UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 C G De Garmo
 
 NEGHBORLY POEMS 
 
 SKETCHES IN PROSE AND 
 
 INTERLUDING VERSES 
 AFTERWHILES 
 PIPES O' PAN (Prose and Verse) 
 RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD 
 
 FLYING ISLANDS OF THE 
 NIGHT 
 
 GREEN FIELDS AND RUN 
 NING BROOKS 
 
 ARMAZINDY 
 
 A CHILD -WORLD 
 
 OLD-FASHIONED ROSES 
 (English Edition) 
 
 THE GOLDEN YEAR 
 (English Edition) 
 
 POEMS HERE AT HOME 
 RUBAIYA'T OF DOC SIFERS 
 
 CHILD-RHYMES WITH 
 HOOSIER PICTURES 
 
 RILEY LOVE -LYRICS 
 
 (Pictures by Dyer)
 
 NEGHBORLY POEMS 
 
 AND 
 
 DIALECT SKETCHES 
 
 JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 INDIANAPOLIS AND KANSAS CITY 
 THE BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY 
 
 1800
 
 Copyright 1883. 1891 and 1897 
 
 By JAMBS WHITCOMB RILEY 
 
 Braunworth, Munn & Barber 
 
 Printers and Binders 
 
 Brooklyn, N. Y.
 
 M 
 
 ps 
 
 3 ./ 
 1899 
 
 TO MY BROTHER 
 HUMBOLDT RILEY
 

 
 PREFACE 
 
 As far back into boyhood as the writer's memory may 
 intelligently go, the " country poet" is most pleasantly 
 recalled. He was, and is, as common as the " country 
 fiddler," and as full of good old-fashioned music. Not 
 a master of melody, indeed, but a poet, certainly 
 
 " Who, through long days of labor, 
 
 And nights devoid of ease, 
 Still heard in his soul the music 
 Of wonderful melodies." 
 
 And it is simply the purpose of this series of dialectic 
 studies to reflect the real worth of this homely child of 
 nature, and to echo faithfully, if possible, the faltering 
 music of his song. 
 
 In adding to this series, as the writer has, for many 
 years, been urged to do, and answering as steadfast a 
 demand of Benj. F. Johnson's first and oldest friends, it 
 has been decided that this further work of his be intro 
 duced to the reader of the volume as was the old man's
 
 PREFACE 
 
 first work to the reader of the newspaper of nearly ten 
 years ago. 
 
 Directly, then, referring to the Indianapolis "Daily 
 Journal," under whose management the writer had for 
 some time been employed, from issue of date June 17, 
 1882, under editorial caption of "A Boone County Pas 
 toral," this article is herewith quoted: 
 
 BCHJ. F. Johnson,-of Boone county, who considers the Jour 
 nal a " very valubul " newspaper, writes to inclose us an origi 
 nal poem, desiring that we kindly accept it for publication, as 
 "many neghbors and friends is astin' him to have the same 
 struck off." 
 
 Mr. Johnson thoughtfully informs us that he is " no edjucated 
 man," but that he has, "from childhood up tel old enough to 
 vote, allus wrote more er less poetry, as many of an albun in 
 the neghborhood can testify." Again, he says that he writes 
 "from the hart out"; and there is a touch of genuine pathos in 
 the frank avowal, " Thare is times when I write the tears rolls 
 down my cheeks." 
 
 In all sincerity, Mr. Johnson, we are glad to publish the poem 
 you send, and just as you have written it. That is its greatest 
 charm. Its very defects compose its excellence. You need no 
 better education than the one from which emanates " The Old 
 Swimmin'-Hole." It is real poetry, and all the more tender and
 
 PREFACE 
 
 lovable for the unquestionable evidence it bears of having been 
 written " from the hart out." The only thing we find to but 
 hold! Let us first lay the poem before the reader: 
 
 Here followed the poem, "The Old Swimmin'- 
 Hole," entire the editorial comment ending as fol 
 lows: 
 
 The only thing now, Mr. Johnson as we were about to ob 
 serve the only thing we find to criticise, at all relative to the 
 poem, is your closing statement to the effect that "It was 
 wrote to go to the tune of 'The Captin with his Whiskers!'" 
 You should not have told us that, O Rare Ben. Johnson ! 
 
 A week later, in the "Journal" of date June 24th, 
 followed this additional mention of "Benj. F. Johnson, 
 of Boone": 
 
 It is a pleasure for us to note that the publication of the 
 poem of " The Old Swimmin'-Hole," to which the Journal, with 
 just pride, referred last week, has proved almost as great a pleas 
 ure to its author as to the hosts of delighted readers who have 
 written in its praise, or called to personally indorse our high 
 opinion of its poetic value. We have just received a letter from 
 Mr. Johnson, the author, inclosing us another lyrical perform 
 ance, which in many features even surpasses the originality and 
 spirit of the former effort. Certainly the least that can be said
 
