RUBÁIYÁT OF DOC SIFERS
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
POEMS HERE AT HOME.
NEGHBORLY POEMS.
SKETCHES IN PROSE AND OCCASIONAL VERSES.
AFTERWHILES.
PIPES O' PAN (Prose and Verse).
RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD.
FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT.
OLD-FASHIONED ROSES (English Edition).
GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS.
ARMAZINDY.
A CHILD-WORLD.
AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE.
RUBÁIYÁT OF DOC SIFERS
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
ILLUSTRATED
BY
C. M. RELYEA
PUBLISHED BY THE CENTURY CO.
NEW YORK M DCCC XC VII
Copyright, 1897,
By The Century Co.
Copyright, 1897,
By James Whitcomb Riley
The De Vinne Press.
TO
DR. FRANKLIN W. HAYS
THE LOYAL CHUM OF MY LATEST YOUTH
AND LIKE FRIEND AND COMRADE STILL
WITH ALL GRATEFUL AFFECTION OF
The Author.
We found him in that far-away that yet to us seems
near—
We vagrants of but yesterday when idlest youth was
here,—
When lightest song and laziest mirth possessed us
through and through,
And all the dreamy summer-earth seemed drugged with
morning dew:
When our ambition scarce had shot a stalk or blade
indeed:
Yours,—choked as in the garden-spot you still
deferred to "weed":
Mine,—but a pipe half-cleared of pith—as
now it flats and whines
In sympathetic cadence with a hiccough in the
lines.
Aye, even then—o timely hour!—the high
gods did confer
In our behalf:—and, clothed in power, lo, came
their courier—
Not winged with flame nor shod with wind,—but
ambling down the pike,
Horseback, with saddlebags behind, and guise all
human-like.
And it was given us to see, beneath his rustic
rind,
A native force and mastery of such inspiring
kind,
That half unconsciously we made obeisance.—smiling,
thus
His soul shone from his eyes and laid its glory over
us.
· · · · · ·
Though, faring still that far-away that yet to us seems
near,
His form, through mists of yesterday, fades from the
vision here,
Forever as he rides, it is in retinue
divine,—
The hearts of all his time are his, with your hale
heart and mine.
RUBÁIYÁT
OF
DOC SIFERS
I
Ef you don't know Doc Sifers
I'll jes argy, here and now,
You've bin a mighty little while about here,
anyhow!
'Cause Doc he's rid these roads and woods—er
swum 'em, now and then—
And practised in this neighberhood sence hain't no tellin'
when!
II
In radius o' fifteen mile'd, all p'ints o' compass
round,
No man er woman, chick er child, er team, on top o'
ground,
But knows him—yes, and got respects and
likin' fer him, too,
Fer all his so-to-speak dee-fects o' genius showin'
through!
III
Some claims he's absent-minded; some has said they wuz
afeard
To take his powders when he come and dosed 'em out, and
'peared
To have his mind on somepin' else—like County
Ditch, er some
New way o' tannin' mussrat-pelts, er makin' butter
come.
IV
He's cur'ous—they hain't no mistake about it!—but
he's got
Enough o' extry brains to make a jury—like
as not.
They's no describin' Sifers,—fer, when all
is said and done,
He's jes hisse'f Doc Sifers—ner they hain't
no other one!
V
Doc's allus sociable, polite, and 'greeable, you'll
find—
Pervidin' ef you strike him right and nothin' on his
mind,—
Like in some hurry, when they've sent fer Sifers
quick, you see,
To 'tend some sawmill-accident, er picnic
jamboree;
VI
Er when the lightnin' 's struck some hare-brained
harvest-hand; er in
Some 'tempt o' suicidin'—where they'd ort to try
ag'in!
I've knowed Doc haul up from a trot and talk a'
hour er two
When railly he'd a-ort o' not a-stopped fer
"Howdy-do!"
