Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches

A PEN-PICTUR'
OF A CERTIN FRIVVOLUS OLD MAN

 
Most ontimely old man yit!
'Pear-like sometimes he jest tries
His fool-self, and takes the bitt
In his teeth and jest de-fies
All perpryties! – Lay and swet
Doin' nothin'– only jest
Sorto' speckillatun on
Whare old summertimes is gone,
And 'bout things that he loved best
When a youngster! Heerd him say
Springtimes made him thataway —
Speshully on Sund'ys– when
Sun shines out and in again,
And the lonesome old hens they
Git off under the old kern-
Bushes, and in deep concern
Talk-like to theyrselvs, and scratch
Kindo' absunt-minded, jest
Like theyr thoughts was fur away
In some neghbor's gyarden-patch
Folks has tended keerfullest!
Heerd the old man dwell on these
Idys time and time again! —
Heerd him claim that orchurd-trees
Bloomin', put the mischief in
His old hart sometimes that bad
And owdacious that he "had
To break loose someway," says he,
"Ornry as I ust to be!"
 
 
Heerd him say one time – when I
Was a sorto' standin' by,
And the air so still and clear,
Heerd the bell fer church clean here! —
Said: "Ef I could climb and set
On the old three-cornerd rail
Old home-place, nigh Maryette',
Swop my soul off, hide and tale!"
And-sir! blame ef tear and laugh
Didn't ketch him half and half!
"Oh!" he says, "to wake and be
Bare-foot, in the airly dawn
In the pastur'! – thare," says he,
"Standin' whare the cow's slep' on
The cold, dewy grass that's got
Print of her jest steamy hot
Fer to warm a feller's heels
In a while! – How good it feels!
Sund'y! – Country! – Morning! – Hear
Nothin' but the silunce– see
Nothin' but green woods and clear
Skies and unwrit poetry
By the acre!.. Oh!" says he,
"What's this voice of mine? – to seek
To speak out, and yit can't speak!
 
 
"Think!– the lazyest of days" —
Takin' his contrairyest leap,
He went on, – "git up, er sleep —
Er whilse feedin', watch the haze
Dancin' 'crost the wheat, – and keep
My pipe goin' laisurely —
Puff and whiff as pleases me, —
Er I'll leave a trail of smoke
Through the house! – no one'll say
'Throw that nasty thing away!'
'Pear-like nothin' sacerd's broke,
Goin' bare-foot ef I chuse! —
I have fiddled; – and dug bait
And went fishin'; – pitched hoss-shoes —
Whare they couldn't see us from
The main road. – And I've beat some.
I've set round and had my joke
With the thrashers at the barn —
And I've swopped 'em yarn fer yarn! —
Er I've he'pped the childern poke
Fer hens'-nests – agged on a match
'Twixt the boys, to watch 'em scratch
And paw round and rip and tare,
And bust buttons and pull hair
To theyr rompin' harts' content —
And me jest a-settin' thare
Hatchin' out more devilment!
 
 
"What you s'pose now ort to be
Done with sich a man?" says he —
"Sich a fool-old-man as me!"
 

WET-WEATHER TALK

 
It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice. —
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
 
 
Men ginerly, to all intents —
Although they're apt to grumble some —
Puts most theyr trust in Providence,
And takes things as they come —
That is, the commonality
Of men that's lived as long as me
Has watched the world enugh to learn
They're not the boss of this concern.
 
 
With some, of course, it's different —
I've saw young men that knowed it all,
And didn't like the way things went
On this terrestchul ball; —
 
 
But all the same, the rain, some way,
Rained jest as hard on picnic day;
Er, when they railly wanted it,
It mayby wouldn't rain a bit!
 
 
In this existunce, dry and wet
Will overtake the best of men —
Some little skift o' clouds'll shet
The sun off now and then. —
And mayby, whilse you're wundern who
You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to,
And want it – out'll pop the sun,
And you'll be glad you hain't got none!
 
 
It aggervates the farmers, too —
They's too much wet, er too much sun,
Er work, er waitin' round to do
Before the plowin' 's done:
And mayby, like as not, the wheat,
Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat,
Will ketch the storm – and jest about
The time the corn's a-jintin' out.
 
 
These-here cy-clones a-foolin' round —
And back'ard crops! – and wind and rain! —
And yit the corn that's wallerd down
May elbow up again! —
They hain't no sense, as I can see,
Fer mortuls, sich as us, to be
A-faultin' Natchur's wise intents,
And lockin' horns with Providence!
 
