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Title: Idylls of the Skillet Fork Author: Payson Sibley Wild Release date: January 29, 2024 [eBook #72807] Language: English Original publication: Chicago: Ralph Fletcher Seymour, 1918 Credits: Bob Taylor, Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDYLLS OF THE SKILLET FORK *** Transcriber’s Note Italic text displayed as: _italic_ Spaced text displayes as: ~spaced~ TO THE PRESIDING SPIRIT (IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING) HEREIN CALLED “~BILL~” OF SKILLET FORK FARM ON THE BORDERS OF “EGYPT” [Illustration: “_Bill_” ] Idylls of the Skillet Fork by _Payson S. Wild_ [Illustration: Decoration] _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 _Page_ The Skillet 5 The Bootleg Gang at Sims’ 7 The Mocking Bird 11 The Siren 15 Laury at the ’Phone 17 The ’Possum Hunt 19 Jupiter 21 Laury’s Lullaby 23 Bill Non-Committal 25 Laury’s “Eats” 29 Bill on Seth Watts 33 The Katydid 37 Bill’s Vote 41 Bill’s “Risin’” 43 Calamitous Days 47 The Pet Calf 51 Bill on War 53 Treed 57 Bill on Tobacco 59 The New Year’s Turkey 65 The Picture 67 The Letter from Lon 69 The Drouth 73 The Labor Situation 75 Killed in Action 77 November 79 _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._ [Illustration: Creek in woods] 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_! [Illustration: _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: “’S a pretty good night fer coons; so still Yer kin hear yer heart when yer’ve clum up hill.” I sensed what he meant, so I flaxed around, An’ in less ’n no time we was out on the trail. Bill’s houn’ dawg, ol’ Jess, was sniffin’ the ground Pertendin’ tew ax, “Is it ’possum or quail?” Tho’ she knowed well enough thet a Hunter’s Moon Don’t never mean nuthin’ ’cept ’possum or coon. I’ve heerd tell o’ moonlights on earth here an’ thar, In Venice, an’ down in ol’ Rome’s Colyseum; But gim _me_ the light of our lunary star When dew turns ter di’monds in Frost’s jubileum; When the ’simmons is ripe, an’ not a leaf stirs, An’ the fiel’s is jes’ drownded in silvery blurs! We was strollin’ ’long “Four Mile” when suddenly Jess With a sharp, quick yelp shot off threw the bresh. Jehosaphat, pard, I gotta confess How a houn’ dawg’s tonguin’ will quicken the flesh! For over a hour me ’n Bill snook along, An’ never got tired o’ foll’rin’ thet song. She was pawin’ a tree when we seen ’er at last, A-yelpin’ an’ whinin’ jessif she’s possessed. ’T was a gum, thick an’ solid, an’ big ez a mast, An’ ’fore I could speak Bill was down tew ’is vest. Some chopper is Bill, an’ I sure never seen A tree cut cleaner—nor ha’f ez clean. All shiny an’ white like a human kid Thet ’possum looked when we hauled ’er out! I felt like ’t was murder, I suttenly did, But Bill ’e sez, “Now, keep a eye on ’er snout; She’ll ac’ ’z if she’s daid ez long ez it’s curled, An’ don’t ye leggo of ’er—not fer the world.” * * * * * When we reached “Four Mile” we sed down ter rest, Completely bewitched by thet orb in the West. We was talkin’ ’bout Injuns, an’ _seein’_ ’em tew, When I noticed, by jing, that ’ar ’possum hed blew! VII Jupiter Few months ago, I ’member well, me’n Bill Was settin’ by the cattle wat’rin’-trough A-lis’nin’ tew the steers thet skwudged around The muddy yard an’ chawed the’r cuds an’ sighed. A bunch o’ smallish hogs hed quit the’r rootin’ An’ packed the’rsel’s up close agin the fence, An’ yew’d ’a’ laft ter hear ’em goin’ ter sleep. Ef one the runts was squeezed a mite tew much By ’nother layin’ on ’im kind o’ hard, He’d snort an’ squeal ter beat a callioap, Then shove the bunch aside an’ wiggle out, An’ give ’em fits, an’ then go ’long an’ plunk His carcuss on some other one; an’ then We’d git the