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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

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/72807

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 ***

TO

THE PRESIDING SPIRIT

(IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING)

HEREIN CALLED

“BILL”

OF

SKILLET FORK FARM

ON THE BORDERS OF

“EGYPT”

“Bill”

Idylls

of the

Skillet Fork

by

Payson S. Wild

Ralph Fletcher Seymour

Chicago

Copyrighted 1918

Ralph Fletcher Seymour

FOREWORD

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

P. S. W.

Chicago, November, 1918.

Contents

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.

IDYLLS OF THE SKILLET FORK

I

The Skillet

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

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

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

It kind o’ hants yer dreams.

It pokes along through grayish bottoms,

An’ ’s crookeder then worms,

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

An’ full o’ things thet squirms.

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

Hez here an’ thar got grounded,

An’ almos’ everything thet’s in it

Looks ’zac’ly like ’t was drownded.

Fokes yuseter say it’s jes’ thet crooked

Yew couldn’t cross the crick

’Thout findin’ yew was whar ye started—

But thet’s lay’n ’t on tew thick.

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

’Bout this ’ere Skillet “river”

Right naow in Aprul time thet gives ye

A reel poetic shiver.

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

Thet grows along its aidges,

Is jes’ alive with leafy swellin’s,

Fur Spring’s a-keep’n’ ’er plaidges!

Yer see thet sassafras a-greenin’,

Them voylets peekin’ at yer,

Thet bunch o’ pinkish blows a-leerin’

Jessif they’d like ter bat yer?

An’ birds! I never heerd sich music,

Nor seen sich ri’tous colors,

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

An’ sparrers brown ez crullers.

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

Git ketched in that thar crick;

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

They dew it awful slick.

Yew jes’ wade in—not seein’ nothin’,

’Cos all the water’s yaller—

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

Whar ’t’s nice an’ warm an’ shaller.

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

An’ sort o’ stroke his flank;

Then suddint like yew grab his collar,

An’ sling ’im out’ the bank!

Yew’ve mebbe never saw this “river”?

Thar is, p’r’aps, likelier streams;

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

It right smart hants yer dreams.

II

The Bootleg Gang at Sims’

Yep, Egyp’s dry; ’z a gin’ral rule

They ain’t much doin’ in likker;

Saloons is skurce ’z a breedin’ mule,

An’ shy ’z a nestin’ flicker.

But fokes kin git it—“bootleg stuff”—

An’ hev a reel good souse,

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

An’ allers startin’ rows.

Onct down ter Sims’, so people tell,

A bunch o’ pickled runts

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

An’ pulled some rowdy stunts.

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

Some ’d ruther hev ’t than eatin’s;

More ’n half the fokes sings Baptis’ hymns

An’ goes ter all the meetin’s.

Wal, they jes’ give ’emselves a hunch

An’ got the law behind ’em;

The sheriff rounded up the bunch,

An’ Jestice Herford fined ’em.

This made the boozers awful sore;

They’d git thet Baptis’ goat!

So fer a week they planned an’ swore

An’ kep’ their scheme remote.

Then suddint like one Sart’day night

They took a hoss ’t hed died

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

An’ lugged it right inside

The Baptis’ church ’ithout a sound,

An’ cut it all ter bits,

Which they throwed ever’whar around,

A-laffin’ mos’ ter fits.

It seems like sackerlege or libel,

But fac’s is allers fac’s;

Thet hoss’es head laid on the Bible,

All bludjunned with a ax.

The sexton cleaned the mess some way,

An’ services was held;

But no one hed no word ter say—

Jes’ prayed an’ sang an’—smelled.

The foll’rin’ week some roughneck pup

Shet caows up in the church;

Which kind o’ het the members up—

Enough ter start a search.

But nothin’ doin’ till one dark night

Thet rummy boozin’ crew

Blowed up the church with dynamite,

An’ then lit aout an’ flew.

Say, jevver see a Baptis’ hot,

Not Christyun hot but human?

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

Coagerlate albewman?

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

No more o’ heapin’ coals!

They swore they’d jug them bootleg fellers

’F it cost their mortal souls.

They done it tew. Some tracks they seen

They kivered up with pails;

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

Was sicked upon the trails.

They chased the bums ter Hick’ry Run,

An’ thar the Baptis’s tarred

An’ feathered ev’ry doggone one,

An’ chucked ’em under guard.