 
It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice. —
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
 

THOUGHTS ON A PORE JOKE

 
I like fun – and I like jokes
'Bout as well as most o' folks! —
Like my joke, and like my fun; —
But a joke, I'll state right here,
'S got some p'int – er I don't keer
Fer no joke that hain't got none. —
I hain't got no use, I'll say,
Fer a pore joke, anyway!
 
 
F'rinstunce, now, when some folks gits
To relyin' on theyr wits,
Ten to one they git too smart
And spile it all, right at the start!
Feller wants to jest go slow
And do his thinkin' first, you know.
'F I can't think up somepin' good,
I set still and chaw my cood!
'F you think nothin' – jest keep on,
But don't say it – er you're gone!
 

A MORTUL PRAYER

 
Oh! Thou that vaileth from all eyes
The glory of Thy face,
And setteth throned behind the skies
In Thy abiding-place:
Though I but dimly recko'nize
Thy purposes of grace;
And though with weak and wavering
Deserts, and vexd with fears,
I lift the hands I can not wring
All dry of sorrow's tears,
Make puore my prayers that daily wing
Theyr way unto Thy ears!
 
 
Oh! with the hand that tames the flood
And smooths the storm to rest,
Make ba'mmy dews of all the blood
That stormeth in my brest,
And so refresh my hart to bud
And bloom the loveliest.
Lull all the clammer of my soul
To silunce; bring release
Unto the brane still in controle
Of doubts; bid sin to cease,
And let the waves of pashun roll
And kiss the shores of peace.
 
 
Make me to love my feller-man —
Yea, though his bitterness
Doth bite as only adders can —
Let me the fault confess,
And go to him and clasp his hand
And love him none the less.
So keep me, Lord, ferever free
From vane concete er whim;
And he whose pius eyes can see
My faults, however dim, —
Oh! let him pray the least fer me,
And me the most fer him.
 

THE FIRST BLUEBIRD

 
Jest rain and snow! and rain again!
And dribble! drip! and blow!
Then snow! and thaw! and slush! and then —
Some more rain and snow!
 
 
This morning I was 'most afeard
To wake up – when, I jing!
I seen the sun shine out and heerd
The first bluebird of Spring! —
Mother she'd raised the winder some; —
And in acrost the orchurd come,
Soft as a angel's wing,
A breezy, treesy, beesy hum,
Too sweet fer anything!
 
 
The winter's shroud was rent a-part —
The sun bust forth in glee, —
And when that that bluebird sung, my hart
Hopped out o' bed with me!
 

EVAGENE BAKER – WHO WAS DYIN' OF DRED CONSUMTION
AS THESE LINES WAS PENNED BY A TRUE FRIEND

 
Pore afflicted Evagene!
Whilse the woods is fresh and green,
And the birds on ev'ry hand
Sings in rapture sweet and grand, —
Thou, of all the joyus train,
Art bedridden, and in pain
Sich as only them can cherish
Who, like flowrs, is first to perish!
 
 
When the neghbors brought the word
She was down, the folks inferred
It was jest a cold she'd caught,
Dressin' thinner than she'd ort
Fer the frolicks and the fun
Of the dancin' that she'd done
'Fore the Spring was flush er ary
Blossom on the peach er cherry.
 
 
But, last Sund'y, her request
Fer the Church's prayers was jest
Rail hart-renderin' to hear! —
Many was the silunt tear
And the tremblin' sigh, to show
She was dear to us below
On this earth – and dearer, even,
When we thought of her a-leavin'!
 
 
Sisters prayed, and coted from
Genesis to Kingdom-come
Provin' of her title clear
To the mansions. – "Even her,"
They claimed, "might be saved, someway,
Though she'd danced, and played crowkay,
And wrought on her folks to git her
Fancy shoes that never fit her!"
 
 
Us to pray fer Evagene! —
With her hart as puore and clean
As a rose is after rain
When the sun comes out again! —
What's the use to pray for her?
She don't need no prayin' fer! —
Needed, all her life, more playin'
Than she ever needed prayin'!
 
 
I jest thought of all she'd been
Sence her mother died, and when
She turned in and done her part —
All her cares on that child-hart! —
Thought of years she'd slaved – and had
Saved the farm – danced and was glad…
Mayby Him who marks the sporry
Will smooth down her wings tomorry!
 

ON ANY ORDENARY MAN IN A HIGH STATE
OF LAUGHTURE AND DELIGHT

 
As it's give' me to percieve,
I most certin'y believe
When a man's jest glad plum through,
God's pleased with him, same as you.
 