VII
And then, I've met him 'long the road,
a-lopin',—starin' straight
Ahead,—and yit he never knowed me when I hollered
"Yate,
Old Saddlebags!" all hearty-like, er "Who you
goin' to kill?"
And he'd say nothin'—only hike on faster, starin'
still!
VIII
I'd bin insulted, many a time, ef I jes wuzn't
shore
Doc didn't mean a thing. And I'm not tetchy any
more
Sence that-air day, ef he'd a-jes a-stopped to jaw with
me,
They'd bin a little dorter less in my own
fambily!
IX
Times now, at home, when Sifers' name comes up, I
jes let on,
You know, 'at I think Doc's to blame, the way he's
bin and gone
And disapp'inted folks—'Ll-jee-mun-nee!
you'd ort to then
Jes hear my wife light into me—"ongratefulest
o' men!"
X
'Mongst all the women—mild er rough,
splendifferous er plain,
Er them with sense, er not enough to come in out
the rain,—
Jes ever' shape and build and style o' women, fat er
slim—
They all like Doc, and got a smile and pleasant word fer
him!
XI
Ner hain't no horse I've ever saw but what'll neigh and
try
To sidle up to him, and paw, and sense him,
ear-and-eye:
Then jes a tetch o' Doc's old pa'm, to pat 'em, er to
shove
Along their nose—and they're as ca'm as any cooin'
dove!
XII
And same with dogs,—take any breed, er strain, er
pedigree,
Er racial caste 'at can't concede no use fer you er
me,—
They'll putt all predju-dice aside in Doc's case and go
in
Kahoots with him, as satisfied as he wuz kith-and-kin!
XIII
And Doc's a wonder, trainin' pets!—He's got a
chicken-hawk,
In kind o' half-cage, where he sets out in the
gyarden-walk,
And got that wild bird trained so tame, he'll loose him,
and he'll fly
Clean to the woods!—Doc calls his name—and
he'll come, by-and-by!
XIV
Some says no money down ud buy that bird o' Doc.—Ner
no
Inducement to the bird, says I, 'at he'd
let Sifers go!
And Doc he say 'at he's content—long
as a bird o' prey
Kin 'bide him, it's a compliment, and takes
it thataway.
XV
But, gittin' back to docterin'—all the sick
and in distress,
And old and pore, and weak and small, and lone and
motherless,—
I jes tell you I 'preciate the man 'at 's got
the love
To "go ye forth and ministrate!" as Scriptur' tells us
of.
XVI
Dull times, Doc jes mianders round, in that
old rig o' his:
And hain't no tellin' where he's bound ner guessin' where
he is;
He'll drive, they tell, jes thataway fer maybe six er
eight
Days at a stretch; and neighbers say he's bin clean round
the State.
XVII
He picked a' old tramp up, one trip, 'bout eighty mile'd
from here,
And fetched him home and k-yored his hip, and kep' him
'bout a year;
And feller said—in all his ja'nts round this
terreschul ball
'At no man wuz a circumstance to Doc!—he
topped 'em all!—
XVIII
Said, bark o' trees 's a' open book to Doc, and vines and
moss
He read like writin'—with a look knowed ever' dot
and cross:
Said, stars at night wuz jes as good 's a compass: said,
he s'pose
You couldn't lose Doc in the woods the darkest night
that blows!
XIX
Said, Doc'll tell you, purty clos't, by underbresh and
plants,
How fur off warter is,—and 'most perdict
the sort o' chance
You'll have o' findin' fish; and how they're
liable to bite,
And whether they're a-bitin' now, er only after
night.
XX
And, whilse we're talkin' fish,—I mind they
formed a fishin'-crowd
(When folks could fish 'thout gittin' fined,
and seinin' wuz allowed!)
O' leadin' citizens, you know, to go and seine
"Old Blue"—
But hadn't no big seine, and so—w'y, what wuz they
to do?...
XXI
And Doc he say he thought 'at he could knit
a stitch er two—
"Bring the materials to me—'at's all I'm
astin' you!"