 PREFACE 
 
 of it is that it stands a thorough proof of our first assertion, that 
 the author, though by no means a man of learning and profound 
 literary attainments, is none the less a true poet and an artist. 
 The letter, accompanying this later amaranth of blooming wild- 
 wood verse, we publish in its entirety, assured that Mr. John 
 son's many admirers will be charmed, as we have been, at the 
 delicious glimpse he gives us of his inspiration, modes of study, 
 home-life, and surroundings: 
 
 " To the Editer of the Indanoplus Jurnal: 
 
 " Respected Sir The paper is here, markin' the old swim- 
 min'-hole, my poetry which you seem to like so well. I joy to 
 see it in print, and I thank you, hart and voice, fer speakin' of 
 its merrits in the way in which you do. I am glad you thought 
 it was real poetry, as you said in your artikle. But I make 
 bold to ast you what was your idy in sayin' I had orient of told 
 you it went to the tune I spoke of in my last. I felt highly 
 flatered tel I got that fur. Was it because you don't know the 
 tune refered to in the letter ? Er wasent some words spelt 
 right er not ? Still ef you hadent of said somepin' aginst it Ide 
 of thought you was makin' fun. As I said before I well know 
 my own unedjucation, but I don't think that is any reason the 
 feelin's of the soul is stunted in theyr growth however. ' Juge 
 not less ye be juged,' says The Good Book, and so say I, ef I 
 thought j'ou was makin' fun of the lines that I wrote and which 
 you done me the onner to have printed off in sich fine style that
 
 PREFACE 
 
 I have read it over and over again in the paper j r ou sent, and I 
 would like to have about three more ef you can spare the same 
 and state by mail what they will come at. All nature was in 
 tune day before yisterday when your paper come to hand. It 
 had ben a-raining hard fer some days, but that morning opened 
 up as clear as a whissel. No clouds was in the sky, and the air 
 was bammy with the warm sunshine and the wet smell of the 
 earth and the locus blossoms and the flowrs and pennyroil and 
 boneset. I got up, the first one about the place, and went forth 
 to the plesant fields. I fed the stock with lavish hand and 
 wortered them in merry glee, they was no bird in all the land 
 no happier than me. I have jest wrote a verse of poetry in this 
 letter; see ef you can find it. I also send you a whole poem 
 which was wrote off the very day your paper come. I started it 
 in the morning I have so feebly tride to pictur' to you and 
 wound her up by suppertime, besides doin' a fare day's work 
 around the place. 
 
 " Ef you print this one I think you will like it better than the 
 other. This ain't a sad poem like the other was, but you will, 
 find it full of careful thought. I pride myself on that. I also 
 send you 30 cents in stamps fer you to take your pay out of fer 
 the other papers I said, and also fer three more with this in it ef 
 you have it printed and oblige. Ef you don't print this poem, 
 keep the stamps and send me three more papers with the other
 
 PREFACE 
 
 one in makin' the sum totul of six (6) papers altogether in full. 
 
 Ever your true friend, 
 
 BENJ. F.JOHNSON. 
 
 "N. B. The tune of this one is 'The Bold Privateer.'" 
 
 Here followed the poem, "Thoughts Fer The Dis- 
 curaged Farmer " ; and here, too, fittingly ends any 
 comment but that which would appear trivial and 
 gratuitous. 
 
 Simply, in briefest conclusion, the hale, sound, artless, 
 lovable character of Benj. F. Johnson remains, in the 
 writer's mind, as from the first, far less a fiction than a 
 living, breathing, vigorous reality. So strong, indeed, 
 has his personality been made manifest, that many times, 
 in visionary argument with the sturdy old myth over cer 
 tain changes from the original forms of his productions, 
 he has so incontinently beaten down all suggestions as to 
 a less incongruous association of thoughts and words, 
 together with protests against his many violations of 
 poetic method, harmony, and grace, that nothing was 
 left the writer but to submit to what has always seemed 
 and in truth still seems a superior wisdom of dicta 
 tion. J. W. R. 
 
 Indianapolis , July, 1891.
 
 SALUTATION 
 TO BENJ. F.JOHNSON 
 
 J* 
 THE OLD MAN 
 
 Lo! steadfast and serene. 
 In patient pause between 
 The seen and the unseen, 
 
 What gentle zephyrs fan 
 Your silken silver hair, 
 And what diviner air 
 Breathes round you like a prayer, 
 Old Man? 
 
 Can you, in nearer view 
 Of Glory, pierce the blue 
 Of happy Heaven through; 
 
 And, listening mutely, can 
 Your senses, dull to us, 
 Hear Angel-voices thus, 
 In chorus glorious 
 Old Man? 
 
 In your reposeful gaze 
 The dusk of Autumn days 
 Is blent with April haze, 
 As when of old began 
 The bursting of the bud 
 Of rosy babyhood 
 When all the world was good, 
 Old Man.
 
 SALUTATION 
 
 And yet I find a sly 
 Little twinkle in your eye; 
 And your whisperingly shy 
 
 Little laugh is simply an 
 Internal shout of glee 
 That betrays the fallacy 
 You 1 d perpetrate on me, 
 Old Man! 
 