hull dum show all over ’gin. Wal, me an’ Bill was watchin’ on ’em quar’l An’ slowly qui’tin’ down. ’T was one them nights— Yew’ve saw ’em, co’se, ef yew was country raised— A leetle tinge o’ red left in the west, When yew kin still set out without a coat, An’ yit yer sort o’ glad when yew come in An’ find the lamp’s het up the room. Yew felt Thet Fallish dreaminess thet ain’t like May’s, When Nacher’s takin’ off ’er overalls, But ain’t quite done with cleanin’ up the ruck. We got a-talkin’ speckerlatish like, ’N’ I sez, a-lookin’ up t’ them milyun stars, “I bet ye, Bill, they’s farms on Jupiter,” An’ Bill ’e sez, “I’ve offen thought o’ that.” An’ then he started in an’ reeled it off Jessif he’s readin’ po’try outen books: “A Jovial Spring,” he sez (his very words), “Mus’ last fer mos’ three years, an’ Fall the same. Jes’ think o’ havin’ apple blows, or ’simmons, All ’t once that long! But then yer’d hev ter plow An’ harrer tew fer three four years ’t a stretch; Things ’d even up about the same, I reckon ... Eight kinds o’ moonlight thar, Jehosaphat! Wonder’f thet means eight kinds o’ moonshine tew! An’ whadyer’ spose it dooz ter lovers, potes, An’ bayin’ houn’ dawgs——” “O Bil-l-l! Ain’t ye com’n?” ’T was Laury callin’ ’im. She never knowed How much she pestered Bill. “Le’s gwin,” he sez. 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!” XIX Bill on Tobacco I lit my pipe, an’ set with Bill a spell Out on the porch. The sun hed jes’ went down; The hens an’ chickens, ’thout no ’parent aim, Was gravitatin’ towards the hen-house door; The poults was floppin’ int’ the apple tree, An’ Zony come acrost the dewy yard A-bringin’ in the evenin’ mess o’ milk. ’Twas peaceful like, an’ I was tuckered out, An’ thet thar corn-cob tasted pow’ful good. I hedn’t hed a smoke sence noon, an’ co’se I’d be’n a-cravin’ on’t sence supper’s over, An’ kind o’ grudged ter hev ter gwout an’ feed The colts ’fore settin’ down an’ lightin’ up. But now the work was done, an’ thar I was Ez comf’tabul an’ ca’m ez I could be, Suckin’ an’ blowin’ great big gobs o’ smoke, An’ strangulatin’ three four hundred flies Thet got the’rsel’s all settled fer the night. Bill picked ’is teeth ez quiet ez a lamb, An’ didn’t make no sound, ’cept ’cazhnully, When one my puffs would veer agin ’is face, He’d cough an’ bresh the smoke off with ’is hand. I’d never saw Bill smoke, or chaw, or “dip,” Sence I hed knowed ’im, tho’ I’d offen wondered Jes’ why it was thet he denied hisself About the bigges’ comfort they is goin’. I blowed a bunch o’ smoke rings threw the screen, An’ watched ’em melt away in bluish mist. Then I inhaled, an’ filled my chist up full Till I could feel the nickerteen soak in Clean to my toes, an’ brace me up all over. I fairly wallered in thet smoke, by jing! At last—’twas gittin’ right smart darkish, ’n’ we Could hear the snipe a-callin’ in the fiel’, An’ all the western sky was brownish pink— Bill ups an’ sez—an’ I could see ’is grin— “’Pears like y’er’ gittin’ sight o’ comfort out O’ thet thar shag, an’ I aint blamin’ on ye, Tho’ onct ’n a while it sort o’ turns my stummick. What is’t, ‘_Farmer’s Delight_’?” “Nope, ‘_Dago’s Joy_’”, I sez, a-rammin’ in another charge. I got it goin’, an’ after while he sez: “Looks like it might be; ’f yew kin smoke thet stuff, I reckin yew’re a smoker, an’ would stand Fer ennything from burdock ter hoss-redish, Or tan-bark, blacksmith’s parin’s, stable sweepin’s, An’ sich like stuff they put in them thar kind O’ boxes ’t yew got thar.” “Aw, quit yer josh,” I sez, “I’ve smoked all them one time or ’nother, An’ know the diff’runce. This ’ere smoke is reel Terbacker; guess I know.” “Terbacker nuthin’”, Sez ’e; “smells more ter me like some ol’ buf’- Lo robe hed