TOWN AND COUNTRY

 
They's a predjudice allus 'twixt country and town
Which I wisht in my hart wasent so.
You take city people, jest square up and down,
And they're mighty good people to know:
And whare's better people a-livin', to-day,
Than us in the country? – Yit good
As both of us is, we're divorsed, you might say,
And won't compermise when we could!
 
 
Now as nigh into town fer yer Pap, ef you please,
Is the what's called the sooburbs. – Fer thare
You'll at least ketch a whiff of the breeze and a sniff
Of the breth of wild-flowrs ev'rywhare.
They's room fer the childern to play, and grow, too —
And to roll in the grass, er to climb
Up a tree and rob nests, like they ortent to do,
But they'll do anyhow ev'ry time!
 
 
My Son-in-law said, when he lived in the town,
He jest natchurly pined, night and day,
Fer a sight of the woods, er a acre of ground
Whare the trees wasent all cleared away!
 
 
And he says to me onc't, whilse a-visitin' us
On the farm, "It's not strange, I declare,
That we can't coax you folks, without raisin' a fuss,
To come to town, visitin' thare!"
 
 
And says I, "Then git back whare you sorto' belong—
And Madaline, too, – and yer three
Little childern," says I, "that don't know a birdsong,
Ner a hawk from a chicky-dee-dee!
Git back," I-says-I, "to the blue of the sky
And the green of the fields, and the shine
Of the sun, with a laugh in yer voice and yer eye
As harty as Mother's and mine!"
 
 
Well – long-and-short of it, – he's compermised some—
He's moved in the sooburbs. – And now
They don't haf to coax, when they want us to come,
'Cause we turn in and go anyhow!
Fer thare – well, they's room fer the songs and purfume
Of the grove and the old orchurd-ground,
And they's room fer the childern out thare, and they's room
Fer theyr Gran'pap to waller 'em round!
 

LINES FER ISAAC BRADWELL, OF INDANOPLIS, IND.,
COUNTY-SEAT OF MARION

[Writ on the flyleaf of a volume of the author's poems that come in one of gittin' burnt up in the great Bowen-Merrill's fire of March 17, 1890.]

 
Through fire and flood this book has passed. —
Fer what? – I hardly dare to ast —
Less'n it's still to pamper me
With extry food fer vanity; —
Fer, sence it's fell in hands as true
As yourn is – and a Hoosier too, —
I'm prouder of the book, I jing!
Than 'fore they tried to burn the thing!
 

DECORATION DAY ON THE PLACE

 
It's lonesome – sorto' lonesome, – it's a Sund'y-day, to me,
It 'pears-like – more'n any day I nearly ever see! —
Yit, with the Stars and Stripes above, a-flutterin' in the air,
On ev'ry Soldier's grave I'd love to lay a lilly thare.
 
 
They say, though, Decoration Days is giner'ly observed
'Most ev'rywhares– espeshally by soldier-boys that's served. —
But me and Mother's never went – we seldom git away, —
In p'int o' fact, we're allus home on Decoration Day.
 
 
They say the old boys marches through the streets in colum's grand,
A-follerin' the old war-tunes they're playin' on the band —
And citizuns all jinin' in – and little childern, too —
All marchin', under shelter of the old Red White and Blue. —
 
 
With roses! roses! roses! – everybody in the town! —
And crowds o' little girls in white, jest fairly loaded down! —
Oh! don't The Boys know it, from theyr camp acrost the hill? —
Don't they see theyr com'ards comin' and the old flag wavin' still?
 
 
Oh! can't they hear the bugul and the rattle of the drum? —
Ain't they no way under heavens they can rickollect us some?
Ain't they no way we can coax 'em, through the roses, jest to say
They know that ev'ry day on earth's theyr Decoration Day?
 
 
We've tried that – me and Mother, – whare Elias takes his rest,
In the orchurd – in his uniform, and hands acrost his brest,
And the flag he died fer, smilin' and a-ripplin' in the breeze
Above his grave – and over that, —the robin in the trees!
 
 
And yit it's lonesome – lonesome! – It's a Sund'y-day, to me,
It 'pears-like – more'n any day I nearly ever see! —
Still, with the Stars and Stripes above, a-flutterin' in the air,
On ev'ry Soldier's grave I'd love to lay a lilly thare.
 

THE TREE-TOAD

 
"'S cur'ous-like," said the tree-toad,
"I've twittered fer rain all day;
And I got up soon,
And hollered tel noon —
But the sun, hit blazed away,
Tell I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole,
Weary at hart, and sick at soul!
 
