Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches

A OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG

 
It's the curiousest thing in creation,
Whenever I hear that old song
"Do They Miss Me at Home," I'm so bothered,
My life seems as short as it's long! —
Fer ev'rything 'pears like adzackly
It 'peared in the years past and gone, —
When I started out sparkin', at twenty,
And had my first neckercher on!
 
 
Though I'm wrinkelder, older and grayer
Right now than my parents was then,
You strike up that song "Do They Miss Me,"
And I'm jest a youngster again! —
I'm a-standin' back thare in the furries
A-wishin' fer evening to come,
And a-whisperin' over and over
Them words "Do They Miss Me at Home?"
 
 
You see, Marthy Ellen she sung it
The first time I heerd it; and so,
As she was my very first sweethart,
It reminds me of her, don't you know; —
How her face ust to look, in the twilight,
As I tuck her to Spellin'; and she
Kep' a-hummin' that song tel I ast her,
Pine-blank, ef she ever missed me!
 
 
I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it,
And hear her low answerin' words;
And then the glad chirp of the crickets,
As clear as the twitter of birds;
And the dust in the road is like velvet,
And the ragweed and fennel and grass
Is as sweet as the scent of the lillies
Of Eden of old, as we pass.
 
 
"Do They Miss Me at Home?" Sing it lower —
And softer – and sweet as the breeze
That powdered our path with the snowy
White bloom of the old locus'-trees!
Let the whipperwills he'p you to sing it,
And the echoes 'way over the hill,
Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus
Of stars, and our voices is still.
 
 
But oh! "They's a chord in the music
That's missed when her voice is away!"
Though I listen from midnight tel morning,
And dawn tel the dusk of the day!
And I grope through the dark, lookin' up'ards
And on through the heavenly dome,
With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin'
The words "Do They Miss Me at Home?"
 

"COON-DOG WESS"

 
"Coon-dog Wess" – he allus went
'Mongst us here by that-air name.
Moved in this-here Settlement
From next county – he laid claim, —
Lived down in the bottoms – whare
Ust to be some coons in thare! —
 
 
In nigh Clayton's, next the crick, —
Mind old Billy ust to say
Coons in thare was jest that thick,
He'p him corn-plant any day! —
And, in rostneer-time, be then
Aggin' him to plant again!
 
 
Well, – In Spring o' '67,
This-here "Coon-dog Wess" he come —
Fetchin' 'long 'bout forty-'leven
Ornriest-lookin' hounds, I gum!
Ever mortul-man laid eyes
On sence dawn o' Christian skies!
 
 
Wife come traipsin' at the rag-
Tag-and-bobtail of the crowd,
Dogs and childern, with a bag
Corn-meal and some side-meat, —Proud
And as independunt—My!—
Yit a mild look in her eye.
 
 
Well – this "Coon-dog Wess" he jest
Moved in that-air little pen
Of a pole-shed, aidgin' west
On "The Slues o' Death," called then. —
Otter- and mink-hunters ust
To camp thare 'fore game vam-moosd.
 
 
Abul-bodied man, – and lots
Call fer choppers– and fer hands
To git cross-ties out. – But what's
Work to sich as understands
Ways appinted and is hence
Under special providence? —
 
 
"Coon-dog Wess's" holts was hounds
And coon-huntin'; and he knowed
His own range, and stayed in bounds
And left work for them 'at showed
Talents fer it – same as his
Gifts regardin' coon-dogs is.
 
 
Hounds of ev'ry mungerl breed
Ever whelped on earth! – Had these
Yeller kind, with punkin-seed
Marks above theyr eyes – and fleas
Both to sell and keep! – Also
These-here lop-yeerd hounds, you know. —
 
 
Yes-and brindle hounds – and long,
Ga'nt hounds, with them eyes they' got
So blame sorry, it seems wrong,
'Most, to kick 'em as to not!
Man, though, wouldn't dast, I guess,
Kick a hound fer "Coon-dog Wess"!
 