ketched afire.” An’ then ’e laffed. Ef ennybody else but Bill hed poked Thet kind o’ fun at me, I might o’ got A leetle riled; but somehow ’r ’nuther ’taint No use ter let yerself git hot around Yer neck when Bill throws in his leetle hooks. Yew _hev_ ter laff in spite o’ ev’ry thing. An’ so I cooled ri’ down an’ sez reel quiet: “Ef yew knowed ennything about terbacker, Ef yew’s a smoker, ’n’ hed the feelin’ on ’t, Yew’d quit remarkin’ things like that ’a’ one. I bet yew never even smoked corn-silk, Rattan, hay-seed, sweet fern, an’ baby stuff Like that, thet cubs begins on when they’re smart. I tell ye yew do’ know nuthin’ about it.” I tho’t I’d fixed ’im, fer a spell at least, Fer ’e kep’ still, an’ hummed reflective like. Bimeby he went ’t the door an’ hawked an’ spit, Come back, an’ set, an’ coughed—fer I hed puffed A lot o’ smoke right towards ’is empty cheer— An’ kind o’ choky sez: “I s’pose yew think Yew’ve sized me up correc’. I’ll tell ye suthin’: Yew do’ know no more ’n nuthin’ what yer sayin’; A rabbit knows more ’bout terbacker ’n yew Compared ter me.” “W’y, Bill, I never seen Ye smoke,” I sez, “nor chaw, in all these years.” “Wal, that don’t mean,” he sez, “’t I never did. When I was a young feller, I begun Ter smoke an’ chaw like all the other han’s, Only I done it more ’n they did. I’d hev Ter hev my chaw ez soon ez I was out O’ bed, an’, ’cept at meals, I chawed all day An’ part the night, an’ smoked the rest the time. I’ve woke up many nights an’ lit a pipe. Ez time went on I kep’ a-gittin’ wuss. Laury, she said my mouth was like a sewer When ’t wa’n’t a fact’ry chimbley; an’ I noticed The things I et wa’n’t relishin’; I couldn’t Tell pepper-grass from pie, or Woostersheer From coffee; eatin’ wa’n’t no fun no more. An’ then I found I couldn’t git terbacker Nowheres near strong enough. I tried all kinds From fine-cut down ter _Black Twist Nigger Head_, A leetle mite o’ which will make a hog So sick he cain’t eat nuthin’ fer a week, An’ like enough he’ll die. I give a mule A piece onct, I remember, jes’ fer fun, The handiest feller with ’is heels we hed. Say! Soon’s the pizen got ter work inside, Thet cuss begun ter ram around an’ beller Like he was givin’ birth t’ a pair o’ twins, A thing no or’nary mule aint s’posed ter dew. An’ then ’e up an’ kicked the barn door out, Le’pt over coupla gates an’ started off Like them thar Gadarenian swine yew’ve heerd About in Scriptur’. Reck’n he’s runnin’ yit, Leastways we never seen ’im ar’terwards. Wal, I begun ter color up, until I looked some ’ut like summer crook-necks dew Dead-ripe in August. Appetite ’bout gone, An’ nervous ez a new-broke colt hitched up Ter plow. An’ still I chawed an’ smoked an’ chawed, An’ couldn’t seem ter git enough. _Black Twist_ Ter me was like a peece o’ straw ter yew. I scoured the kentry stores; the strongest brands Would satisfy no more ’n molasses would. O’ co’se yew understand I wa’n’t no _slave_ Ter thet thar weed; I only _hed_ ter _hev_ it, That’s all. (They’s fokes ’at thinks they ain’t no diff’runce Atween them two idees; _we_ know they is.) One day a pedlar come along, an’ Laury She bought a coupla packages o’ pills ’T the feller said was ‘guaranteed’ ter knock Terbacker habits higher ’n wheat, an’ cure The most ‘invertebrate’—or some sich word— Terbacker user in the world. She kep’ It dark, an’ fed them pellets on the sly Ter me in stuff I et. But ’twa’n’t no use; I kep’ on chawin’ more an’ more. It might ’A’ made some diff’runce, p’raps, ef I hed knowed What she was up tew. Ginally yew hev Ter _know_ about sich things ter hev ’em dew Ye enny good at all. Wal, things was thet ’A’ way when yew fust come. Yew ’member when I met ye up ’t the deepo yew was smokin’ Thet thar same