 So just put up the frown 
 
 That your brows are pulling down! 
 
 Why, the fleetest boy in town, 
 
 As he bared his feet and ran, 
 Could read with half a glance 
 And of keen rebuke, perchance 
 Your secret countenance, 
 Old Man! 
 
 Now, honestly, confess: 
 Is an old man any less 
 Than the little child we bless 
 
 And caress when we can? 
 Isn't age but just a place 
 Where you mask the childish face 
 To preserve its inner grace, 
 Old Man? 
 
 Hasn't age a truant day, 
 Just as that you went astray 
 In the wayward, restless way, 
 
 When, brown with dust and tan, 
 Your roguish face essayed, 
 In solemn masquerade, 
 To hide the smile it made 
 Old Man?
 
 SALUTATION 
 
 Now, fair, and square, and true. 
 Don't your old soul tremble through. 
 As in youth it used to do 
 
 When it brimmed and overran 
 With the strange, enchanted sights, 
 And the splendors and delights 
 Of the old "Arabian Nights," 
 Old Man? 
 
 When, haply, you have fared 
 Where glad Aladdin shared 
 His lamp with you, and dared 
 
 The A/rite and his clan; 
 And, with him, clambered through 
 The trees where jewels grew 
 And filled your pockets, too, 
 Old Man? 
 
 Or, with Sinbad, at sea 
 
 And in veracity 
 
 Who has sinned as bad as he, 
 
 Or would, or will, or can? 
 Have you listened to his lies, 
 With open mouth and eyes, 
 And learned his art likewise, 
 Old Man? 
 
 And you need not deny 
 
 That your eyes were wet as dry, 
 
 JfpeiHi.nor nmiels nn the \/.vf 
 
 Reading novels on the sly! 
 
 And review them, if you can, 
 And the same warm tears will fall- 
 Only faster, that is all 
 Over Little Nell and Paul, 
 Old Man/
 
 SALUTATION 
 
 O, you were a lucky lad 
 Just as good as you were bad! 
 And the host of friends you had 
 
 Charley, Tom, and Dick, and Dan; 
 And the old School- Teacher, too t 
 Though he often censured you; 
 And the girls in pink and blue, 
 Old Man. 
 
 And as often you have leant, 
 In boyish sentiment, 
 To kiss the letter sent 
 
 By Nelly, Belle, or Nan 
 Wherein the rose^s hue 
 Was red, the violet blue 
 And sugar sweet and you, 
 Old Man, 
 
 So, to-day, as lives the bloom, 
 And the sweetness, and perfume 
 Of the blossoms, I assume, 
 
 On the same mysterious plan 
 The master's love assures, 
 That the self-same boy endures 
 In that hale old heart ofyours t 
 Old Man.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE, AND 'LEVEN MORE 
 POEMS 
 
 The Delights of our Childhood is soon Passed Away . ; 2' 
 
 THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE 3 
 
 THOUGHTS FER THE DISCUEAGED FARMER 6 
 
 A SUMMER'S DAY 9 
 
 A HYMB OP FAITH 13 
 
 WORTERMELON TlME 16 
 
 MY PHILOSOPY 20 
 
 WHEN THE FROST is ON THE PTJNKIN 23 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT ... 26 
 
 THE MULBERRY TREE 29 
 
 To MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN 31 
 
 MY FIDDLE 36 
 
 THE CLOVER 39 
 
 NEGHBORLY POEMS 
 
 ON FRIENDSHIP, GRIEF AND FARM-LIFE 
 
 Us Farmers in the Country, as the Seasons go and Come . 42 
 
 ERASMUS WILSON 43 
 
 MY RUTHERS 48 
 
 ON A DEAD BABE 51 
 
 A OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG 52 
 
 " COON-DOG WESS " 55 
 
 PERFESSER JOHN CLARK RIDPATH , 62
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS 66 
 
 " MYLO JONES'S WIPE " 68 
 
 ON A SPLENDUD MATCH 71 
 
 OLD JOHN CLEVENGER ON BUCKEYES 72 
 
 THE Hoss . .' -.- " . ' . * 73 
 
 EZRA HOUSE 82 
 
 A PEN-PICTUR' 86 
 
 WET-WEATHER TALK 90 
 
 THOUGHTS ON A PORE JOKE 93 
 
 A MORTUL PRAYER 94 
 
 THE FIRST BLUEBIRD 96 
 
 EVAGENE BAKER 97 
 
 ON ANY ORDENARY MAN 100 
 
 TOWN AND COUNTRY 101 
 
 LINES WRIT PER ISAAC BRADWELL 103 
 
 DECORATION DAY ON THE PLACE 104 
 
 THE TREE-TOAD 107 
 
 THE ROSSVILLE LECTUR' COURSE 109 
 
 WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES .... 112 
 
 How IT HAPPENED 114 
 
 A DOS'T o' BLUES . . 117 
 
 THE OLD HOME BY THE MILL 119 
 
 THE WAY IT Wuz 121 
 
 PAP'S OLD SAYIN' 125 
 
 ROMANCIN' 128 
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 133 
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE . . . . ..: 195 
 
 Originally contributed to THE FORUM reprinted here 
 by permission.
 
