... Wal, boys, here we be.”
 XII
The Katydid

Skeeters pest’rin’,
Bites a-fest’rin’,
Merc’ry ninety-four;
Feelin’ groggy,
Piller soggy,
Makes me tur’bel sore.

Rollin’, groanin’,
Tossin’, moanin’,
Hotter ’n eggs a-fryin’;
Houn’ dawg yellin’,
Jack-ass hellin’,
Little Willy cryin’.

Nerves a-tingle;
Ev’ry single
Nightish critter tootin’;
Hosses champin’,
Cattle stampin’,
Even stars a-shootin’!

Air is deader
Than a medder
Whar they’s be’n a fire
East all smoky,
Moon-rise poky—
Julluk out o’ mire.

Night’s a horrer;
 Like ter borrer
Bill’s ol’ “make-’em-peep;”
Shoot the dam things
So’s ter ca’m things—
Git fi’ minnits’ sleep.

Nature’s planned it
Tho, ’n’ I’ll stand it—
’Cept one thing, by hellum!
That’s thet rawcus
Hoppin’ jaw-cuss
Out on yender ellum.

Pesky thing
Doosn’t sing;
Line o’ talk
’S jist a squawk.
Rubs its wings an’
Thinks it sings an’
Knocks my wits
All ter bits;
Never quits
Throwin’ fits
All the night
Till it’s light;
No beseechin’
Stops its screechin’;
Filin’ saws,
Grindin’ jaws,
Windin’ clocks,
Gratin’ locks—
’S music ’side
That ’ar snide!

Change yer toon, yew

Mis’bel loon, yew!
Mos’ly threes;
Shift it, please!

“She did!
She hid
Her lid,
She did!”

Now ’e’s say’n’

Threes again:

“Yes she did,

Yes she did,
Yes she, yes she,
Yes she did!”

Gosh a’ mity,
I’m mos’ flighty.

Insect ass,
Scrapin’ brass,
Co’se I know
She done so.
Now yew kill her.
(Hang this piller!)

Thar, thet’s better;

Hope yew’ve let ’er
Die the death;
Save yer breath,
Mornin’s here,
Breakfas’ near.

Durn ’er hide,

Katy’s died!
 XIII
Bill’s Vote
(November, 1916)

I ast Bill lately how ’e’s goin ter vote.

We stood thar in the feed lot handin’ out
Ter gruntin’ Durocs ears o’ yeller corn.
Bill kep’ ’is mouth shet longer ’n I could wait,
An’ so I ast again: “Yo’ ain’t decided?”
He looked right smart like he was goin’ ter laff,
But didn’t, tho’ a smile loafed ’round ’is eyes.
“It’s kind o’ mixy, true ’s yew live,” he sez,
A-pokin’ with ’is boot a big fat sow
(Who’d swiped a ear from one the little runts)
Until she squealed an’ cussed at ’im in what
Bill calls Hog Latin, ran a rod, an’ sulked
Fi’ seconds, then snook back ter snitch some more—
“Yer caint tell nothin’ ’bout a feller’s vote
This year. Take ol’ Doc Garner—demicrat
Sence ’sixty-nine, but sez he’s goin’ ter vote
Agin th’ administration ’cos he jes’
Caint stand fer no ameeba (mebbe yew
Know what thet is) fer president. An’ then
Thar’s Peleg Towle ’at runs the paper here—
Oak-ribbed republican sence I dunno—
He sez we’d orter be almity glad
We ain’t ter war, an’ he do’ want no ice-berg
A-settin’ on no Congress’ back door steps
A-try’n’ ter hatch no batch o’ tory laws!
Wal, thar ye be; it’s julluk thet all ’round;
A feller’s looks don’t give away ’is vote.
I uster guess yer polytics by how
Ye spoke an’ acted, but I caint this year.”
“I sure don’t git yoors, Bill, from ennything
I’ve heerd ye say all Fall,” I sez; “How ’bout it?”
An’ then ’e come ri’t out: “I s’pose I might’s
Well tell ye how it is. Yew know I come
From down Mizzoura way. My Paw’s relidjun
Was votin’ demicratic ev’ry chanct
He got, an’ never nothin’ else. I reck’n
I kind o’ got thet feel myself, an’ no
Amount o’ reason ’pears ter knock it out.
I’ve heerd the argyments from A to Izzard,
An’ reely, I’ll admit I ain’t no use
Fer empty words an’ hifalutin’ guff
’Bout war prosperity, humanity,
An’ stuff like thet, an’ layin’ down like pups
When some one hollers loud an’ suddin like.
But when I think o’ Paw, an’ Colonel Sims,
An’ all them early days at Gravel Point—
Wal, I’m agin what I am for, that’s all!
I’ll give ye now my reelest reason why
I’m votin’ demicratic come next week.
I ain’t no pessimist, but I beleeve
This here U. S. hez got ter git ri’ down
Ter brass tacks soon or late. We gotta hev
A awful mess o’ trubble, go thru fire
An’ brimstun, hell, an’ purgatory ’fore
We’ll ever ’mount ter shucks; an’ I b’en thinkin’
The quickest way ter git us thar ’s ter vote
The way I’m goin’ ter.”
 XIV
Bill’s “Risin’”