 
'Tended to his own affairs
Stric'ly; – made no brags, – and yit
You could see 'at them hounds' cares
'Peared like his, – and he'd a-fit
Fer 'em, same as wife er child! —
Them facts made folks rickonciled,
 
 
Sorto', fer to let him be
And not pester him. And then
Word begin to spread 'at he
Had brung in as high as ten
Coon-pelts in one night – and yit
Didn't 'pear to boast of it!
 
 
Neghborhood made some complaints
'Bout them plague-gone hounds at night
Howlin' fit to wake the saints,
Clean from dusk tel plum day-light!
But to "Coon-dog Wess" them-thare
Howls was "music in the air"!
 
 
Fetched his pelts to Gilson's Store —
Newt he shipped fer him, and said,
Sence he'd cooned thare, he'd shipped more
Than three hunderd pelts! – "By Ned!
Git shet of my store," Newt says,
"I'd go in with 'Coon-dog Wess'!"
 
 
And the feller 'peared to be
Makin' best and most he could
Of his rale prospairity: —
Bought some household things – and good, —
Likewise, wagon-load onc't come
From wharever he'd moved from.
 
 
But pore feller's huntin'-days,
'Bout them times, was glidin' past! —
Goes out onc't one night and stays!
… Neghbors they turned out, at last,
Headed by his wife and one
Half-starved hound – and search begun.
 
 
Boys said, that blame hound, he led
Searchin' party, 'bout a half
Mile ahead, and bellerin', said,
Worse'n ary yearlin' calf! —
Tel, at last, come fur-off sounds
Like the howl of other hounds.
 
 
And-sir, shore enugh, them signs
Fetched 'em – in a' hour er two —
Whare the pack was; – and they finds
"Coon-dog Wess" right thare; – And you
Would admitted he was right
Stayin', as he had, all night!
 
 
Facts is, cuttin' down a tree,
The blame thing had sorto' fell
In a twist-like —mercy me!
And had ketched him. – Couldn't tell,
Wess said, how he'd managed – yit
He'd got both legs under it!
 
 
Fainted and come to, I s'pose,
'Bout a dozen times whilse they
Chopped him out! – And wife she froze
To him! – bresh his hair away
And smile cheerful' – only when
He'd faint. – Cry and kiss him then.
 
 
Had his nerve! – And nussed him through, —
Neghbors he'pped her – all she'd stand. —
Had a loom, and she could do
Carpet-weavin' railly grand! —
"'Sides," she ust to laugh and say,
"She'd have Wess, now, night and day!"
 
 
As fer him, he'd say, says-ee,
"I'm resigned to bein' lame: —
They was four coons up that tree,
And hounds got 'em, jest the same!"
'Peared like, one er two legs less
Never worried "Coon-dog Wess"!
 

LINES TO
PERFESSER JOHN CLARK RIDPATH
A. M., LL. D. T-Y-TY!

[Cumposed by A Old Friend of the Fambily sence 'way back in the Forties, when they Settled nigh Fillmore, Putnam County, this State, whare John was borned and growed up, you might say, like the wayside flower.]

 
Your neghbors in the country, whare you come from, hain't fergot! —
We knowed you even better than your own-self, like as not.
We profissied your runnin'-geers 'ud stand a soggy load
And pull her, purty stiddy, up a mighty rocky road:
We been a-watchin' your career sence you could write your name —
But way you writ it first, I'll say, was jest a burnin' shame! —
Your "J. C." in the copybook, and "Ridpath" – mercy-sakes! —
Quiled up and tide in dubble bows, lookt like a nest o' snakes! —
But you could read it, I suppose, and kindo' gloted on
A-bein' "J. C. Ridpath" when we only called you "John."
 
 
But you'd work 's well as fool, and what you had to do was done:
We've watched you at the woodpile – not the woodshed– wasent none, —
And snow and sleet, and haulin', too, and lookin' after stock,
And milkin', nights, and feedin' pigs, – then turnin' back the clock,
So's you could set up studyin' your 'Rethmatic, and fool
Your Parents, whilse a-piratin' your way through winter school!
And I've heerd tell – from your own folks – you've set and baked your face
A-readin' Plutark Slives all night by that old fi-er-place. —
Yit, 'bout them times, the blackboard, onc't, had on it, I de-clare,
"Yours truly, J. Clark Ridpath." – And the teacher – left it thare!
 