 "THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE 
 
 AND 
 
 'LEVEN MORE POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 BENJ. F. JOHNSON, OF BOONE
 
 The delights of our childhood is soon passed away, 
 
 And our gloryus youth it departs, 
 Andyit, dead and hurried, they's blossoms of May 
 
 Ore theyr medderland graves in our harts. 
 So, friends of my bare-footed days on thefatm, 
 
 Whether truant in city er not, 
 God prosper you same as He 's prosperiri 1 me, 
 
 Whilse your past haint despised erf ergot. 
 
 Oh! they's nothing at morn, that's as grand unto me 
 
 As the glorys ofNachursofare, 
 With the Spring in the breeze, and the bloom in the trees, 
 
 And the hum of the bees ev'rywhare! 
 The green in the woods, and the birds in the boughs, 
 
 And the dew spangled over the fields; 
 And the bah of the sheep and the bawl of the cows 
 
 And the call from the house to your meals! 
 
 Then ho! feryour brekfast! and ho! fer the toil 
 
 That waiteth alike man and beast! 
 Oh! its soon with my team I'll be turnin' 1 up soil, 
 
 Whilse the sun shoulders up in the East 
 Ore the tops of the ellums and beeches and oaks, 
 
 To smile his godspeed on the plow, 
 And the furry and seed, and the Man in his need, 
 
 And the joy of the swet of his brow!
 
 THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE 
 
 OH ! the old swimmin'-hole ! whare the crick so still and 
 
 deep 
 
 Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep, 
 And the gurgle of the worte.r round the drift jest below 
 Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to 
 
 know 
 
 Before we could remember anything but the eyes 
 Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise ; 
 But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle, 
 And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole. 
 
 Oh ! the old swimmin'-hole ! In the happy days of yore, 
 When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore, 
 Oh ! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide 
 That gazed back at me so gay and glorified, 
 It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress 
 My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness. 
 
 3
 
 THE OLD SWIMMIN'-HOLE 
 
 But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck 
 
 his toll 
 From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole. 
 
 Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days 
 When the hum-drum of school made so many run-a 
 way s, 
 
 How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane, 
 Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane 
 You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole 
 They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole. 
 But the lost joys is past ! Let your tears in sorrow roll 
 Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole. 
 
 Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall, 
 And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all ; 
 And it mottled the worter with amber and gold 
 Tel the glad lillies rocked in the ripples that rolled ; 
 And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by 
 Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky, 
 Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle 
 As it cut acrost some orchurd to'rds the old swimmin'- 
 hole. 
 
 4
 
 THE OLD SWIMMIN -HOLE 
 
 Oh ! the old swimmin'-hole ! When I last saw the place, 
 The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face ; 
 The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot 
 Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and f ergot. 
 And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be 
 But never again will theyr shade shelter me ! 
 And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul, 
 And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.
 
 THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED 
 FARMER 
 
 THE summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' 
 
 trees; 
 
 And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees, 
 And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on 
 
 the sly, 
 
 Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly. 
 The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his 
 
 wings 
 
 And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings ; 
 And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz, 
 And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is. 
 
 You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the 
 
 plow 
 Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not 
 
 a-carin' how; 
 
 6
 
 THOUGHTS PER THE DISCURAGED FARMER 
 
 So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the 
 
 wing 
 
 But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing: 
 And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy 
 
 rest, 
 
 She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest; 
 And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' 
 
 right, 
 Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite! 
 
 They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day, 
 And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away, 
 And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is 
 
 greener still ; 
 
 It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will. 
 Some says the crops is ruined, and the "corn's drownded 
 
 out, 
 And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without 
 
 doubt ; 
 
 But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet, 
 Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!
 
 Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and 
 
 dry 
 
 Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky ? 
 Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way, 
 Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day ? 
 Is the chipmuck's health a-f ailin' ? Does he walk, er 
 
 does he run ? 
 Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like 
 
 they've allus done? 
 Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er 
 
 voice ? 
 Ort a mortul be complanin' when dumb animals rejoice ? 
 
 Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot; 
 The June is here this mornin', and the sun is shining hot. 
 Oh ! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day, 
 Any banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away ! 
 Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide, 
 Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied ; 
 Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew, 
 And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me 
 and you. 
 
 8
 
 A SUMMER'S DAY 
 
 THE Summer's put the idy in 
 
 My head that I'm a boy again; 
 
 And all around's so bright and gay 
 I want to put my team away, 
 And jest git out whare I can lay 
 And soak my hide full of the day ! 
 