One mornin’ Bill he took ’is chair at table,

’N’ I seen ’is right hand almos’ kivered
With bandages, an’ ’e wan’t scassly able
Ter eat—jes’ set an’ kind o’ shivered.

I didn’t say en’thing till I hed et

’Mos’ threw my breakfas’; then I said,
“I reckin, Bill, yew better quit an’ let
Us fix ye up, or go ter bed.”

Thet hand o’ his was awful red, an’ swoll’d

Ez big ’s a baby colt’s hind legs;
The fingers on ’t looked whitish blew an’ cold,
An’ stuck up like ol’ harness pegs.

He suffered dretful, thet was plain enuff,

Tho’ Laury ’d doctered ’im with messes,
An’ polticed ’im with ev’ry kind o’ stuff,
Horse linyments an’ warm compresses.

But no, he wouldn’t go ter bed; he ’d see

The dum thing threw ’f it took a week;
We might ez well, he said, jes’ leeve ’im be,
He wouldn’t show no yeller streak.

An’ so he wandered ’round all day a-nussin’

Thet fest’rin’ dead man’s hand o’ his;
He said it wan’t no use ter dew no cussin’—
The more he swore the more it riz.
By night the pain hed drove ’im almos’ wild,
’N’ is arm was big’s a water oak;
It wouldn’t took much then ter git ’im riled,
Or skeer ’im stiff he’s goin’ ter croak.

But still he’d grin—tho’ co’se I knowed he’s fakin’—

An’ say he didn’t give a dam fer
A thing ’cept t’ ev thet “risin’” quit its achin’;
An’ then he ’d sniff ’t a bottl’ o’ camfer.

At last I sez, an’ tapped ’im on the wrist,

“Ef I was yew I’d chuck fer fair
Them soaky puddin’ rags, an’ give yer fist
Jes’ antyskeptick wash an’ air.”

Thet ’s all I said, an’ left ’im at ’is door

The mos’ bedraggles’ ’pearin’ cuss,
Julluk a houn’ dawg all chawed up an’ sore,
’At looks he ’s licked an’ feels it wuss.

But on the quiet Bill ’e tried thet wash,

An’ said nex’ day the pain had eased
So much thet reely it felt good, buggosh,
Like some ol’ wheel thet ’s jes’ be’n greased.

I never seen a man more chipperer;

’T was plain he ’d busted thet thar “risin’”;
An’ then, jessif he ’d be’n the minister,
He started in a-moralizin’:

“It ’s ruther cu’r’us, aint it, how a fuller

Jes’ natchelly falls back on notions
Thet long ago he ’d orter t’run down suller;
I mean them poltices an’ lotions.

Now I was raised ter b’leeve I ’d gotta take

My med’cin, grin an’ bear it, when
Dizease or death, misfortune, pain or ache
Ketched holt, fer thet ’s the way o’ men;

An’ thet is mos’ly trew; but here in farmin’

I find ye don’t git ha’f so leery
’Bout buckin’ fate, ’f ye’r’ ont’ them funny varmin
They call ‘basilly’ or ‘backteery.’

I hev an idee ’t out o’ life we ’d git

Much more o’ honey ’n’ less o’ wax,
Ef we depended less on native wit
An’ more on sientifick fac’s.”
 XV
Calamitous Days

It seems ter be the human lot o’ man

Onct in a while ter hev a day
When ev’rything goes wrong, an’ nary plan
Works out at all in enny way.

It’s sure the stranges’ thing how succumstances

At times combines ter git yer goat;
When grinnin’ Fate jes’ mocks at ye, an’ dances
’Ter jangled fiddlin’ on one note.