 
And they was other symptums, too, that pinted, plane as day,
To nothin' short of College! – and one was the lovin' way
Your mother had of cheerin' you to efforts brave and strong,
And puttin' more faith in you, as you needed it along:
She'd pat you on the shoulder, er she'd grab you by the hands,
And laugh sometimes, er cry sometimes. – They's few that understands
Jest what theyr mother's drivin' at when they act thataway; —
But I'll say this fer you, John-Clark, – you answered, night and day,
To ev'ry trust and hope of hers – and half your College fame
Was battled fer and won fer her and glory of her name.
 
 
The likes of you at College! But you went thare. How you paid
Your way nobody's astin' – but you worked, – you hain't afraid, —
Your clothes was, more'n likely, kindo' out o' style, perhaps,
And not as snug and warm as some 'at hid the other chaps; —
But when it come to Intullect– they tell me yourn was dressed
A leetle mite superber-like than any of the rest!
And there you stayed– and thare you've made your rickord, fare and square —
Tel now its Fame 'at writes your name, approvin', ev'rywhare—
Not jibblets of it, nuther, – but all John Clark Ridpath, set
Plum at the dashboard of the whole-endurin' Alfabet!
 

A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS

 
Oh! tell me a tale of the airly days —
Of the times as they ust to be;
"Piller of Fi-er" and "Shakspeare's Plays"
Is a' most too deep fer me!
I want plane facts, and I want plane words,
Of the good old-fashiond ways,
When speech run free as the songs of birds
'Way back in the airly days.
 
 
Tell me a tale of the timber-lands —
Of the old-time pioneers;
Somepin' a pore man understands
With his feelin's well as ears.
Tell of the old log house, – about
The loft, and the puncheon flore —
The old fi-er-place, with the crane swung out,
And the latch-string thrugh the door.
 
 
Tell of the things jest as they was —
They don't need no excuse! —
Don't tetch 'em up like the poets does,
Tel theyr all too fine fer use! —
Say they was 'leven in the fambily —
Two beds, and the chist, below,
And the trundle-beds that each helt three,
And the clock and the old bureau.
 
 
Then blow the horn at the old back-door
Tel the echoes all halloo,
And the childern gethers home onc't more,
Jest as they ust to do:
Blow fer Pap tel he hears and comes,
With Tomps and Elias, too,
A-marchin' home, with the fife and drums
And the old Red White and Blue!
 
 
Blow and blow tel the sound draps low
As the moan of the whipperwill,
And wake up Mother, and Ruth and Jo,
All sleepin' at Bethel Hill:
Blow and call tel the faces all
Shine out in the back-log's blaze,
And the shadders dance on the old hewed wall
As they did in the airly days.
 

"MYLO JONES'S WIFE"

 
"Mylo Jones's wife" was all
I heerd, mighty near, last Fall —
Visitun relations down
T'other side of Morgantown!
Mylo Jones's wife she does
This and that, and "those" and "thus"! —
Can't 'bide babies in her sight —
Ner no childern, day and night,
Whoopin' round the premises —
Ner no nothin' else, I guess!
 
 
Mylo Jones's wife she 'lows
She's the boss of her own house! —
Mylo – consequences is —
Stays whare things seem some like his, —
Uses, mostly, with the stock —
Coaxin' "Old Kate" not to balk,
Ner kick hoss-flies' branes out, ner
Act, I s'pose, so much like her!
Yit the wimmern-folks tells you
She's perfection. – Yes they do!
 
 
Mylo's wife she says she's found
Home hain't home with men-folks round
When they's work like hern to do —
Picklin' pears and butchern, too,
And a-rendern lard, and then
Cookin' fer a pack of men
To come trackin' up the flore
She's scrubbed tel she'll scrub no more! —
Yit she'd keep things clean ef they
Made her scrub tel Jedgmunt Day!
 