shag stuff yew’re a-smokin’ now; I ketched a whiff or tew—I never told Ye ’bout it ’fore—but ’twas enough; it done What nuthin’ else hed done fur thirty year. I haint bit off a single chaw sence that, Or smoked a whiff, so help me Moses Pratt!” When I’d collected all my senses back, Bill he hed slid away an’ gone ter bed. XX The New Year’s Turkey We all hed come ter Bill’s ter spend the day, New Year’s it was, an’ Bill hed shaved, an iled ’Is hair, an’ greased ’is boots, an’ looked ez gay ’Z a feller kin in clo’es thet ain’t be’n siled. “I reck’n I didn’t tell ye ’bout this fowl,” He sez, an’ stopped ’is carvin’ fer a bit, While Laury looked ez if she’s goin’ ter scowl, An’ tried by signs ter steer ’im off of it. “This feller didn’t seem ter hev no sex; Ha’f hen, ha’f Tom he was; he’d go a-whangin’ Like Toms do, tails spread, wings a-draggin’, necks All druggled up, an’ great red beads a-hangin’; “An’ then they’s other times he’d sneak away Hen fashun like, scratch up a nest, an’ set, Tho’ them kind cain’t lay aigs, ye know—whad say?”— He seen thet Laury ’peared ter be ’n a sweat Ter hev ’im quit ’is talk an’ go on carvin’. He done a leg an’ wing, an’ sliced the breast, An’ got the stuffin’ ready fer the sarvin’, An’ then begun again: “I found ’is nest “Las’ June—we’d missed ’im fer a month or so— Off in a ol’ forsooken suller; thar ’E set ez thin’s a rail. Bet yew dunno What he’d be’n settin’ on so long, by tar!” “Will, won’t ye hurry up? The fokes is waitin’,” An’ then she tried ter start a line o’ talk. But ’t want no use; Bill sez: “Ez I was statin’, Each time we’d try ter shoo ’im off he’d balk, “An’ wouldn’t stir; then I felt under ’im, Reel careful like, an’ say, yew wouldn’t b’leeve it, But”—Laury now was lookin’ kind o’ grim, An’ told ’im t’ either carve thet bird or leave it. But Bill kep’ on regardless: “Next I see O’ him he’s leadin’ round a yeller goslin’! (We et it Chris’mas day).—Now what gits me, An’ sets my wits ter bilin’ an’ a sozzlin,’ “Is how the cuss from _this_ could hatch a goose!” An’ Bill held up a smooth, worn, chiny knob, Thet from some door hed long sence broken loose. “That’s what I took from under this ol’ squab!” “A Happy New Year, Bill,” I sez; “D’ye mind ’F I ast ye fer thet ‘Pope’s Nose’ thing behind?” XXI The Picture A pitchur of a feller hangin’ up In thet ’ar little room o’ mine at Bill’s Hez offen set my wond’rin’ works ter goin’. He’s stannin’ on a stun verandy like, A oldish sort o’ man with streaky hair, Up high whar ’e kin see some ways away, ’N’ ’is clo’es is suthin’ like the ones I seen In Bill’s ’lustrated fambly Bible, hung All over ’im in drapish kind o’ folds, An’ jes’ some in-soles fassen’d on ’is feet With funny strings a-runnin’ threw ’is toes. They’s trees an’ scen’ry out in front, green fiel’s, A rollin’ hill or so, a crick, a bunch O’ little houses whar they’s fokes at work, An’ things looks peeceful, like they do here’bouts In this ’ere Skillet deestric’ in Jooly. But back o’ all them things yew seem ter see A wall o’ clouds a-fencin’ on ’em in, An’ yew cain’t tell ’f they’s mount’ins, sea, or what A-layin’ off behind, it’s all so dim. Afore I’ve blowed the light out menny nights I’ve looked at thet thar chap, an’ almos’ tho’t I knowed what he was sensin’, ’cos I seen T’ ’e hed a far-off look, an’ sort o’ scrunched ’Is shoulders ’zif ’e’d clean fergot hisself. One night in early Joon Bill come t’ my room Ez I was goin’ ter bed, ’n’ I ast ’im, “Bill,” I sez, “thet feller up thar gits me goin’; Yew got a idee what ’e’s thinkin’? ’Pears Ter me he’s fig’rin’ what it’s all about, Same’s me an’ yew does sometimes when we’re ’lone.” Bill ’lows ’e ain’t no pote, but fust I knowed He ups an’ gits the foll’rin’ off ’is chist, An’ damfino ’f ’e made it up hisself, Or got it some’r’s outen readin’ books: _“I’m speckerlatin’ on the drift O’ things I gotta face. Mos’ ginally they ain’t no rift In all them clouds o’ space Thet seems ter narrer in my view An’ shet the sky from me an’ yew._ _“They was one onct tho’—when I’s young, An’ never dreamt o’ trouble, Jes’ whissled, hollered, played, an’ sung, Nor knowed the hay from stubble. What was it ripped them clouds apart, An’ let the light shine on my heart?