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Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches

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MY PHILOSOFY

 
I ain't, ner don't p'tend to be,
Much posted on philosofy;
But thare is times, when all alone,
I work out idees of my own.
And of these same thare is a few
I'd like to jest refer to you —
Pervidin' that you don't object
To listen clos't and rickollect.
 
 
I allus argy that a man
Who does about the best he can
Is plenty good enugh to suit
This lower mundane institute —
No matter ef his daily walk
Is subject fer his neghbor's talk,
And critic-minds of ev'ry whim
Jest all git up and go fer him!
 
 
I knowed a feller onc't that had
The yeller-janders mighty bad, —
And each and ev'ry friend he'd meet
Would stop and give him some receet
Fer cuorin' of 'em. But he'd say
He kindo' thought they'd go away
Without no medicin', and boast
That he'd git well without one doste.
 
 
He kep' a-yellerin' on – and they
Perdictin' that he'd die some day
Before he knowed it! Tuck his bed,
The feller did, and lost his head,
And wundered in his mind a spell —
Then rallied, and, at last, got well;
But ev'ry friend that said he'd die
Went back on him eternally!
 
 
Its natchurl enugh, I guess,
When some gits more and some gits less,
Fer them-uns on the slimmest side
To claim it ain't a fare divide;
And I've knowed some to lay and wait,
And git up soon, and set up late,
To ketch some feller they could hate
Fer goin' at a faster gait.
 
 
The signs is bad when folks commence
A-findin' fault with Providence,
And balkin' 'cause the earth don't shake
At ev'ry prancin' step they take.
No man is grate tel he can see
How less than little he would be
Ef stripped to self, and stark and bare
He hung his sign out anywhare.
 
 
My doctern is to lay aside
Contensions, and be satisfied:
Jest do your best, and praise er blame
That follers that, counts jest the same.
I've allus noticed grate success
Is mixed with troubles, more or less,
And it's the man who does the best
That gits more kicks than all the rest.
 

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN

 
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,
And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,
And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, its then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
 
 
They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here —
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;
But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock —
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.
 
 
The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries – kindo' lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below – the clover overhead! —
O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
 
 
Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!..
I don't know how to tell it – but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me
I'd want to 'commodate 'em – all the whole-indurin' flock —
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!
 

ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT

 
"Little Haly! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree;
"Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!" moans the bee;
"Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the kill-deer at twilight;
And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly!" all the night.
 
 
The sunflowers and the hollyhawks droops over the garden fence;
The old path down the gardenwalks still holds her footprints' dents;
And the well-sweep's swingin' bucket seems to wait fer her to come
And start it on its wortery errant down the old bee-gum.
 
 
The bee-hives all is quiet; and the little Jersey steer,
When any one comes nigh it, acts so lonesome-like and queer;
And the little Banty chickens kindo' cutters faint and low,
Like the hand that now was feedin' 'em was one they didn't know.
 
 
They's sorrow in the wavin' leaves of all the apple-trees;
And sorrow in the harvest-sheaves, and sorrow in the breeze;
And sorrow in the twitter of the swallers 'round the shed;
And all the song her red-bird sings is "Little Haly's dead!"
 
 
The medder 'pears to miss her, and the pathway through the grass,
Whare the dewdrops ust to kiss her little bare feet as she passed;
And the old pin in the gate-post seems to kindo'-sorto' doubt
That Haly's little sunburnt hands'll ever pull it out.
 
 
Did her father er her mother ever love her more'n me,
Er her sisters er her brother prize her love more tendurly?
I question – and what answer? – only tears, and tears alone,
And ev'ry neghbor's eyes is full o' tear-drops as my own.
 
 
"Little Haly! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree;
"Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!" moans the bee;
"Little Haly! Little Haly!" calls the kill-deer at twilight,
And the katydids and crickets hollers "Haly!" all the night.
 

THE MULBERRY TREE

 
O, it's many's the scenes which is dear to my mind
As I think of my childhood so long left behind;
The home of my birth, with its old puncheon-floor,
And the bright morning-glorys that growed round the door;
The warped clab-board roof whare the rain it run off
Into streams of sweet dreams as I laid in the loft,
Countin' all of the joys that was dearest to me,
And a-thinkin' the most of the mulberry tree.
 
 
And to-day as I dream, with both eyes wide-awake,
I can see the old tree, and its limbs as they shake,
And the long purple berries that rained on the ground
Whare the pastur' was bald whare we trommpt it around.
And again, peekin' up through the thick leafy shade,
I can see the glad smiles of the friends when I strayed
With my little bare feet from my own mother's knee
To foller them off to the mulberry tree.
 