 But work is work, and must be done 
 
 Yit, as I work, I have my fun, 
 
 Jest fancyin' these furries here 
 
 Is childhood's paths onc't more so dear: 
 
 And as I walk through medder-lands, 
 And country lanes, and swampy trails 
 
 Whare long bullrushes bresh my hands ; 
 And, tilted on the ridered rails 
 
 Of deadnin' fences, "Old Bob White" 
 Whissels his name in high delight, 
 
 And whirrs away. I wunder still, 
 
 Whichever way a boy's feet will 
 
 9
 
 A SUMMER S DAY 
 
 Whare trees has fell, with tangled tops 
 
 Whare dead leaves shakes, I stop fer breth, 
 Heerin' the acorn as it drops 
 
 H'istin' my chin up still as deth. 
 And watchin' clos't, with upturned eyes, 
 The tree where Mr. Squirrel tries 
 To hide hisse'f above the limb, 
 But lets his own tale tell on him. 
 I wunder on in deeper glooms 
 
 Git hungry, hearin' female cries 
 From old farm-houses, whare perfumes 
 
 Of harvest dinners seems to rise 
 And ta'nt a feller, hart and brane, 
 With memories he can't explane. 
 
 I wunder through the underbresh, 
 
 Whare pig-tracks, pintin' to'rds the crick, 
 
 Is picked and printed in the fresh 
 
 Black bottom-lands, like wimmern pick 
 
 Theyr pie-crusts with a fork, some way, 
 
 When bakin' fer camp-meetin' day. 
 
 10
 
 A SUMMER'S DAY 
 
 I wunder on and on and on, 
 
 Tel my gray hair and beard is gone, 
 
 And ev'ry wrinkle on my brow 
 
 Is rubbed clean out and shaddered now 
 
 With curls as brown and fare and fine 
 
 As tenderls of the wild grape-vine 
 
 That ust to climb the highest tree 
 
 To keep the ripest ones fer me. 
 
 I wunder still, and here I am 
 
 Wadin' the ford below the dam 
 
 The worter chucklin' round my knee 
 
 At hornet-welt and bramble-scratch, 
 And me a-slippin' 'crost to see 
 
 Ef Tyner's plums is ripe, and size 
 The old man's wortermelon-patch, 
 
 With juicy mouth and drouthy eyes. 
 Then, after sich a day of mirth 
 And happiness as worlds is wurth 
 
 So tired that heaven seems nigh about,- 
 The sweetest tiredness on earth 
 
 Is to git home and flatten out 
 So tired you can't lay flat enugh, 
 ii
 
 A SUMMER'S DAY 
 
 And sorto' wish that you could spred 
 Out like molasses on the bed, 
 And jest drip off the aidges in 
 The dreams that never comes again. 
 
 12
 
 A HYMB OF FAITH 
 
 O, THOU that doth all things devise 
 
 And fashon fer the best, 
 He'p us who sees with mortul eyes 
 
 To overlook the rest. 
 
 They's times, of course, we grope in doubt, 
 
 And in afflictions sore ; 
 So knock the louder, Lord, without, 
 
 And we'll unlock the door. 
 
 Make us to feel, when times looks bad 
 
 And tears in pitty melts, 
 Thou wast the only he'p we had 
 
 When they was nothin' else. 
 
 Death comes alike to ev'ry man 
 That ever was borned on earth ; 
 
 Then let us do the best we can 
 To live fer all life's wurth. 
 '3
 
 A HYMB OF FAITH 
 
 Ef storms and tempusts dred to see 
 Makes black the heavens ore, 
 
 They done the same in Galilee 
 Two thousand years before. 
 
 But after all, the golden sun 
 Poured out its floods on them 
 
 That watched and waited fer the One 
 Then borned in Bethlyham. 
 
 Also, the star of holy writ 
 Made noonday of the night, 
 
 Whilse other stars that looked at it 
 Was envious with delight. 
 
 The sages then in wurship bowed, 
 
 From ev'ry clime so fare ; 
 O, sinner, think of that glad crowd 
 
 That congergated thare ! 
 
 They was content to fall in ranks 
 With One that knowed the way 
 
 From good old Jurden's stormy banks 
 Clean up to Jedgmunt Day. 
 H
 
 A HYMB OF FAITH 
 
 No matter, then, how all is mixed 
 
 In our near-sighted eyes, 
 All things is fer the best, and fixed 
 
 Out straight in Paradise. 
 
 Then take things as God sends 'em here, 
 
 And, ef we live er die, 
 Be more and more contenteder, 
 
 Without a-astin' why. 
 
 O, Thou that doth all things devise 
 
 And fashon fer the best, 
 He'p us who sees with mortul eyes 
 
 To overlook the rest.
 
 WORTERMELON TIME 
 
 OLD wortermelon time is a-comin' round again, 
 And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me, 
 
 Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin 
 Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see. 
 
 Oh! it's in the sandy soil wortermelons does the best, 
 And it's thare they'll lay and waller in the sunshine 
 
 and the dew 
 Tel they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyr 
 
 breast ; 
 
 And you bet I ain't a-findin' any fault with them ; air 
 you? 
 
 They ain't no better thing in the vegetable line ; 
 
 And they don't need much 'tendin', as ev'ry farmer 
 
 knows ; 
 And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the 
 
 vine, 
 
 I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows. 
 16
 
 WORTERMELON TIME 
 
 It's some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red. 
 And it's some says "The Little Cal if orny" is the best; 
 
 But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head, 
 Is the old " Edingburg Mounting-sprout," of the west. 
 