And down he sets—six weeks, i jing! and knits that
seine plum done—
Made corks too, brails and ever'thing—good as a
boughten one!
XXII
Doc's public sperit—when the sick 's not
takin' all his time
And he's got some fer politics—is simple
yit sublime:—
He'll talk his principles—and they
air honest;—but the sly
Friend strikes him first, election-day, he'd 'commodate,
er die!
XXIII
And yit, though Doc, as all men knows, is square straight
up and down,
That vote o' his is—well, I s'pose—the cheapest
one in town;—
A fact 'at's sad to verify, as could be done on
oath—
I've voted Doc myse'f—And I was criminal fer
both!
XXIV
You kin corrupt the ballot-box—corrupt
yourse'f, as well—
Corrupt some neighbers,—but old Doc's as
oncorruptible
As Holy Writ. So putt a pin right there!—Let
Sifers be,
I jucks! he wouldn't vote agin his own worst
inimy!
XXV
When Cynthy Eubanks laid so low with fever, and Doc
Glenn
Told Euby Cynth 'ud haf to go—they sends fer
Sifers then!...
Doc sized the case: "She's starved," says he, "fer
warter—yes, and meat!
The treatment 'at she'll git from me 's all she
kin drink and eat!"
XXVI
He orders Euby then to split some wood, and take and
build
A fire in kitchen-stove, and git a young spring-chicken
killed;
And jes whirled in and th'owed his hat and coat there on
the bed,
And warshed his hands and sailed in that-air kitchen,
Euby said,
XXVII
And biled that chicken-broth, and got that dinner—all
complete
And clean and crisp and good and hot as mortal ever
eat!
And Cynth and Euby both'll say 'at Doc'll git as
good
Meals-vittles up, jes any day, as any woman
could!
XXVIII
Time Sister Abbick tuk so bad with striffen o' the
lung,
P'tracted Meetin', where she had jes shouted, prayed and
sung
All winter long, through snow and thaw,—when Sifers
come, says he:
"No, M'lissy; don't poke out your raw and cloven tongue
at me!—
XXIX
"I know, without no symptoms but them
injarubber-shoes
You promised me to never putt a fool-foot in ner
use
At purril o' your life!" he said. "And I won't save you
now,
Onless—here on your dyin' bed—you consecrate
your vow!"
XXX
Without a-claimin' any creed, Doc's rail religious
views
Nobody knows—ner got no need o' knowin'
whilse he choose
To be heerd not of man, ner raise no loud, vainglorious
prayers
In crowded marts, er public ways, er—i jucks,
anywheres!—
XXXI
'Less 'n it is away deep down in his own heart,
at night,
Facin' the storm, when all the town's a-sleepin' snug
and tight—
Him splashin' hence from scenes o' pride and sloth and
gilded show,
To some pore sufferer's bedside o' anguish, don't you
know!
XXXII
Er maybe dead o' winter—makes no odds to
Doc,—he's got
To face the weather ef it takes the hide off! 'cause
he'll not
Lie out o' goin' and p'tend he's sick hisse'f—like
some
'At I could name 'at folks might send fer and they'd
never come!
XXXIII
Like pore Phin Hoover—when he goes to that last
dance o' his!
That Chris'mus when his feet wuz froze—and Doc
saved all they is
Left of 'em—"'Nough," as Phin say now, "to track
me by, and be
A advertisement, anyhow, o' what Doc's done fer
me!—
XXXIV
"When he come—knife-and-saw"—Phin
say, "I knowed, ef I'd the spunk,
'At Doc 'ud fix me up some way, ef nothin' but
my trunk
Wuz left, he'd fasten casters in, and have me,
spick-and-span,
A-skootin' round the streets ag'in as spry as any
man!"
XXXV
Doc sees a patient's got to quit—he'll
ease him down serene
As dozin' off to sleep, and yit not dope him with
mor-pheen.—
He won't tell what—jes 'lows 'at he has
"airn't the right to sing
'O grave, where is thy victery! O death, where is thy
sting!'"