 
Mylo Jones's wife she sews
Carpet-rags and patches clothes
Jest year in and out! – and yit
Whare's the livin' use of it?
She asts Mylo that. – And he
Gits back whare he'd ruther be,
With his team; – jest plows– and don't
Never sware – like some folks won't!
Think ef he'd cut loose, I gum!
'D he'p his heavenly chances some!
 
 
Mylo's wife don't see no use,
Ner no reason ner excuse
Fer his pore relations to
Hang round like they allus do!
Thare 'bout onc't a year – and she—
She jest ga'nts 'em, folks tells me,
On spiced pears! – Pass Mylo one,
He says "No, he don't chuse none!"
Workin' men like Mylo they
'D ort to have meat ev'ry day!
 
 
Dad-burn Mylo Jones's wife!
Ruther rake a blame caseknife
'Crost my wizzen than to see
Sich a womern rulin' me! —
Ruther take and turn in and
Raise a fool mule-colt by hand!
Mylo, though – od-rot the man! —
Jest keeps ca'm – like some folks can—
And 'lows sich as her, I s'pose,
Is Man's he'pmeet! – Mercy knows!
 

ON A SPLENDUD MATCH

[On the night of the marraige of the foregoin' couple, which shall be nameless here, these lines was ca'mly dashed off in the albun of the happy bride whilse the shivver-ree was goin' on outside the residence.]

 
He was warned against the womern—
She was warned aginst the man. —
And ef that won't make a weddin',
W'y, they's nothin' else that can!
 

OLD JOHN CLEVENGER ON BUCKEYES

 
Old John Clevenger lets on,
Allus, like he's purty rough
Timber. – He's a grate old John! —
"Rough?" – don't swaller no sich stuff!
Moved here, sence the war was through,
From Ohio – somers near
Old Bucyrus, – loyal, too,
As us "Hoosiers" is to here!
Git old John stirred up a bit
On his old home stompin'-ground —
Talks same as he lived thare yit,
When some subject brings it round —
Like, fer instunce, Sund'y last,
Fetched his wife, and et and stayed
All night with us. – Set and gassed
Tel plum midnight – 'cause I made
Some remark 'bout "buckeyes" and
"What was buckeyes good fer?" – So,
Like I 'lowed, he waved his hand
And lit in and let me know: —
"'What is Buckeyes good fer?' – What's
Pineys and fergitmenots? —
Honeysuckles, and sweet peas,
And sweet-williamsuz, and these
Johnny-jump-ups ev'rywhare,
Growin' round the roots o' trees
In Spring-weather? – what air they
Good fer? – kin you tell me —Hey?
'Good to look at?' Well they air!
'Specially when Winter's gone,
Clean dead-certin! and the wood's
Green again, and sun feels good's
June! – and shed your blame boots on
The back porch, and lit out to
Roam round like you ust to do,
Bare-foot, up and down the crick,
Whare the buckeyes growed so thick,
And witch-hazel and pop-paws,
And hackberries and black-haws —
With wild pizen-vines jis knit
Over and en-nunder it,
And wove round it all, I jing!
Tel you couldn't hardly stick
A durn caseknife through the thing!
Wriggle round through that; and then —
All het-up, and scratched and tanned,
And muskeeter-bit and mean-
Feelin' – all at onc't again,
Come out suddent on a clean
Slopin' little hump o' green
Dry soft grass, as fine and grand
As a pollor-sofy! – And
Jis pile down thare! – and tell me
Anywhares you'd ruther be —
'Ceptin' right thare, with the wild-
Flowrs all round ye, and your eyes
Smilin' with 'em at the skies,
Happy as a little child!
Well! – right here, I want to say,
Poets kin talk all they please
'Bout 'wild-flowrs, in colors gay,'
And 'sweet blossoms flauntin' theyr
Beauteous fragrunce on the breeze' —
But the sight o' buckeyes jis
Sweet to me as blossoms is!
 