 
Leanin' up in the forks, I can see the old rail,
And the boy climbin' up it, claw, tooth, and toe-nail,
And in fancy can hear, as he spits on his hands,
The ring of his laugh and the rip of his pants.
But that rail led to glory, as certin and shore
As I'll never climb thare by that rout' any more —
What was all the green lauruls of Fame unto me,
With my brows in the boughs of the mulberry tree!
 
 
Then its who can fergit the old mulberry tree
That he knowed in the days when his thoughts was as free
As the flutterin' wings of the birds that flew out
Of the tall wavin' tops as the boys come about?
O, a crowd of my memories, laughin' and gay,
Is a-climbin' the fence of that pastur' to-day,
And a-pantin' with joy, as us boys ust to be,
They go racin' acrost fer the mulberry tree.
 

TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN

 
Fer forty year and better you have been a friend to me,
Through days of sore afflictions and dire adversity,
You allus had a kind word of counsul to impart,
Which was like a healin' 'intment to the sorrow of my hart.
 
 
When I burried my first womern, William Leachman, it was you
Had the only consolation that I could listen to —
Fer I knowed you had gone through it and had rallied from the blow,
And when you said I'd do the same, I knowed you'd ort to know.
 
 
But that time I'll long remember; how I wundered here and thare —
Through the settin'-room and kitchen, and out in the open air —
And the snowflakes whirlin', whirlin', and the fields a frozen glare,
And the neghbors' sleds and wagons congergatin' ev'rywhare.
 
 
I turned my eyes to'rds heaven, but the sun was hid away;
I turned my eyes to'rds earth again, but all was cold and gray;
And the clock, like ice a-crackin', clickt the icy hours in two —
And my eyes'd never thawed out ef it hadn't been fer you!
 
 
We set thare by the smoke-house – me and you out thare alone —
Me a-thinkin' – you a-talkin' in a soothin' undertone —
You a-talkin' – me a-thinkin' of the summers long ago,
And a-writin' "Marthy – Marthy" with my finger in the snow!
 
 
William Leachman, I can see you jest as plane as I could then;
And your hand is on my shoulder, and you rouse me up again;
And I see the tears a-drippin' from your own eyes, as you say:
"Be rickonciled and bear it – we but linger fer a day!"
 
 
At the last Old Settlers' Meetin' we went j'intly, you and me —
Your hosses and my wagon, as you wanted it to be;
And sence I can remember, from the time we've neghbored here,
In all sich friendly actions you have double-done your sheer.
 
 
It was better than the meetin', too, that 9-mile talk we had
Of the times when we first settled here and travel was so bad;
When we had to go on hoss-back, and sometimes on "Shanks's mare,"
And "blaze" a road fer them behind that had to travel thare.
 
 
And now we was a-trottin' 'long a level gravel pike,
In a big two-hoss road-wagon, jest as easy as you like —
Two of us on the front seat, and our wimmern-folks behind,
A-settin' in theyr Winsor-cheers in perfect peace of mind!
 
 
And we pinted out old landmarks, nearly faded out of sight: —
Thare they ust to rob the stage-coach; thare Gash Morgan had the fight
With the old stag-deer that pronged him – how he battled fer his life,
And lived to prove the story by the handle of his knife.
 
 
Thare the first griss-mill was put up in the Settlement, and we
Had tuck our grindin' to it in the Fall of Forty-three —
When we tuck our rifles with us, techin' elbows all the way,
And a-stickin' right together ev'ry minute, night and day.
 
 
Thare ust to stand the tavern that they called the "Travelers' Rest,"
And thare, beyent the covered bridge, "The Counterfitters' Nest" —
Whare they claimed the house was ha'nted – that a man was murdered thare,
And burried underneath the floor, er 'round the place somewhare.
 
 
And the old Plank-road they laid along in Fifty-one er two —
You know we talked about the times when the old road was new:
How "Uncle Sam" put down that road and never taxed the State
Was a problem, don't you rickollect, we couldn't dimonstrate?
 
 
Ways was devius, William Leachman, that me and you has past;
But as I found you true at first, I find you true at last;
And, now the time's a-comin' mighty nigh our jurney's end,
I want to throw wide open all my soul to you, my friend.
 
 
With the stren'th of all my bein', and the heat of hart and brane,
And ev'ry livin' drop of blood in artery and vane,
I love you and respect you, and I venerate your name,
Fer the name of William Leachman and True Manhood's jest the same!
 

MY FIDDLE

 
My fiddle? – Well, I kindo' keep her handy, don't you know!
Though I ain't so much inclined to tromp the strings and switch the bow
As I was before the timber of my elbows got so dry,
And my fingers was more limber-like and caperish and spry;
Yit I can plonk and plunk and plink,
And tune her up and play,
And jest lean back and laugh and wink
At ev'ry rainy day!
 