XXXVI
And, mind ye now!—it's not in scoff and scorn, by
long degree,
'At Doc gits things like that-un off: it's jes his
shority
And total faith in Life to Come,—w'y, "from that
Land o' Bliss,"
He says, "we'll haf to chuckle some, a-lookin' back at
this!"
XXXVII
And, still in p'int, I mind, one night o' 'nitiation
at
Some secert lodge, 'at Doc set right down on 'em, square
and flat,
When they mixed up some Scriptur' and wuz
funnin'-like—w'y, he
Lit in 'em with a rep'imand 'at ripped 'em, A to
Z!
XXXVIII
And onc't—when gineral loafin'-place wuz old
Shoe-Shop—and all
The gang 'ud git in there and brace their backs ag'inst
the wall
And settle questions that had went onsettled long
enough,—
Like "wuz no Heav'n—ner no torment"—jes
talkin' awful rough!
XXXIX
There wuz Sloke Haines and old Ike Knight and Coonrod
Simmes—all three
Ag'inst the Bible and the Light, and scoutin'
Deity.
"Science," says Ike, "it dimonstrates—it
takes nobody's word—
Scriptur' er not,—it 'vestigates
ef sich things could occurred!"
XL
Well, Doc he heerd this,—he'd drapped in a minute,
fer to git
A tore-off heel pegged on agin,—and, as he stood
on it
And stomped and grinned, he says to Ike, "I s'pose now,
purty soon
Some lightnin'-bug, indignant-like, 'll ''vestigate' the
moon!...
XLI
"No, Ike," says Doc, "this world hain't saw no brains
like yourn and mine
With sense enough to grasp a law 'at takes a brain
divine.—
I've bared the thoughts of brains in doubt, and felt
their finest pulse,—
And mortal brains jes won't turn out omnipotent
results!"
XLII
And Doc he's got respects to spare the rich as
well as pore—
Says he, "I'd turn no millionaire onsheltered
from my door."—
Says he, "What's wealth to him in quest o' honest
friends to back
And love him fer hisse'f?—not jes because
he's made his jack!"
XLIII
And childern.—Childern? Lawzy-day! Doc
worships 'em!—You call
Round at his house and ast 'em!—they're
a-swarmin' there—that's all!—
They're in his Lib'ry—in best room—in
kitchen—fur and near,—
In office too, and, I p'sume, his
operatin'-cheer!
XLIV
You know they's men 'at bees won't
sting?—They's plaguey few,—but Doc
He's one o' them.—And same, i jing! with
childern;—they jes flock
Round Sifers natchurl!—in his lap, and in
his pockets, too,
And in his old fur mitts and cap, and heart as
warm and true!
XLV
It's cur'ous, too,—'cause Doc hain't got no
childern of his own—
'Ceptin' the ones he's tuk and brought up, 'at's bin
left alone.
And orphans when their father died, er mother,—and
Doc he
Has he'pped their dyin' satisfied.—"The child shall
live with me
XLVI
"And Winniferd, my wife," he'd say, and stop right
there, and cle'r
His th'oat, and go on thinkin' way some
mother-hearts down here
Can't never feel their own babe's face a-pressin'
'em, ner make
Their naked breasts a restin'-place fer any baby's
sake.
XLVII
Doc's Lib'ry—as he calls it,—well,
they's ha'f-a-dozen she'ves
Jam-full o' books—I couldn't tell how
many—count yourse'ves!
One whole she'f's Works on Medicine! and most
the rest's about
First Settlement, and Indians in here,—'fore we
driv 'em out.—
XLVIII
And Plutarch's Lives—and life also o' Dan'el Boone,
and this-
Here Mungo Park, and Adam Poe—jes all the lives
they is!
And Doc's got all the novels out,—by Scott
and Dickison
And Cooper.—And, I make no doubt, he's read 'em
ever' one!