 
"I'm Ohio-born– right whare
People's all called 'Buckeyes' thare—
'Cause, I s'pose, our buckeye crap's
Biggest in the world, perhaps! —
Ner my head don't stretch my hat
Too much on account o' that! —
'Cause it's Natchur's ginerus hand
Sows 'em broadcast ore the land,
With eye-single fer man's good
And the gineral neghborhood!
So buckeyes jis natchurly
'Pears like kith-and-kin to me!
'Slike the good old sayin' wuz,
'Purty is as purty does!' —
We can't eat 'em, cookd er raw —
Yit, I mind, tomattusuz
Wuz considerd pizenus
Onc't– and dasent eat 'em! —Pshaw—
'Twouldn't take me by supprise,
Someday, ef we et buckeyes!
That, though, 's nuther here ner thare! —
Jis the Buckeye whare we air,
In the present times, is what
Ockuppies my lovin' care
And my most perfoundest thought!
… Guess, this minute, what I got
In my pocket, 'at I've packed
Purt'-nigh forty year. – A dry,
Slick and shiny, warped and cracked,
Wilted, weazened old buckeye!
What's it thare fer? What's my hart
In my brest fer? – 'Cause it's part
Of my life– and 'tends to biz —
Like this buckeye's bound to act —
'Cause it 'tends to Rhumatiz!
 
 
"… Ketched more rhumatiz than fish,
Seinen', onc't – and pants froze on
My blame legs! – And ust to wish
I wuz well er dead and gone!
Doc give up the case, and shod
His old boss again and stayed
On good roads! —And thare I laid!
Pap he tuck some bluegrass sod
Steeped in whisky, bilin'-hot,
And socked that on! Then I got
Sorto' holt o' him, somehow—
Kindo' crazy-like, they say —
And I'd killed him, like as not,
Ef I hadn't swooned away!
Smell my scortcht pelt purt'-nigh now!
Well – to make a long tale short —
I hung on the blame disease
Like a shavin'-hoss! and sort
O' wore it out by slow degrees —
Tel my legs wuz straight enugh
To poke through my pants again
And kick all the doctor-stuff
In the fi-er-place! Then turned in
And tuck Daddy Craig's old cuore —
Jis a buckeye– and that's shore. —
Hain't no case o' rhumatiz
Kin subsist whare buckeyes is!"
 

THE HOSS

 
The hoss he is a splendud beast;
He is man's friend, as heaven desined,
And, search the world from west to east,
No honester you'll ever find!
 
 
Some calls the hoss "a pore dumb brute,"
And yit, like Him who died fer you,
I say, as I theyr charge refute,
"'Fergive; they know not what they do!'"
 
 
No wiser animal makes tracks
Upon these earthly shores, and hence
Arose the axium, true as facts,
Extoled by all, as "Good hoss-sense!"
 
 
The hoss is strong, and knows his stren'th, —
You hitch him up a time er two
And lash him, and he'll go his len'th
And kick the dashboard out fer you!
 
 
But, treat him allus good and kind,
And never strike him with a stick,
Ner aggervate him, and you'll find
He'll never do a hostile trick.
 
 
A hoss whose master tends him right
And worters him with daily care,
Will do your biddin' with delight,
And act as docile as you air.
 
 
He'll paw and prance to hear your praise,
Because he's learn't to love you well;
And, though you can't tell what he says,
He'll nicker all he wants to tell.
 
 
He knows you when you slam the gate
At early dawn, upon your way
Unto the barn, and snorts elate,
To git his corn, er oats, er hay.
 
 
He knows you, as the orphant knows
The folks that loves her like theyr own,
And raises her and "finds" her clothes,
And "schools" her tel a womern-grown!
 
 
I claim no hoss will harm a man,
Ner kick, ner run away, cavort,
Stump-suck, er balk, er "catamaran,"
Ef you'll jest treat him as you ort.
 
 
But when I see the beast abused,
And clubbed around as I've saw some,
I want to see his owner noosed,
And jest yanked up like Absolum!
 
 
Of course they's differunce in stock, —
A hoss that has a little yeer,
And slender build, and shaller hock,
Can beat his shadder, mighty near!
 
 
Whilse one that's thick in neck and chist
And big in leg and full in flank,
That tries to race, I still insist
He'll have to take the second rank.
 