 Youdon'twant no punkins nigh yourwortermelonvines 
 'Cause, some-way-another, they'll spile your melons, 
 shore ; 
 
 I've seed 'em taste like punkins, from the core totherines, 
 Which may be a fact you have heerd of before. 
 
 But your melons that's raised right and 'tended to with 
 
 care, 
 You can walk around amongst 'em with a parent's 
 
 pride and joy, 
 
 And thump 'em on the heads with as fatherly a air 
 As ef each one of them was your little girl er boy. 
 
 I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin' sound 
 
 When you split one down the back and jolt the halves 
 in two, 
 
 And the friends you love the best is gethered all around 
 And you says unto your sweethart, "Oh, here's the 
 
 core fer you!" 
 
 2 17
 
 WORTERMELON TIME 
 
 And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 'em all, 
 Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delight 
 
 As one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls, 
 And they holler fer some more, with unquenched 
 appetite. 
 
 Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see 'em eat 
 A slice of wortermelon's like a frenchharp in theyr 
 
 hands, 
 
 I 
 And when they "saw" it through theyr mouth sich 
 
 music can't be beat 
 
 'Cause it's music both the sperit and the stummick 
 understands. 
 
 Oh, they's more in wortermelons than the purty-colored 
 
 meat, 
 And the overflowin' sweetness of the worter squshed 
 
 betwixt 
 
 The up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth, 
 And it's the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood 
 mixed. 
 
 18
 
 WORTERMELON TIME 
 
 Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away 
 To the summertime of youth ; and again I see the dawn, 
 
 And the fadin' afternoon of the long summer day, 
 And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the night a'comin' 
 on. 
 
 And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves 
 
 and trees, 
 And the stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silver 
 
 mice, 
 And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and 
 
 knees, 
 
 And the new-moon hangin' ore us like a yeller-cored 
 slice. 
 
 Oh ! it's wortermelon time is a-comin' round again, 
 And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me, 
 
 Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin 
 Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly 
 see.
 
 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 ! 
 20
 
 MY PHILOSOFY 
 
 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 ; 
 
 21
 
 MY PHILOSOFY 
 
 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. 
 
 22
 
 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 peace 
 ful 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 
 
 2 3
 
 WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN 
 
 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 bosses 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 ! 
 
 24
 
 WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN 
 
 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-f oiks 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 ASH- 
 CRAFT 
 
 "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 twi 
 light; 
 
 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 foot 
 prints' 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. 
 
 26
 
 ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT 
 
 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. 
 
 27
 
 ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE MAHALA ASHCRAFT 
 
 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 twi 
 light, 
 
 And the katydids and crickets hollers " Haly! " all the 
 night. 
 
 28
 
 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 wetrommptit 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 f oiler them off to the mulberry tree. 
 
 29
 
 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 wunderedhere 
 
 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'ry- 
 whare. 
 
 3 1
 
 TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN 
 
 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' " Mar thy 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!" 
 
 32
 
 TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN 
 
 At the last Old Settlers' Meetin' we went j'intly, you 
 
 and me 
 
 Your bosses and my wagon, as you wanted it to be ; 
 And sence I can remember, from the time we've negh- 
 
 bored here, 
 In all sich friendly actions you have double-done your 
 
 sheer. 
 
 It was better than the meetin', too, that p-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! 
 
 3 33
 
 TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN 
 
 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 Counter- 
 fitters' 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. 
 
 34
 
 TO MY OLD FRIEND, WILLIAM LEACHMAN 
 
 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 dim- 
 
 onstrate ? 
 
 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, 
 Per the name of William Leachman and True Man 
 hood's jest the same ! 
 
 35
 
 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 " corda- 
 
 roy"; 
 " The Old Fat Gal," and " Rye-straw," and "My Sail- 
 
 yor's on the Sea," 
 Is the old cowtillions /"saw" when the ch'ice is left 
 
 to me; 
 
 36
 
 MY FIDDLE 
 
 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! 
 
 37
 
 MY FIDDLE 
 
 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. 
 
 39
 
 THE CLOVER 
 
 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. 
 
 40
 
 NEGHBORLY POEMS 
 ON FRIENDSHIP, GRIEF AND FARM-LIFE 
 
 BY 
 
 BENJ. F. JOHNSON, OF BOONE
 
 Us fanners in the country, as the seasons go and come, 
 
 Is purty much like other folks, we' 1 re apt to grumble some! 
 
 The Springes too backward fer us, er too forward 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 Pd like and what you'd like is plane enugh to see: 
 If 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! 
 Andyit Pd ruther, after all considem other chores 
 /' 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. 
 
 42
 
 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 boss-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!" 
 43
 
 ERASMUS WILSON 
 
 My Rickottection, 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 jedgemunfs done, the day 
 
 I've met 'em 'fore I got away, 
 
 'At Well, 'Ras Wilson, let me grip 
 
 Tour 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, / can't stand hitched here 
 44
 
 ERASMUS WILSON 
 
 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! 
 