Wal, thet’s how ’twas the time Bill hed ’is “risin’;”
’Peared like the farm was on the blink;
An’ I kin tell ye ’t wouldn’t be’n supprisin’
Ef even Bill hed took ter drink.

It come right at the bizzy season; Bill

Was all laid up an’ couldn’t work;
An’ when he wan’t around, ez co’se they will,
The help would soljer, loaf an’ shirk.

They’d be’n so slow ’bout gittin’ in the corn

On “Thirty-one”—the “Lower bottom”—
Thet when ’twas drown’d an’ scorched, I could ’a’ sworn
Thet Bill was mad enuff ter shot ’em.

An’ then we found ’t th’ alfalfy ’n’ wheat hed heaved

So bad thet most of it would die;
With wheat a dollar ninety Bill was peeved,
An’ ’taint no job ter figger why.
An’ next the forty west in alsike clover,
A field thet’s purty gin’ly dry,
A heavy rain hed kivered almos’ over
With water two three inches high.

Soon after Lon come in an’ sez ter me:

“Yew better tell Paw ’bout the rape;
It’s daid or ain’t come up; I reckon he
Do’ know it’s in sech awful shape.”

He did tho’, ’n’ when I told ’im, give a grunt,

An’ looked it ’stid o’ sayin’ it.
Bill’s mity strong on puttin’ up a front;
He seldom r’ars an’ champs ’is bit.

The garden truck was et by Willie’s pony;

Ol’ Jess got drunk on apple-jack;
The poults begun ter droop, an’ acted phony;
An’ Barney’s glanders all come back.

I reck’n ’twas Willie ’t throwed them kittens int’

The sistern, so ’t we all took sick.
(I seen Bill’s face was like a chunk o’ flint
Ez ’e chased Willie down t’ the crick!)

The telephone was crazy—jes’ made clicks;

The flies was thicker ’n ’Gypshun plaigs;
The kitchen door was off an’ wouldn’t fix,
An’ suthin’ sucked all Laury’s aigs.

Then pink-eye ketched the heffers an’ the ca’ves,

An’ some the critters lost the’r sight;
Fer fear yew’ll think thet things was goin’ by ha’ves,
The lightnin’ hit the barn one night

An’ burnt it clean ter blazes, ’long with ten

Or twenty ton o’ hay an’ straw,
An’ knocked the stuffin’ out o’ “Herford Ben,”
Whose peddygree was long ’s the law.

With Sunday come a quiet restin’ spell;

We needed it, by Jethro, tew,
Fer scorchy weather ’n’ rotten luck is hell
On fellers try’n’ ter “see it threw,”

Ez Bill is allers sayin’; them’s ’is words

When things is wrong an’ nothin’ ’s right;
When Fortune’s milk jes’ turns ter whey an’ curds,
An’ spiles yer spir’t-yel appetite.

The fambly ’d went ter church—ter hear ’bout Moses

An’ how ’e fit all kinds o’ luck;
While me an’ Bill jes’ lolled an’ dug our noses
Deep int’ the fresh green grass an’ muck.

I sez, “Bill, yew remind me some o’ Job,

Fer yew aint cussed the fates an’ quit,
Like lots o’ fellers would on this ’ere globe;
I sh’ think yew’d cause enuff fer it.”

He ups an’ sez, not ans’rin’ me direc’

But far away, ’z ’e sometimes done:
“Nothin’ ’s wuth while onless ye resk yer neck—
Ter shoot a owl by day ’s no fun—

Ter raise a mess o’ beef ’s a reel man’s job—

’T ’s a bully gamble growin’ fodder—
Caint git no corn ’ithout ye take the cob—
Alfalfy ’ll allers hev its dodder—”
 XVI
The Pet Calf

Hey, Whitey, here’s a good fat ear,

It’s ’mong the last ye’ll git;
Come on now, lemme rub yer nose—
Ye’r’ lookin’ tol’ bul fit.

I’m gonna ship ye off terday,

Yew be’n here long enuff;
I s’pose ’f yew knowed what I’m a-sayin’
Yew’d think ’twas kind o’ ruff

Same’s I dew, ’n’ I’m a-tryin’ hard

Ter make ye onderstand;
Tho’ p’r’aps it’s jest ez well ye don’t—
Hi-i-i! What ye doin’ t’ my hand!

I’ve nussed ye sence ye fust was dropped—

Ye don’t remember, dew ye?
I’ve heerd ye blat a many times
An’ come a-runnin’ tew ye.