 
My playin' 's only middlin' – tunes I picked up when a boy —
The kindo'-sorto' fiddlin' that the folks calls "cordaroy";
"The Old Fat Gal," and "Rye-straw," and "My Sailyor's on the Sea,"
Is the old cowtillions I "saw" when the ch'ice is left to me;
And so I plunk and plonk and plink,
And rosum-up my bow
And play the tunes that makes you think
The devil's in your toe!
 
 
I was allus a romancin', do-less boy, to tell the truth,
A-fiddlin' and a-dancin', and a-wastin' of my youth,
And a-actin' and a-cuttin'-up all sorts o' silly pranks
That wasn't worth a botton of anybody's thanks!
But they tell me, when I ust to plink
And plonk and plunk and play,
My music seemed to have the kink
O' drivin' cares away!
 
 
That's how this here old fiddle's won my hart's indurin' love!
From the strings acrost her middle, to the schreechin' keys above —
From her "apern," over "bridge," and to the ribbon round her throat,
She's a wooin', cooin' pigeon, singin' "Love me" ev'ry note!
And so I pat her neck, and plink
Her strings with lovin' hands, —
And, list'nin' clos't, I sometimes think
She kindo' understands!
 

THE CLOVER

 
Some sings of the lilly, and daisy, and rose,
And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime throws
In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays
Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days;
But what is the lilly and all of the rest
Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest
That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew
Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew?
 
 
I never set eyes on a clover-field now,
Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow,
But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plane
As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again;
And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream,
Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam
With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love
Ere it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above.
 
 
And so I love clover – it seems like a part
Of the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart;
And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow
And thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now;
And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die,
To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye,
And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom
While my soul slips away on a breth of purfume.
 

NEGHBORLY POEMS
ON FRIENDSHIP, GRIEF AND FARM-LIFE
BY
BENJ. F. JOHNSON, OF BOONE

 
Us farmers in the country, as the seasons go and come,
Is purty much like other folks, – we're apt to grumble some!
The Spring's too back'ard fer us, er too for'ard – ary one —
We'll jaw about it anyhow, and have our way er none!
The thaw's set in too suddent; er the frost's stayed in the soil
Too long to give the wheat a chance, and crops is bound to spoil!
The weather's eether most too mild, er too outrageous rough,
And altogether too much rain, er not half rain enugh!
 
 
Now what I'd like and what you'd like is plane enugh to see:
It's jest to have old Providence drop round on you and me
And ast us what our views is first, regardin' shine er rain,
And post 'em when to shet her off, er let her on again!
And yit I'd ruther, after all – considern other chores
I' got on hands, a-tendin' both to my affares and yours —
I'd ruther miss the blame I'd git, a-rulin' things up thare,
And spend my extry time in praise and gratitude and prayer.
 

ERASMUS WILSON

 
'Ras Wilson, I respect you, 'cause
You're common, like you allus was
Afore you went to town and s'prised
The world by gittin' "reckonized,"
And yit perservin', as I say,
Your common hoss-sense ev'ryway!
And when that name o' yourn occurs
On hand-bills, er in newspapers,
Er letters writ by friends 'at ast
About you, same as in the past,
And neghbors and relations 'low
You're out o' the tall timber now,
And "gittin' thare" about as spry's
The next! – as I say, when my eyes,
Er ears, lights on your name, I mind
The first time 'at I come to find
You – and my Rickollection yells,
Jest jubilunt as old sleigh-bells —
"'Ras Wilson! Say! Hold up! and shake
A paw, fer old acquaintance sake!"
My Rickollection, more'n like,
Hain't overly too apt to strike
The what's-called "cultchurd public eye"
As wisdom of the deepest dye, —
And yit my Rickollection makes
So blame lots fewer bad mistakes,
Regardin' human-natchur' and
The fellers 'at I've shook theyr hand,
Than my best jedgemunt's done, the day
I've met 'em – 'fore I got away, —
'At – Well, 'Ras Wilson, let me grip
Your hand in warmest pardnership!
 
 
Dad-burn ye! – Like to jest haul back
A' old flat-hander, jest che-whack!
And take you 'twixt the shoulders, say,
Sometime you're lookin' t'other way! —
Er, maybe whilse you're speakin' to
A whole blame Courthouse-full o' 'thu-
Syastic friends, I'd like to jest
Come in-like and break up the nest
Afore you hatched anuther cheer,
And say: "'Ras, I can't stand hitched here
All night – ner wouldn't ef I could! —
But Little Bethel Neghborhood,
You ust to live at, 's sent some word
Fer you, ef ary chance occurred
To git it to ye, – so ef you
Kin stop, I'm waitin' fer ye to!"
 