 45
 
 ERASMUS WILSON 
 
 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 ivhare ? on tree 
 Er vine ? Who's best boy-memory! 
 And wasn't \\. 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 
 46
 
 ERASMUS WILSON 
 
 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! 
 47
 
 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 : 
 48
 
 MY KUTHERS 
 
 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. 
 
 49
 
 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.
 
 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?" 
 
 52
 
 A OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG 
 
 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! 
 
 53
 
 A OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG 
 
 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?' 
 
 54
 
 "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! 
 
 55
 
 " COON-DOG WESS " 
 
 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 I 
 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 " 
 
 " Coon-dog Wess's " holts was hounds 
 And coon-huntiri' ; 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 
 
 Teller 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" I 
 
 57
 
 " COON-DOG WESS 
 
 'Tended to his own affairs 
 
 Stric'ly ; made no brags, and yit 
 You could see 'at them hounds' cares 
 
 'Feared like his, and he'd a-fit 
 Fer 'em, same as wife er child! 
 Them facts made folks rickonciled, 
 
 Sorto' , f er 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 " !
 
 " COON-DOG WESS " 
 
 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. 
 
 59
 
 " COON-DOG WESS " 
 
 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 sorlo' 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 ! 
 
 60
 
 " COON-DOG WESS " 
 
 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 missed 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" 1 
 
 61
 
 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 Count}', 
 this State, whare John was horned 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 itjirstj 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 ! 
 
 62
 
 LINES TO PERFESSER JOHN CLARK RIDPATH 
 
 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 turrii 
 
 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' PlutarkSlives all night by that old fi-er-place. 
 Yit, 'bout them times, the blackboard, onc't, had on 
 
 it, I flfe-clare, 
 "Yours truly, J. Clark Ridpath." And the teacher 
 
 left it thare ! 
 
 63
 
 LINES TO PERFESSER JOHN CLARK RIDPATH 
 
 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 oiyou at College! But you went thare. How 
 
 you paid 
 Your way nobody's astin' but you worked, you hain't 
 
 afraid, 
 
 64
 
 LINES TO PERFESSER JOHN CLARK RIDPATH 
 
 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-Vike 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'rywkare 
 Not jibblets of it, nuther, but all John Clark Rid- 
 
 path, set 
 Plum at the dashboard of the whole-endurin' Alf abet !
 
 A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS 
 
 OH ! tell me a tale of the airly days 
 
 Of the times as they ust to be ; 
 Filler of Fi-er " and " Shakspeare's Plays" 
 
 Is a' most too deep f er me ! 
 I want plane facts, and I want planft 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 f er use 1 
 66
 
 A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS 
 
 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. 
 
 6 7
 
 "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 nothiri 1 else, I guess 1 
 
 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 I 
 Yit the wimmern-folks tells you 
 She's perfection. Yes they do! 
 68
 
 "MYLO JONES'S WIFE" 
 
 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 bzitchern, 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 morel 
 
 Yit she'd keep things clean ef they 
 
 Made her scrub tel Jedgmunt Day 1 
 
 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 JONES'S WIFE " 
 
 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 jestYz'y '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 
 ?u<:side the residence.] 
 
 HE was warned against the tvomern 
 She was warned aginst the man. 
 
 And ef that won't make a weddin', 
 W'y, they's nothin' else that can! 
 
 7
 
 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: 
 72
 
 OLD JOHN CLEVENGER ON BUCKEYES 
 
 " '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-minder it, 
 And wove round it all, I jingl 
 
 73
 
 OLD JOHN CLEVENGER ON BUCKEYES 
 
 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, /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 ' 
 
 74
 
 OLD JOHN CLEVENGER ON BUCKEYES 
 
 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 I 
 '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 I 
 '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 
 
 75
 
 OLD JOHN CLEVENGER OX BUCKEYES 
 
 'Twouldn't take me by supprise, 
 Someday, ef we et buckeyes I 
 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 
 76
 
 OLD JOHN CLEVENGER ON BUCKEYES 
 
 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 I 
 
 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^ore. - 
 
 Hain't no case o' rhumatiz 
 
 Kin subsist whare buckeyes is!'* 
 
 77
 
 THE HOSS 
 
 THE boss 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 boss "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 boss-sense!" 
 
 The boss 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 ! 
 7 8
 
 THE HOSS 
 
 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 ! 
 
 79
 
 THE HOSS 
 
 I claim no boss 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! 
 80
 
 THE HOSS 
 
 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 
 
 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. 
 
 Si
 
 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 
 Wilier 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. 
 
 82
 
 EZRA HOUSE 
 
 " 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 galliant and gay, 
 Said-" Fare you well, my true love ! " and went march 
 ing away.
 
 EZRA HOUSE 
 
 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, 
 S u ot 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. 
 
 84
 
 EZRA HOUSE 
 
 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.
 