Yew didn’t hev yer mother long—

I went t’ the crick ter fetch ’er—
“Four Mile” was up, an’ I’s afraid
The flood might prob’ly ketch ’er.

It hed, fer when she’d tried ter cross

Ter yew on t’other bank,
She got all tangled in the drift,
Drownded right thar, an’ sank.
I brung ye up t’ the house, ’n’ the gals
They cosseted an’ fed ye,
An’ ever sence they’s be’n some one
Ter fetch ye slops an’ bed ye.

An’ now look at ye! Ha’f a ton

O’ helpless bone an’ beef;
A livin’ stack o’ hay an’ grain;
A critter boun’ fer grief.

I dassent tell the gals ye’r’ goin’—

I couldn’t, gosh a’mity;
They’ll miss ye tur’bul—fer a spell—
An’ bawl for “little Whitey.”

Thar’s Lon—he’s come ter round ye up.

Goo’ by, ol’ chap—O darn!
They’s suthin’ ’t I hev clean fergot—
I reck’n I’ll gw’int’ the barn.
 XVII
Bill on War
(February, 1917)

My Land, ’twas cold thet night I set with Bill

Around the iron stove het up red hot
An’ Bill a-stokin’ on’t with all ’is mite.
He calls the room ’is “offis;” three four cheers,
A bench, farm jurnels layin’ on a stand,
Some books on cattle-feedin’—Bill’s he’s up
Ter date on all thet stuff, tho’ he aint hed
No the’ry trainin’ in them farmin’ schools—
A book on “Soils”—the same ez siles, I s’pose—
A walnut seckertry, some plants o’ Laury’s,
A lot o’ calendars—with smartish women
In droopy longish gowns a-ridin’ proud
High-sperr’ted colts along a river whar
A chap is ketchin’ traouts ez fast ez he
Kin sling a worm, or mebbe it’s a fly—
An’ Bill’s ol’ double bar’l behind the door.
I’ve offen gassed with Bill in thet thar room
O’ his when fokes was all a-bed ’n’ asleep.
The frost was thicker’n cream on all the winders;
Occazh’nully they’d be a pane ’thout none,
Or kivered only ha’f, an’ ’f I looked out,
Ez onct or twict I done, I seen a sight
Thet made me clean fergit how cold it was:
A sea o’ white ’way down ter “Thirty-One,”
With waves o’ drifts piled ev’ry here an’ thar;
An’ still—Jerushy! Still’s a mounting top
Up thar amongst them craters on the moon.
The only noise we heerd inside, ’cept co’se
The fire, was snappin’ clabboards on the house,
Like pistol shots thet kind o’ made us jump.
“It’s twenty-six below,” sez Bill, ez he
Throwed on another mess o’ coal; “I reck’n
We’ll need them extry quilts ternight. I’m glad
It’s be’n a-snowin’ some on thet ’ar field
O’ wheat this week; they wouldn’t be no crop
This spring if ’t hedn’t. Caint remember when
It’s ever be’n so cold afore here’bouts.
Reck’n Laury’s plants ’ll hev ter be brung up
A leetle closter ter the stove; thet thar
Jerainyum looks jessif ’twas fros’ bit now.
Yew look like yew was tew,” he sez, an’ grinned.
“I be,” I sez, “behind, but barbecued
In front.”
An’ then I mentioned cazhool like
The war a-hangin’ ov’r us. Bill kep’ still
At first, ’n’ I let ’im; then bimeby, julluk
He’s talkin’ tew ’isself, he sez reel grave,
“Ef’t comes, ’twill be the genooinest war
Our fokes hez ever saw; an’ we’re about
Ez ready for’t ’z a fat prize Berksheer barrer
Would be ter fight a bunch o’ timber wolves.
O’ co’se this here U. S. hez got back-bone,
But ’pears ter me it’s—what’s thet word? I seen
It t’other day an’ looked it up—O yes,
It’s atrofide.... We gotta train ri’ down
Ter razor-backs afore we’re enny good ....
We’re all tew pussy ’n’ prizey ’n’ prosp’rus like
Ter tech a wil’cat even with a fork....
’F a hoss hez won blue ribbons to a fair,
He prob’ly caint kick ha’f so long ’z a scrub
Thet’s hard ez nails an’ workin’ ev’ry day....
An’ then agin I think we’re like “Ol’ Ben”;
Yew ’member him—ez gentle ez a kitten,
An’ big an’ fat, good-natured, easy goin’,
Tho’ onct ’n a while they’s fire in ’is eye.
They want no doubt thet he could lick ’is weight
Twict over, but he never knowed it till—
Yew prob’ly don’t recall the time thet young
An’ fi’ry furrin bull o’ Otto’s bust
Clean threw three fences jes’ ter hev a crack
At Ben. I didn’t git thar till ’twas over,
But heerd consid’bul ’bout it from the naybers.
They said the younger critter kind o’ toyed
With Ben a spell, an’ Ben was sort o’ dazed,
But kep’ a-goin’ not scassly knowin’ what
’Twas all about; then later he got sore,
’Is dander an’ ’is blood come up, an’ say—
The way he whaled thet hateful little cuss....
It took ’im all day tew, an’ not a soul
Dast git up clost ter watch ’em fight it out....
Ol’ Ben was stannin’ kind o’ groggy when
I come ter git ’im, ’n’ ev’ry little while
He’d stop an’ paw an’ beller ’n’ lick ’is flank
Like he’d be’n hit right smart; but he was all
Right thar, ’n’ I hed ter laff.... They brung a pair
O’ hosses up an’ hauled the other beast
Somew’eres.... We never hed no better bull
Then Ben was after thet; he wouldn’t look
Fer trubble, an’ somehow ’r ’nother trubble seemed
Ter not be look’n’ fer him. It done ’im good,
We thought, an’ thet’s my idee ’bout this war.”
“But how ’bout Lon,” I sez, “ef war should come?”
Thet ketched ’im hard, an’ I was sorry ’t I
Hed ast ’im sich a techy question, ’cos
I knowed thet Lon was all they was ter go,
Bill’s bigges’ boy—the rest was either gals
Or els tew young—an’ Bill was allers jellus
O’ Lon, like heffers be with their firs’ ca’f.
I changed the subjec’, said how cold it was,
An’ stomped aroun,’ an’ ’lowed I’d go ter bed.
I said “good-night” an’ got ha’f way up stairs,
When Bill he give a little cough behind
An’ blowed ’is nose, ’n’ ’is words was drowndy like:
“I’d see ’t he went.” An’ then a gust o’ wind
Put out my light, ’n’ I thought how lucky ’twas,
Altho’ I never would ’a’ looked at Bill
When he was that ’a’ way.
 XVIII
Treed