 
"Dozed away fer an hour,
And I tackled the thing agin:
And I sung, and sung,
Tel I knowed my lung
Was jest about give in;
And then, thinks I, ef hit don't rain now,
They's nothin' in singin', anyhow!
 
 
"Onc't in a while some farmer
Would come a-drivin' past;
And he'd hear my cry,
And stop and sigh —
Tel I jest laid back, at last,
And I hollered rain tel I thought my th'oat
Would bust wide open at ever' note!
 
 
"But I fetched her! – O I fetched her! —
'Cause a little while ago,
As I kindo' set,
With one eye shet,
And a-singin' soft and low,
A voice drapped down on my fevered brain,
A-sayin', – 'Ef you'll jest hush I'll rain!'"
 

THE ROSSVILLE LECTUR' COURSE

[Set down from the real facts of the case that come under notice of the author whilse visitun far distunt relatives who wuz then residin' at Rossville, Mich.]

 
Folks up here at Rossville got up a Lectur' Course: —
All the leadin' citizens they wuz out in force;
Met and talked at Williamses', and 'greed to meet ag'in;
And helt another corkus when the next reports wuz in:
Met ag'in at Samuelses'; and met ag'in at Moore's,
And Johnts putt the shutters up and jest barr'd the door! —
And yit, I'll jest be dagg-don'd! ef't didn't take a week
'Fore we'd settled whare to write to git a man to speak!
 
 
Found out whare the "Bureau" wuz; and then and thare agreed
To strike whilse the iron's hot and foller up the lead. —
Simp wuz Secatary; so he tuk his pen in hand,
And ast 'em what they'd tax us fer the one on "Holy Land" —
 
 
"One of Colonel J. De-Koombs's Abelust and Best
Lectur's," the circ'lar stated, "Give East er West!"
Wanted fifty dollars and his kyar-fare to and from,
And Simp wuz hence instructed fer to write him not to come.
 
 
Then we talked and jawed around another week er so,
And writ the "Bureau" 'bout the town a-bein' sorto' slow —
Old-fogey-like, and pore as dirt, and lackin' interprise,
And ignornter'n any other, 'cordin' to its size:
Tel finully the "Bureau" said they'd send a cheaper man
Fer forty dollars, who would give "A Talk About Japan" —
"A reg'lar Japanee hise'f," the pamphlet claimed; and so,
Nobody knowed his languige, and of course we let him go!
 
 
Kindo' then let up a spell – but rallied onc't ag'in,
And writ to price a feller on what's called the "violin" —
A Swede, er Pole, er somepin' – but no matter what he wuz,
Doc Cooper said he'd heerd him, and he wuzn't wuth a kuss!
And then we ast fer Swingse's terms; and Cook, and Ingersoll—
And blame! ef forty dollars looked like anything at all!
And then Burdette, we tried fer him; and Bob he writ to say
He wuz busy writin' ortographts and couldn't git away.
 
 
At last – along in Aprile – we signed to take this-here
Bill Nye of Californy, 'at wuz posted to appear
"The Comicalest Funny Man 'at Ever Jammed a Hall!"
So we made big preperations, and swep' out the church and all!
And night he wuz to lectur', and the neghbors all wuz thare,
And strangers packed along the aisles 'at come from ev'rywhare,
Committee got a telegrapht the preacher read, 'at run —
"Got off at Rossville, Indiany, 'stid of Michigun."
 

WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES

 
In Spring, when the green gits back in the trees,
And the sun comes out and stays,
And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze,
And you think of yer bare-foot days;
When you ort to work and you want to not,
And you and yer wife agrees
It's time to spade up the garden-lot,
When the green gits back in the trees —
Well! work is the least o' my idees
When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
 
 
When the green gits back in the trees, and bees
Is a-buzzin' aroun' ag'in
In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please
Old gait they bum roun' in;
When the groun's all bald whare the hay-rick stood,
And the crick's riz, and the breeze
Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood,
And the green gits back in the trees, —
I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these,
The time when the green gits back in the trees!
 
 
When the whole tail-fethers o' Wintertime
Is all pulled out and gone!
And the sap it thaws and begins to climb,
And the swet it starts out on
A feller's forred, a-gittin' down
At the old spring on his knees —
I kindo' like jest a-loaferin' roun'
When the green gits back in the trees —
Jest a-potterin' roun' as I – durn – please —
When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!
 