XLIX
Onc't, in his office, settin' there, with crowd o' eight
er nine
Old neighbers with the time to spare, and Doc a-feelin'
fine,
A man rid up from Rollins, jes fer Doc to write him
out
Some blame p'scription—done, I guess, in minute,
nigh about.—
L
And I says, "Doc, you 'pear so spry, jes write me
that recei't
You have fer bein' happy by,—fer that 'u'd
shorely beat
Your medicine!" says I.—And quick as
s'cat! Doc turned and writ
And handed me: "Go he'p the sick, and putt your heart
in it."
LI
And then, "A-talkin' furder 'bout that line o' thought,"
says he,
"Ef we'll jes do the work cut out and give' to you and
me,
We'll lack no joy, ner appetite, ner all we'd ort to
eat,
And sleep like childern ever' night—as puore and
ca'm and sweet."
LII
Doc has bin 'cused o' offishness and lack
o' talkin' free
And extry friendly; but he says, "I'm 'feard o'
talk," says he,—
"I've got," he says, "a natchurl turn fer talkin' fit to
kill.—
The best and hardest thing to learn is trick o' keepin'
still."
LIII
Doc kin smoke, and I s'pose he might drink
licker—jes fer fun.
He says, "You smoke, you drink all right;
but I don't—neether one"—
Says, "I like whiskey—'good old rye'—but
like it in its place,
Like that-air warter in your eye, er nose there on your
face."
LIV
Doc's bound to have his joke! The day he got that off on
me
I jes had sold a load o' hay at "Scofield's
Livery,"
And tolled Doc in the shed they kep' the hears't in,
where I'd hid
The stuff 'at got me "out o' step," as Sifers said it
did.
LV
Doc hain't, to say, no "rollin' stone," and yit he
hain't no hand
Fer 'cumulatin'.—Home's his own, and
scrap o' farmin'-land—
Enough to keep him out the way when folks is tuk down
sick
The suddentest—'most any day they want him 'special
quick.
LVI
And yit Doc loves his practice; ner don't, wilful, want
to slight
No call—no matter who—how fur away—er
day er night.—
He loves his work—he loves his friends—June,
Winter, Fall, and Spring:
His lovin'—facts is—never ends; he
loves jes ever'thing....
LVII
'Cept—keepin' books. He never sets down no
accounts.—He hates,
The worst of all, collectin' debts—the worst, the
more he waits.—
I've knowed him, when at last he had to dun a man,
to end
By makin' him a loan—and mad he hadn't more to
lend.
LVIII
When Pence's Drug Store ust to be in full blast, they
wuz some
Doc's patients got things frekantly there, charged to
him, i gum!—
Doc run a bill there, don't you know, and allus when he
squared,
He never questioned nothin',—so he had his feelin's
spared.
LIX
Now sich as that, I hold and claim, hain't
'scusable—it's not
Perfessional!—It's jes a shame 'at Doc
hisse'f hain't got
No better business-sense! That's why lots 'd
respect him more,
And not give him the clean go-by fer other
doctors. Shore!
LX
This-here Doc Glenn, fer instance; er this little
jack-leg Hall;—
They're business—folks respects 'em fer
their business more 'n all
They ever knowed, er ever will, 'bout
medicine.—Yit they
Collect their money, k-yore er kill.—They're
business, anyway!
LXI
You ast Jake Dunn;—he's worked it out in
figgers.—He kin show
Stastistics how Doc's airnt about three
fortunes in a row,—
Ever' ten-year' hand-runnin' straight—three
of 'em—thirty year'
'At Jake kin count and 'lucidate o' Sifers' practice
here.
LXII
Yit—"Praise the Lord," says Doc, "we've got our
little home!" says he—
"(It's railly Winniferd's, but what she owns, she
sheers with me.)
We' got our little gyarden-spot, and peach- and
apple-trees,
And stable, too, and chicken-lot, and eighteen hive' o'
bees."
