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.