HOW IT HAPPENED

 
I got to thinkin' of her – both her parunts dead and gone —
And all her sisters married off, and none but her and John
A-livin' all alone thare in that lonesome sorto' way,
And him a blame old bachelor, confirmder ev'ry day!
I'd knowed 'em all, from childern, and theyr daddy from the time
He settled in the neghborhood, and hadn't ary a dime
Er dollar, when he married, fer to start housekeepin' on! —
So I got to thinkin' of her – both her parunts dead and gone!
 
 
I got to thinkin' of her; and a-wundern what she done
That all her sisters kep' a-gittin' married, one by one,
And her without no chances – and the best girl of the pack —
A' old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back!
And Mother, too, afore she died, —she ust to jest take on,
When none of 'em wuz left, you know, but Evaline and John,
And jest declare to goodness 'at the young men must be bline
To not see what a wife they'd git ef they got Evaline!
 
 
I got to thinkin' of her: In my great affliction she
Wuz sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neghborly, —
She'd come, and leave her housework, fer to he'p out little Jane,
And talk of her own mother 'at she'd never see again —
They'd sometimes cry together – though, fer the most part, she
Would have the child so rickonciled and happy-like 'at we
Felt lonesomer'n ever when she'd putt her bonnet on
And say she'd railly haf to be a-gittin' back to John!
 
 
I got to thinkin' of her, as I say, – and more and more
I'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore, —
Her parunts both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters gone
And married off, and her a-livin' thare alone with John —
You might say jest a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her life
Fer a man 'at hadn't pride enugh to git hisse'f a wife —
'Less some one married Evaline and packed her off some day! —
So I got to thinkin' of her – and – It happened thataway.
 

A DOS'T O' BLUES

 
I' got no patience with blues at all!
And I ust to kindo' talk
Aginst 'em, and claim, tel along last Fall,
They wuz none in the fambly stock;
But a nephew of mine, from Eelinoy,
That visitud us last year,
He kindo' convinct me differunt
Whilse he wuz a-stayin' here.
 
 
From ev'ry-which-way that blues is from,
They'd pester him ev'ry-ways;
They'd come to him in the night, and come
On Sundys, and rainy days;
They'd tackle him in corn-plantin' time,
And in harvest, and airly Fall, —
But a dos't o' blues in the Wintertime,
He 'lowed, wuz the worst of all!
 
 
Said "All diseases that ever he had —
The mumps, er the rhumatiz —
Er ev'ry-other-day-aigger – bad
As ever the blame thing is! —
Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck,
Er a felon on his thumb, —
But you keep the blues away from him,
And all o' the rest could come!"
 
 
And he'd moan, "They's nary a leaf below!
Ner a spear o' grass in sight!
And the whole woodpile's clean under snow!
And the days is dark as night!
You can't go out – ner you can't stay in —
Lay down – stand up – ner set!"
And a tetch o' regular tyfoid-blues
Would double him jest clean shet!
 
 
I writ his parunts a postal-kyard
He could stay tel Springtime come;
And Aprile —first, as I rickollect —
Wuz the day we shipped him home!
Most o' his relatives, sence then,
Has eether give up, er quit,
Er jest died off; but I understand
He's the same old color yit!
 

THE OLD HOME BY THE MILL

 
This is "The old Home by the Mill" – fer we still call it so,
Although the old mill, roof and sill, is all gone long ago.
The old home, though, and the old folks – the old spring, and a few
Old cattails, weeds and hartychokes, is left to welcome you!
 
 
Here, Marg'et! – fetch the man a tin to drink out of! Our spring
Keeps kindo'-sorto' cavin' in, but don't "taste" anything!
She's kindo' agein', Marg'et is – "the old process" – like me,
All ham-stringed up with rhumatiz, and on in seventy-three.
 
 
Jest me and Marg'et lives alone here – like in long ago;
The childern all putt off and gone, and married, don't you know?
One's millin' 'way out West somewhare; two other miller-boys
In Minnyopolis they air; and one's in Illinoise.
The oldest gyrl – the first that went – married and died right here;
The next lives in Winn's Settlement – fer purt'-nigh thirty year!
And youngest one – was allus fer the old home here – but no! —
Her man turns in and he packs her 'way off to Idyho!
 
 
I don't miss them like Marg'et does – 'cause I got her, you see;
And when she pines for them – that's 'cause she's only jest got me!
I laugh, and joke her 'bout it all. – But talkin' sense, I'll say,
When she was tuk so bad last Fall, I laughed then t'other way!
I hain't so favor'ble impressed 'bout dyin'; but ef I
Found I was only second-best when us two come to die,
I'd 'dopt the "new process" in full, ef Marg'et died, you see, —
I'd jest crawl in my grave and pull the green grass over me!