 
You're common, as I said afore —
You're common, yit oncommon more. —
You allus kindo' 'pear, to me,
What all mankind had ort to be —
Jest natchurl, and the more hurraws
You git, the less you know the cause —
Like as ef God Hisse'f stood by
Where best on earth hain't half knee-high,
And seein' like, and knowin' He
'S the Only Grate Man really,
You're jest content to size your hight
With any feller-man's in sight. —
And even then they's scrubs, like me,
Feels stuck-up, in your company!
Like now: – I want to go with you
Plum out o' town a mile er two
Clean past the Fair-ground whare's some hint
O' pennyrile er peppermint,
And bottom-lands, and timber thick
Enugh to sorto' shade the crick!
I want to see you – want to set
Down somers, whare the grass hain't wet,
And kindo' breathe you, like puore air —
And taste o' your tobacker thare,
And talk and chaw! Talk o' the birds
We've knocked with cross-bows. – Afterwards
Drop, mayby, into some dispute
'Bout "pomgrannies," er cal'mus-root —
And how they growed, and whare? – on tree
Er vine? – Who's best boy-memory! —
And wasn't it gingsang, insted
O' cal'mus-root, growed like you said? —
Er how to tell a coon-track from
A mussrat's; – er how milksick come —
Er ef cows brung it? – Er why now
We never see no "muley" – cow —
Ner "frizzly" – chicken – ner no "clay-
Bank" mare – ner nothin' thataway! —
And what's come o' the yellow-core
Old wortermelons? – hain't no more. —
Tomattusus, the same – all red-
Uns nowadays – All past joys fled —
Each and all jest gone k-whizz!
Like our days o' childhood is!
 
 
Dag-gone it, 'Ras! they hain't no friend,
It 'pears-like, left to comperhend
Sich things as these but you, and see
How dratted sweet they air to me!
But you, 'at's loved 'em allus, and
Kin sort 'em out and understand
'Em, same as the fine books you've read,
And all fine thoughts you've writ, er said,
Er worked out, through long nights o' rain,
And doubts and fears, and hopes, again,
As bright as morning when she broke, —
You know a teardrop from a joke!
And so, 'Ras Wilson, stop and shake
A paw, fer old acquaintance sake!
 

MY RUTHERS

[Writ durin' State Fair at Indanoplis, whilse visitin' a Sonin-law then residin' thare, who has sence got back to the country whare he says a man that's raised thare ort to a-stayed in the first place.]

 
 
I tell you what I'd ruther do —
Ef I only had my ruthers, —
I'd ruther work when I wanted to
Than be bossed round by others; —
I'd ruther kindo' git the swing
O' what was needed, first, I jing!
Afore I swet at anything! —
Ef I only had my ruthers; —
In fact I'd aim to be the same
With all men as my brothers;
And they'd all be the same with me
Ef I only had my ruthers.
 
 
I wouldn't likely know it all —
Ef I only had my ruthers; —
I'd know some sense, and some base-ball —
Some old jokes, and – some others:
I'd know some politics, and 'low
Some tarif-speeches same as now,
Then go hear Nye on "Branes and How
To Detect Theyr Presence." T'others,
That stayed away, I'd let 'em stay —
All my dissentin' brothers
Could chuse as shore a kill er cuore,
Ef I only had my ruthers.
 
 
The pore 'ud git theyr dues sometimes —
Ef I only had my ruthers, —
And be paid dollars 'stid o' dimes,
Fer childern, wives and mothers:
Theyr boy that slaves; theyr girl that sews —
Fer others– not herself, God knows! —
The grave's her only change of clothes!
… Ef I only had my ruthers,
They'd all have "stuff" and time enugh
To answer one-another's
Appealin' prayer fer "lovin' care" —
Ef I only had my ruthers.
 
 
They'd be few folks 'ud ast fer trust,
Ef I only had my ruthers,
And blame few business-men to bu'st
Theyrselves, er harts of others:
Big Guns that come here durin' Fair-
Week could put up jest anywhare,
And find a full-and-plenty thare,
Ef I only had my ruthers:
The rich and great 'ud 'sociate
With all theyr lowly brothers,
Feelin' we done the honorun —
Ef I only had my ruthers.
 

ON A DEAD BABE

 
Fly away! thou heavenly one! —
I do hail thee on thy flight!
Sorrow? thou hath tasted none —
Perfect joy is yourn by right.
Fly away! and bear our love
To thy kith and kin above!
 
 
I can tetch thy finger-tips
Ca'mly, and bresh back the hair
From thy forr'ed with my lips,
And not leave a teardrop thare. —
Weep fer Tomps and Ruth– and me
But I can not weep fer thee.