LXIII
You call it anything you please, but it's
witchcraft—the power
'At Sifers has o' handlin' bees!—He'll watch 'em
by the hour—
Mix right amongst 'em, mad and hot and swarmin'!—yit
they won't
Sting him, er want to—'pear to
not,—at least I know they don't.
LXIV
With me and bees they's no p'tense o'
social-bility—
A dad-burn bee 'u'd climb a fence to git a whack at
me!
I s'pose no thing 'at's got a sting is railly
satisfied
It's sharp enough, ontel, i jing! he's honed it
on my hide!
LXV
And Doc he's allus had a knack inventin'
things.—Dee-vised
A windlass wound its own se'f back as it run down: and
s'prised
Their new hired girl with clothes-line, too, and
clothes-pins, all in one:
Purt'-nigh all left fer her to do wuz git her
primpin' done!
LXVI
And onc't, I mind, in airly Spring, and tappin'
sugar-trees,
Doc made a dad-burn little thing to sharpen
spiles with—these-
Here wood'-spouts 'at the peth's punched out, and driv'
in where they bore
The auger-holes. He sharpened 'bout a million
spiles er more!
LXVII
And Doc's the first man ever swung a bucket on a
tree
Instid o' troughs; and first man brung
grained sugar—so's 'at he
Could use it fer his coffee, and fer cookin', don't you
know.—
Folks come clean up from Pleasantland 'fore they'd
believe it, though!
LXVIII
And all Doc's stable-doors onlocks and locks
theirse'ves—and gates
The same way;—all rigged up like clocks, with
pulleys, wheels, and weights,—
So, 's Doc says, "drivin' out, er in,
they'll open; and they'll then,
All quiet-like, shet up ag'in like little
gentlemen!"
LXIX
And Doc 'ud made a mighty good
detective.—Neighbers all
Will testify to that—er could, ef
they wuz legal call:
His theories on any crime is worth your listenin'
to.—
And he has hit 'em, many a time, 'long 'fore established
true.
LXX
At this young druggist Wenfield Pence's trial fer his
life,
On primy faishy evidence o' pizonin' his
wife,
Doc's testimony saved and cle'red and 'quitted
him and freed
Him so 's he never even 'peared cog-nizant of the
deed!
LXXI
The facts wuz—Sifers testified,—at inquest
he had found
The stummick showed the woman died o' pizon, but
had downed
The dos't herse'f,—because amount
and cost o' drug imployed
No druggist would, on no account, a-lavished
and distroyed!
LXXII
Doc tracked a blame-don burgler down, and nailed
the scamp, to boot,
But told him ef he'd leave the town he wouldn't
prosecute.
He traced him by a tied-up thumb-print in fresh putty,
where
Doc glazed it. Jes that's how he come to track him
to his lair!
LXXIII
Doc's jes a leetle too inclined, some
thinks, to overlook
The criminal and vicious kind we'd ort to bring to
book
And punish, 'thout no extry show o' sympathizin',
where
They hain't showed none fer us, you know.
But he takes issue there:
LXXIV
Doc argies 'at "The Red-eyed Law," as he says,
"ort to learn
To lay a mighty leenient paw on deeds o' sich
concern
As only the Good Bein' knows the wherefore of, and
spreads
His hands above accused and sows His mercies on their
heads."
LXXV
Doc even holds 'at murder hain't no crime we got
a right
To hang a man fer—claims it's taint
o' lunacy, er quite.—
"Hold sich a man responsibul fer murder," Doc
says,—"then,
When he's hung, where's the rope to pull them
sound-mind jurymen?
LXXVI
"It's in a nutshell—all kin see," says
Doc,—"it's cle'r the Law's
As ap' to err as you er me, and kill without a
cause:
The man most innocent o' sin I've saw, er
'spect to see,
Wuz servin' a life-sentence in the
penitentchury."