 
And I have jest laid back and laughed,
And rolled and wallered in the grass
At fairs, to see some heavy-draft
Lead out at first, yit come in last!
 
 
Each hoss has his appinted place, —
The heavy hoss should plow the soil; —
The blooded racer, he must race,
And win big wages fer his toil.
 
 
I never bet – ner never wrought
Upon my feller-man to bet —
And yit, at times, I've often thought
Of my convictions with regret.
 
 
I bless the hoss from hoof to head —
From head to hoof, and tale to mane! —
I bless the hoss, as I have said,
From head to hoof, and back again!
 
 
I love my God the first of all,
Then Him that perished on the cross,
And next, my wife, – and then I fall
Down on my knees and love the hoss.
 

EZRA HOUSE

[These lines was writ, in ruther high sperits, jest at the close of what's called the Anti Bellum Days, and more to be a-foolin' than anything else, – though they is more er less facts in it. But some of the boys, at the time we was all a-singin' it, fer Ezry's benefit, to the old tune of "The Oak and the Ash and the Bonny Willer Tree," got it struck off in the weekly, without leave er lisence of mine; and so sence they's allus some of 'em left to rigg me about it yit, I might as well claim the thing right here and now, so here goes. I give it jest as it appeared, fixed up and grammatisized consider'ble, as the editer told me he took the liburty of doin', in that sturling old home paper The Advance – as sound a paper yit to-day and as stanch and abul as you'll find in a hunderd.]

 
Come listen, good people, while a story I do tell,
Of the sad fate of one which I knew so passing well;
He enlisted at McCordsville, to battle in the South,
And protect his country's union; his name was Ezra House.
 
 
He was a young school-teacher, and educated high
In regards to Ray's arithmetic, and also Algebra:
He give good satisfaction, but at his country's call
He dropped his position, his Algebra and all.
 
 
"It's oh, I'm going to leave you, kind scholars," he said —
For he wrote a composition the last day and read;
And it brought many tears in the eyes of the school,
To say nothing of his sweetheart he was going to leave so soon.
 
 
"I have many recollections to take with me away,
Of the merry transpirations in the school-room so gay;
And of all that's past and gone I will never regret
I went to serve my country at the first of the outset!"
 
 
He was a good penman, and the lines that he wrote
On that sad occasion was too fine for me to quote, —
For I was there and heard it, and I ever will recall
It brought the happy tears to the eyes of us all.
 
 
And when he left, his sweetheart she fainted away,
And said she could never forget the sad day
When her lover so noble, and gallant and gay,
Said "Fare you well, my true love!" and went marching away.
 
 
But he hadn't been gone for more than two months,
When the sad news come – "he was in a skirmish once,
And a cruel Rebel ball had wounded him full sore
In the region of the chin, through the canteen he wore."
But his health recruited up, and his wounds they got well,
 
 
But whilst he was in battle at Bull Run or Malvern Hill,
The news come again, so sorrowful to hear —
"A sliver from a bombshell cut off his right ear."
But he stuck to the boys, and it's often he would write,
 
 
That "he wasn't afraid for his country to fight."
But oh, had he returned on a furlough, I believe
He would not, to-day, have such cause to grieve.
For in another battle – the name I never heard —
 
 
He was guarding the wagons when an accident occurred, —
A comrade who was under the influence of drink,
Shot him with a musket through the right cheek, I think.
But his dear life was spared; but it hadn't been for long,
Till a cruel Rebel colonel come riding along,
 
 
And struck him with his sword, as many do suppose,
For his cap-rim was cut off, and also his nose.
But Providence, who watches o'er the noble and the brave,
Snatched him once more from the jaws of the grave;
And just a little while before the close of the war,
 
 
He sent his picture home to his girl away so far.
And she fell into decline, and she wrote in reply,
"She had seen his face again and was ready to die";
And she wanted him to promise, when she was in her tomb,
 
 
He would only visit that by the light of the moon.
But he never returned at the close of the war,
And the boys that got back said he hadn't the heart;
But he got a position in a powder-mill, and said
He hoped to meet the doom that his country denied.