Them boys is crackin’ stun terday;

A new church stan’s in Sims’,

An’ now in peace they watch an’ pray

An’ sing their Baptis’ hymns.

Yep, Egyp’s dry; ’z a gin’ral thing

The toughs don’t dast ter dicker

With enny kind o’ Baptis’ ring—

Leastways when’t comes ter likker.

III

The Mocking Bird

I was drinkin’ in the glory on a day

Late in May,

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

When she’s pick’n

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

An’ a-puffin’

All her feathers in a sunny nest o’ dust;

An’ I cussed

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

An’ a-thinkin’

Thet a feller hez ter rustle an’ be snappy

Tew be happy.

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

An’ I set

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

My, them shoats!

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

An’ a-munchin’,

Jessif nuthin’ ever mattered in their creed

’Ceptin’ feed.

An’ the pidjuns was a-cooin’ quite aloof

On the roof;

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

Chanticleers,

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

Ev’ry bird

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

An’ a-soakin’

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

An’ a-tweetin’—

Jim’ny Crickets, Holy Kittens! Dew ye wonder

Now, by thunder,

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

W’y, ’twas worth

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

’Twas, by gad!

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

Ever b’en

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

It’s a riddle

How ’e symfonizes ev’ry sort o’ noise

An’ employs

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

Single throated.

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

On a limb

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

Jes’ ez well

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

By the high rate

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

Like a flail.

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

Sure for sartin;

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

With ’is squawk;

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

When a cat-bird

Started in ter yowl an’ sputter, julluk Tabby

When she’s gabby;

Then some swallers, chickadees, an’ whippoorwills

Give me thrills,

An’ I tell ye I was altergether foozled,

Jes’ bamboozled,

Ez I watched that clever cynnic keep a-rockin’

An’ a-mockin’,

Till at last he got so bubbly full o’ fizz

Thet ’e riz

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

Int’ the air,

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

Like the devil!

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

Whar ’e’d sot;

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

’S if he’s mowin’.

Dew ye reckon I’ll fergit thet garrylus

Little cuss?

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

Mebbe ten.

IV

The Siren

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

With its leefyness, freshness an’ greenth;

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

I’d be the four umpty an’ steenth.

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

It’s right in its prime, buggosh;

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

An’ look at ol’ Nacher a-slosh.

I was thar spell ago—druv sixteen mile

With Bill an’ a load o’ soy beans;

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

Afore what greenin’ means.

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

An’ the sky was julluk a gentian;

I ain’t never knew sich a hevvenly blue,

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

The river was full, plum full ter the top,

A matter o’ thirty odd feet,

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

But was dreenin’ off fast with the heat.

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

Ri’ down a arborial tunnel;

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

We could flote ter Noorleans thru a funnel!”

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

They was fairly yellin’ with glee;

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

An’ I tell ye it jes’ got me.

I kind o’ suspishun Bill heerd suthin’ tew,

Fer a exstasy hit ’im like pain;

It looked like fer sure he was feelin’ the lure

O’ the siren thet sings after rain.

V

Laury at the ’Phone

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Malviny? Reely? Throwed anuther fit?

Yew better call, I reckon, Docter Mott;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The way it gits ter rain is hard ter beat;

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Four Mile

Creek

VI

The ’Possum Hunt

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

(It ketches the Skillet in “Thirty-three”

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

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

’T was shimmerin’ thar all gold an’ bright

Ez we loafed threw the medder thet Awtum night.

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

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

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

A-squintin’ aloft at a perfec’ sky:

“’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.”

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.

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Table of Contents

Idylls of the Skillet Fork

Foreword

Contents

I The Skillet

II The Bootleg Gang at Sims’

III The Mocking Bird

IV The Siren

V Laury at the ’Phone

VI The ’Possum Hunt

VII Jupiter

VIII Laury’s Lullaby

IX Bill Non-Committal

X Laury’s “Eats”

XI Bill on Seth Watts

XII The Katydid

XIII Bill’s Vote

XIV Bill’s “Risin’”

XV Calamitous Days

XVI The Pet Calf

XVII Bill on War

XVIII Treed

XIX Bill on Tobacco

XX The New Year’s Turkey

XXI The Picture

XXII The Letter from Lon

XXIII The Drouth

XXIV The Labor Situation

XXV “Killed in Action: Corporal Alonzo—”

XXVI November

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