_ _“The kids they do’ know what it means Thet ray thet perkles threw, An’ makes ’em reely kings an’ queens, Like I was onct an’ yew. But ain’t it great ter feel thet way, An’ not know hearts mus’ break some day!”_ He quit, an’ then went on: “I reck’n yew might’s Well cut them thissels out termorrer south The barn. Goo’ night.” An’ never changed ’is voice. XXII The Letter from Lon I. I never seen a man more prouder ’n Bill The mornin’ Lon’s first letter come from France. He’d et ’is breakfas’ an’ was harnessin’, An’ I stood at the trough a-wat’rin’ Babe, When ’Viny come a-runnin’ from the road A-wavin’ suthin’ white an’ screamin’ like She’d be’n attackted by a bunch o’ bees. Co’se Laury heerd ’er bawlin’, dropped a pie Ri’t on the houn’ dawg layin’ by the door, An’ started like a rabbit fer the yard. The houn’ was scairt an’ come a-bell’rin’ out All plastered up with messy strawb’ry dough; The hens an’ geese an’ ducks got ri’t on aidge An’ nigh screeched all the’r haids off ez they run In ev’ry which way, ’n’ yew’d ’a’ tho’t the hull Dum works was bust. But Bill he only grinned; He knowed what ’Viny hed, fer he hed heerd The pos’man’s car come chuggin’ up an’ stop To our front gate. (Bill didn’t hev ter look, Fer he kin sense by lis’nen’ ev’ry car Thet goes by reg’lar—knows ’em by the’r rattle.) “... D’ye notice, Laury, ’pears ter me like this Envelop ’s be’n a-monkeyed with somehow; They’s suthin’ plastered over it that sez—” An’ then ’e eyed it closter, spellin’ out The letters ’e hed cut threw with ’is ’nife. When Laury heerd the words she fired ri’t up; “Now who’d ye s’pose would be so mean ez thet! He dassent give ’is reel name ’cos ’e’s ’feerd He’d git suppeenylized fer tamperin’ With other fokeses letters; so ’e ups An’ calls hisself thet or’n’ry Sensure thing! Caint see no sense ter thet; tho’ p’r’aps yew kin.” She laffed one them thar cuttin’ laffs o’ her’n, An’ sez ter Bill she’s gotta hurry back T’ the house an’ ’tend t’ some rewbarb she had left A-stewin’ on the stove, an’ will ’e fetch The letter in ez soon ’s ’e’s threw, an’ leeve It lay whar she kin find it on her burer. ’Fore Bill could ans’er she was runnin’ up The kitchin steps, an we could hear ’er tell The houn’ dawg what a newsunce he hed be’n Ter muss the floor all up with strawb’ry pie. II. Bill set a minnit quiet-like, an’ then Begun t’ onfold the letter. Sich a mess O’ scraps, an’ holes, an’ long black blots an’ things Yew never seen. I couldn’t hardly keep From snik’rin’. Bill smiled tew, an’ ’lowed it must ’A’ took more time an’ trubble tew unwrite The letter ’n’ ’t did ter write it. Then ’e read, ’Thout skippin’ nuthin’ ’cept the blots and cuts: “Deer Paw: Wal, here we be at (blank), ’n’ I got Yoor letter ’n’ Maw’s, ’n’ I sure was mity glad Ter hear thet yew all’s well an’ gittin’ ’long Fust rate. Us boys is all a-feelin’ fine, An’ say, we’re goin’ ter stick ter this ’ere job Till some of us at enny rate sees thet Ol’ Potsdam Crocodile throw up the spunge....” (Thet’s Bill hisself all over ’gin, thinks I; Them Anjelo-Saxtons jes’ don’t never quit. Bill’s grate-grate-grampaw come from Summerset Some years ’fore Jorge the IIIst. was kingin’ it An’ riled us so ’t we hed ter revolute.) Bill mumbled on a spell, but said they wa’n’t No sense in’t ’cos’ so much hed be’n chopped out. “I jedge,” he sez, “it’s places they come threw, An’ ossifers he seen, an’ whar they’re goin,’ An’ sich.” Then he begun again: “They’s days, Paw, when I git ter thinkin’ ’bout the farm, Ol’ Whitey, Ben, the wood-lot whar me ’n’ yew Cu’ down the bee tree Fall ’fore last an’ got A ri’t smart mess o’ honey; ’simmon trees, Sunsets from our back porch, the furrers I Hev cut with our ol’ walkin’ plow—Oh Paw, Yew git me, don’t ye!