LXXVII
And Doc's a whole hand at a fire!—directin'
how and where
To set your ladders, low er higher, and what first duties
air,—
Like formin' warter-bucket-line; and best man in the
town
To chop holes in old roofs, and mine defective chimblies
down:
LXXVIII
Er durin' any public crowd, mass-meetin', er big
day,
Where ladies ortn't be allowed, as I've heerd Sifers
say,—
When they's a suddent rush somewhere, it's Doc's voice,
ca'm and cle'r,
Says, "Fall back, men, and give her air!— that's
all she's faintin' fer."
LXXIX
The sorriest I ever feel fer Doc is when some
show
Er circus comes to town and he'll not git a chance to
go.
'Cause he jes natchurly delights in
circuses—clean down
From tumblers, in their spangled tights, to trick-mule
and Old Clown.
LXXX
And ever'body knows it, too, how Doc is,
thataway!...
I mind a circus onc't come through—wuz there
myse'f that day.—
Ringmaster cracked his whip, you know, to start the
ridin'—when
In runs Old Clown and hollers "Whoa!—Ladies
and gentlemen
LXXXI
"Of this vast audience, I fain would make inquiry
cle'r,
And learn, find out, and ascertain—Is Doctor
Sifers here?"
And when some fool-voice bellers down: "He is! He's
settin' in
Full view o' ye!" "Then," says the Clown,
"the circus may begin!"
LXXXII
Doc's got a temper; but, he says, he's learnt it
which is boss,
Yit has to watch it, more er less.... I never
seen him cross
But onc't, enough to make him swear;—milch-cow
stepped on his toe,
And Doc ripped out "I doggies!"—There's
the only case I know.
LXXXIII
Doc says that's what your temper's fer—to hold
back out o' view,
And learn it never to occur on out ahead o'
you.—
"You lead the way," says Sifers—"git your
temper back in line—
And furdest back the best, ef it's as mean
a one as mine!"
LXXXIV
He hates contentions—can't abide a wrangle er
dispute
O' any kind; and he 'ull slide out of a crowd and
skoot
Up some back-alley 'fore he'll stand and listen to a
furse
When ary one's got upper-hand and t' other one's got
worse.
LXXXV
Doc says: "I 'spise, when pore and weak and awk'ard
talkers fails,
To see it's them with hardest cheek and loudest mouth
prevails.—
A' all-one-sided quarr'l'll make me biased,
mighty near,—
'Cause ginerly the side I take's the one I never
hear."
LXXXVI
What 'peals to Doc the most and best is "seein' folks
agreed,
And takin' ekal interest and universal
heed
O' ever'body else's words and idies—same as
we
Wuz glad and chirpy as the birds—jes as we'd
ort to be!"
LXXXVII
And paterotic! Like to git Doc started, full and
fair,
About the war, and why 't 'uz fit, and what wuz
'complished there;
"And who wuz wrong," says Doc, "er right,
't 'uz waste o' blood and tears,
All prophesied in Black and White fer
years and years and years!"
LXXXVIII
And then he'll likely kind o' tetch on old John Brown,
and dwell
On what his warnin's wuz; and ketch his breath
and cough, and tell
On down to Lincoln's death. And then—well,
he jes chokes and quits
With "I must go now, gentlemen!" and grabs his hat, and
gits!
LXXXIX
Doc's own war-rickord wuzn't won so much in line o'
fight
As line o' work and nussin' done the wownded, day and
night.—
His wuz the hand, through dark and dawn, 'at bound their
wownds, and laid
As soft as their own mother's on their forreds when they
prayed....
XC
His wuz the face they saw the first—all dim, but
smilin' bright,
As they come to and knowed the worst, yit saw the old
Red-White-
And-Blue where Doc had fixed it where they'd see
it wavin' still,
Out through the open tent-flap there, er 'cros't the
winder-sill.
XCI
And some's a-limpin' round here yit—a-waitin'
Last Review,—
'U'd give the pensions 'at they git, and pawn their
crutches, too,
To he'p Doc out, ef he wuz pressed financial'—same
as he
Has allus he'pped them when distressed—ner
never tuk a fee.