’Twas a Sunday in March ez we set on a log

In a break in the woods, whar the crick makes a jog,
An’ hez et int’ the bank an’ up under the mill,
Thet the story herewith was related by Bill.

“Years ago, forty odd, wild hogs was ez thick

In these ’ere Skillet bottoms ez ‘cats’ in the crick.
They follered the mast (tho’ I ain’t meanin’ shippin’),
An’ ’long in the Fall got ez fat ez a pippin.

My Paw uster hunt ’em with dawgs on the run,

So ’z ter git us our pork ’fore the Winter begun;
An’ many’s the time I’ve heerd ’im tell how
He hed fit with or run from a perky ol’ sow.

Fer them pigs was mean custumers, give ’em a chance,

An’ a boar with ’is tushes could rip up yer pants
A dum sight more quicker ’n a pirate crew,
An’ ’e’d take a hull lot o’ yer leg with it tew.

One time they’s a feller was huntin’ ’is pork

Somewhar over yender not fur from the Fork.
Now they’s fokes ’at’s still livin’ ’at ’ll tell ye they know
Thet what I’m a-tellin’ ye reely was so.

Wal, night come along an’ ’e hedn’t shot nuthin’,

An’ ’e got kind o’ scary an’ tho’t ’e heerd suthin’;
So ’e turned an’ ’e run like a stampeded steer
Till ’is breathin’ give out an’ ’is legs felt queer.
They was only one thing fer the poor cuss ter dew,
An thet was ter shin up a tree by the ‘slew’
Whar ’e happened ter be; an’ thet’s what ’e done
When ’e’d got ’is wind back an’ hed throwed down ’is gun.

He grabbed a young hick’ry with both han’s an’ feet,

An’ ’e clumb an’ ’e clumb till ’e found a good seat.
Thar ’e rested a hour a-huggin’ the tree
Till at last ’e decided ’twas safe ter work free.

But ’e couldn’t giddown—stuck right whar ’e was

A-wond’rin’ wottell ’s ailin’ graverty’s laws!
He shoved an’ ’e squeezed an’ ’e sweat with a will,
An’ ’is legs was woun’ tight round thet hickory, till—

Dog tater my black cat’s kittens!—he found

He hed be’n settin’ thar all the while on the ground!”