—then I come ri’t back An’ look acrost ter whar them Boshes be, An’ think o’ all the things they done an’ still Ar’ doin’ ter make this airth a mizzery, Mad, desp’rit things drove on by them ez knows They’re in daid ’rong but never’ll give a dam ’Bout lyin’, killin’—then I know my job, ’N’ I’m glad I’m here, ’n’ I know yew be—” Bill run T’ the crib nigh whar we was, said he’d fergot Suthin,’ ’n’ I knowed ’e never would come back. I jes’ set thar an’ couldn’t move. He tho’t I must ’a’ gone an’ couldn’t hear; I did Tho’—God, how I did leg it out o’ thar! I went an’ watered all the hogs fi’ times; ’F’ they tasted salt in what they drunk, I know Whar’t come from. ’N’ all thet day I kep’ a-sayin: “_Them Anjelo-Saxtons jes’ don’t never quit!_” XXIII The Drouth Buggosh I never seen it dryer ’n ’tis Ri’t now down this ’ere Skillet way; It’s scassly rained a drop sence ’long in Joon, An’ gittin’ dryer every day. We got our corn in early ’n May, an’ seen It mos’ly drownded out, an’ then We planted it onct more an’ watched it grow An’ stick out spiky leaves again. A little later Bill ’e sez ter me In one them joky little talks: “We’ll hev ter git a ladder when Fall comes Ter reach the ears on them thar stalks.” It shorely looked like that ’a’ way ontil The drouth begun ter hit us hard, An’ fennel, hog-weed, pusly, dock an’ sich, An’ even plantain in the yard— The sort o’ stuff ye jes’ cain’t kill ’f ye try— Was withered wisps o’ nothin’ ’t all. Ez time went on ’twas suthin’ pretty fierce: Pitch sizzled on the hoss barn wall; The road was jest a streak o’ smoky dust, An’ every time a lizzie passed The awf’lest clouds come rollin’ int’ the house, An’ made us feel like bein’ gassed; “Four Mile” was dry ’s a sermon, caked an’ cracked ’Cept here an’ thar a scummy pool, An’ even in the deepest woods ’twas hot An’ gaspy, stiflin’, never cool; The wallers all dried out, an’ flies was thick An’ noisy ez a swarm o’ bees; The cistern water got so brown an’ warm Ter drink it meant ter drink diseese; An’ all our corn—wal, git it straight—the corn Was like ol’ Zekel’s dream long sence, A valley full o’ rattlin’ skelertons Thet made ye skeered ter cross the fence! “D’yew know what them thar sperrits sez?” ast Bill One moonlight night ez we was lookin’ At thet poor “fired” crop o’ ghosts without No reel intent o’ goin’ a-spookin’. “No, tell me, Bill,” I sez, an’ shivered some. “Wal, this tall yaller stalk ri’t here He sez the dice was loaded from the start, Thet ol’ Ma Nacher holds life dear Jest ez a whole; thet individyools aint No more account then knot-holes is. We plug ter drink o’ life ez deep ’s we kin, But what we git is mos’ly fizz.” * * * * * “I reck’n they want us up ’t the house,” I sez, The hair a-risin’ from my neck, F’r I’d saw thet stalk wave all its arms an’ nod, An’ knowed Bill hed the dope correc.’ XXIV The Labor Situation “Don’t hardly seem fair,” said Bill with a hitch Tew his gallus—the other was busted— “Fer the papers an’ all, the public an’ sich”— An’ I seen he was kind o’ disgusted— “Ter praise up the workers ter home an’ not fitin’ An’ gittin’ all kinds o’ big pay, An’ ’en strikin’ fer more—_Whoa thar! Quit yer bitin’!