XCII
Doc never wuz much hand to pay attention to
p'tence
And fuss-and-feathers and display in men o'
prominence:
"A railly great man," Sifers 'lows, "is not the
out'ard dressed—
All uniform, salutes and bows, and swellin' out his
chest.
XCIII
"I met a great man onc't," Doc says, "and shuk
his hand," says he,
"And he come 'bout in one, I guess, o'
disapp'intin' me—
He talked so common-like, and brought his mind so cle'r
in view
And simple-like, I purt'-nigh thought, 'I'm best
man o' the two!'"
XCIV
Yes-sir! Doc's got convictions and old-fashioned
kind o' ways
And idies 'bout this glorious Land o' Freedom; and he'll
raise
His hat clean off, no matter where, jes ever' time he
sees
The Stars and Stripes a-floatin' there and flappin' in
the breeze.
XCV
And tunes like old "Red, White and Blue" 'll fairly
drive him wild,
Played on the brass band, marchin' through the streets!
Jes like a child
I've saw that man, his smile jes set, all kind o' pale
and white,
Bare-headed, and his eyes all wet, yit dancin' with
delight!
XCVI
And yit, that very man we see all trimbly, pale and
wann,
Give him a case o' surgery, we'll see another
man!—
We'll do the trimblin' then, and we'll
git white around the gills—
He'll show us nerve o' nerves, and he 'ull show
us skill o' skills!
XCVII
Then you could toot your horns and beat your
drums and bang your guns,
And wave your flags and march the street, and charge,
all Freedom's sons!—
And Sifers then, I bet my hat, 'u'd never flinch
a hair,
But, stiddy-handed, 'tend to that pore patient layin'
there.
XCVIII
And Sifers' eye's as stiddy as that hand o'
his!—He'll shoot
A' old-style rifle, like he has, and smallest bore,
to boot,
With any fancy rifles made to-day, er expert
shot
'At works at shootin' like a trade—and
all some of 'em's got!
XCIX
Let 'em go right out in the woods with Doc, and
leave their "traps"
And blame glass-balls and queensware-goods, and see how
Sifers draps
A squirrel out the tallest tree.—And 'fore he
fires he'll say
Jes where he'll hit him—yes, sir-ee! And
he's hit thataway!
C
Let 'em go out with him, i jucks! with fishin'-pole and
gun,—
And ekal chances, fish and ducks, and take the rain,
er sun,
Jes as it pours, er as it blinds the eye-sight;
then, I guess,
'At they'd acknowledge, in their minds, their
disadvantages.
CI
And yit he'd be the last man out to flop his
wings and crow
Insultin'-like, and strut about above his fallen
foe!—
No-sir! the hand 'at tuk the wind out o' their
sails 'ud be
The very first they grabbed, and grinned to feel sich
sympathy.
CII
Doc gits off now and then and takes a huntin'-trip
somewhere
'Bout Kankakee, up 'mongst the lakes—sometimes'll
drift round there
In his canoe a week er two; then paddle clean on
back
By way o' old Wabash and Blue, with fish—all he
kin pack,—
CIII
And wild ducks—some with feathers on 'em yit, and
stuffed with grass.
And neighbers—all knows he's bin
gone—comes round and gits a bass—
A great big double-breasted "rock," er "black," er maybe
pair
Half fills a' ordinary crock.... Doc's fish'll
give out there
CIV
Long 'fore his ducks!—But folks'll smile
and blandish him, and make
Him tell and tell things!—all the while
enjoy 'em jes fer sake
O' pleasin' him; and then turn in and la'nch him
from the start
A-tellin' all the things ag'in they railly know by
heart.
CV
He's jes a child, 's what Sifers is! And-sir, I'd
ruther see
That happy, childish face o' his, and puore
simplicity,
Than any shape er style er plan o' mortals
otherwise—
With perfect faith in God and man a-shinin' in his
eyes.
Tamám.
Transcriber's Note:
All variations in spelling, inconsistent hyphenation and spelling have
been retained as they appear in the original text.