_”— He was combin’ an breshin’ ol’ Gray— “When the boys ‘over thar’ give up all thet they hed Ter fite fer thirty bones per”— An’ I couldn’t ezzac’ly tell what ’e nex’ said, Fer ’is comb hed ketched in a burr. XXV “Killed in Action: Corporal Alonzo—” The day ’fore thet thar awful telegram From Washin’ton fer Bill was brung t’ the house By Viny—she’d be’n up ter town; an’ Gene The operater, lookin’ kind o’ white Hed handed her the yeller envelope An’ sez: “It’s jes’ some bizness fer yer Paw”—— Me ’n’ Bill was talkin’ ’bout the Lib’ty bonds. We’d thrashed the matter over, ’n’ both agreed The only thing ter dew, ’f a feller hed The price, was git a bond, an’ ef ’e hedn’t, Ter git one ennyhow; an’ thet’s how ’twas. Bill he’d suscribed with Charlie Buck, who runs The Farmers’ Gild (an’ nuthin’ much besides), While I’d went up ter Sims’ an’ teched a chap I knowed fer five, an’ trusted Proverdunce Ter see me threw. (Bill sez thet Proverdunce Is mos’ly what ye dew yerself, with p’r’aps A dash o’ luck throwed in ter help along.) Then come the stunnin’ news.... Things wa’n’t the same, ’N’ I reckon never will be ’gain. The farm Seemed empty like, ’n’ I stopped good menny times Ter look whar Lon hed carved ’is ’nishuls on A crib door slat.... It give me ’n awful thump Inside ter see how sort o’ closter Bill An’ Laury was; she hed ter lean on him, An’—God, I tell ye he was suthin’ wuth A-leanin’ on, a human staff o’ oak. Yew ’member them blue little lakes or ponds— Most ev’r’y country deestric’ hez ’em—whar Fokes sez they ain’t no bottom tew ’em ’t all, Nobody never reeched it tho’ they’d tried Fer years an’ years with ev’ry kind o’ line? Wal, thet’s the way Bill’s eyes looked at ye then: Great dep’s o’ shinin’ feelin’, purplish blue; An’ dogged ef I could tell which from the t’other A father’s greef, or father’s pride. At five One mornin’ not long arterwards, ez I Was pitchin’ silage down ter feed the steers, I seen Bill ridin’ out the yard on Belle. He waved ’is hand an’ yelled he’d be ri’t back. At bre’kfas’ time he sez jes’ cazhool like: “I ketched thet ’ar Buck feller ’fore ’e’s up, An’ taken out another Lib’ty bond. ’Pears like I gotta back them boys that’s left In France jes’ twict ez strong now’t Lon has went.” [Illustration: _The Skillet Fork_ ] XXVI November Sich a mornin’ o’ glory I’ve rar’ly saw, Tho’ they tell me thet Winter is nigh; The sun’s fairly glary, an’ hez a reel carry, An’ I’m swattin’ a bothersome fly. The sky was ez black ez one o’ Bill’s blots When over a letter he muddles; An’ the win’ blow’d a blast, an’ the rain fell fast, An’ the groun’ was a huddle o’ puddles. Thet was yistiddy, pard; but terday, by Joel, It’s Aprul excep’ fer the leaves; They’re a copper an’ green with a pigeony sheen, An’ a red like our Heryford beeves. Mos’ potes will all spring suthin’ on ye ’bout russet, An’ ox-blood, an’ fawn, an’ maroon; But they never was here in the “yeller an’ sere”, An’ reality aint in the’r toon. I’ll go further yit an’ say thet the shades O’ them colors I plainly kin see Is ev’ry durn hue in the specktum but blue, An’ mebby that’s thar fer all me. Co’se it’s up in the sky whar ye’d reckon ’t ’ud be, Sort o’ balancin’ up the whole; Yew put ’em tergether in _this_ kind o’ weather An’ it’s eye-musick, pard, fer yer soul! The glint o’ the sun on our Fall wheat fiel’s— More em’raldy now then in May— Is Nacher’s own dope on thet undyin’ hope Thet keeps us a-pluggin’ away. They’s a nawful sweet peece kind o’ hangin’ aroun’ An’ it’s great by this ’ere shock o’ stover Ter feel the ol’ Earth all set fer re-birth When the War an’ the Winter is over. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IDYLLS OF THE SKILLET FORK *** Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed. 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