 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' nothiri 1 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 Sundays 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! 
 86
 
 A PEN-PICTUR' OF A CERTIN FRIVVOLUS OLD MAN 
 
 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 
 87
 
 A PEN-PICTUR OF A CERTIN FRIVVOLUS OLD MAN 
 
 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 
 4 Throw that nasty thing away!' 
 
 88
 
 A PEN-PICTUR' OF A CERTIN FRIVVOLUS OLD MAN 
 
 'Pear-like nothin' sacerd's broke, 
 Goin' bare-foot ef I chuse ! 
 
 I have fiddled / and dug bait 
 And tuent jlshin' ; 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 ; 
 90
 
 WET-WEATHER TALK 
 
 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' 11 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. 
 
 9 1
 
 WET-WEATHER TALK 
 
 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. 
 
 9 3
 
 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 1 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 ! 
 
 93
 
 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. 
 94
 
 A MORTUL PRAYER 
 
 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. 
 
 95
 
 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 
 F To wake up when, I jing! 
 I seen the sun shine out and heerd 
 
 The first bluebird of Spring I 
 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 f er 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. 
 
 7 97
 
 EVAGENE BAKER 
 
 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!
 
 EVAGENE BAKER 
 
 What's the use to pray for her? 
 
 She don't need no prayin' fer! 
 Needed, all her life, more 
 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! 
 
 99
 
 ON ANY ORDEN ARY 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. 
 
 100
 
 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 orient 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 I 
 101
 
 TOWN AND COUNTRY 
 
 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 1 
 1 02
 
 LINES FER ISAAC BRADWELL, OF INDAN- 
 OPLIS, 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! 
 
 103
 
 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 attus 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. 
 
 104
 
 DECORATION DAY ON THE PLACE 
 
 With roses! roses! roses! ev'rybody 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,
 
 DECORATION DAY ON THE PLACE 
 
 And the flag he died fer, smilin' and a-ripplm' m the 
 
 breeze 
 Above his grave and over that, the robin in the trees! 
 
 Andyit 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. 
 
 106
 
 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 dumb 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! 
 107
 
 THE TREE-TOAD 
 
 " 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' II rain!' " 
 
 108
 
 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 ! eft 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" 
 
 109
 
 THE ROSSVILLE LECTUR COURSE 
 
 "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" 
 
 no
 
 THE ROSSVILLE LECTUR.' COURSE 
 
 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 Stvingse'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." 
 
 in
 
 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 ; 
 
 112
 
 WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES 
 
 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 ! 
 
 8 113
 
 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 thinkirf of her both her parunts dead and 
 
 gone! 
 
 I got to thinking of her ; and a-wundern what she done 
 That all her sisters kep' a-gittin' married, one by one, 
 
 114
 
 HOW IT HAPPENED 
 
 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 thinkirf 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
 
 HOW IT HAPPENED 
 
 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 tkinkin' 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 
 
 tkata-way. 
 
 116
 
 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 f ambly 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 ! 
 117
 
 A DOS T O BLUES 
 
 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 1 
 Most o' his relatives, sence then, 
 
 Has eether give up, er quit, 
 Er jest died off ; but I understand 
 
 lie's the same old color yit ! 
 
 118
 
 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" any 
 thing ! 
 
 She's kindo' age\\\\ 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. 
 
 119
 
 THE OLD HOME BY THE MILL 
 
 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 f 
 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 gree grow? 
 
 over me! 
 
 120
 
 THE WAY IT WUZ 
 
 LAS' July and, I persume, 
 
 'Bout as hot 
 As the old Gran' -Jury room 
 
 Whare they sot! 
 
 Fight 'twixt Mike and Dock McGreff. . . . 
 'Pears to me jest like as ef 
 
 I'd a-dremp' the whole blame thing 
 
 Allus ha'nts me roun' the gizzard 
 When they's nightmares on the wing 
 
 And a feller's blood's jes' friz! 
 Seed the row from A to Izzard 
 'Cause I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em 
 As me and you is 1 
 
 Tell you the way it wuz 
 
 And I don't 'want to see, 
 Like some fellers does, 
 
 When they's goern to be 
 Any kind o' fuss 
 On'y makes a rumpus wuss 
 
 121
 
 THE WAY IT WUZ 
 
 Fer to interfere 
 
 When theyr dander's riz 
 Might as lif to cheer I 
 But I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'era 
 
 As me and you is ! 
 
 I wuz kindo' strayin* 
 
 Past the blame saloon 
 Heerd some fiddler playin* 1 
 
 That old "Hee-cup tune!" 
 I'd stopped-Yikt, you know, 
 Fer a minit er so, 
 
 And wuz jest about 
 Settin' down, when Jeemses-whizz! 
 
 Whole durn winder-sash fell out! 
 And thare laid Dock McGreff, and Mike 
 A-straddlin' him, all bloody-like, 
 
 And both a-gittin' down to biz! 
 And I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em 
 As me and you is! 
 
 122
 
 THE WAY IT WUZ 
 
 I wuz the on'y man aroun' 
 (Burn old-fogey town ! 
 'Feared more like, to me, 
 Sund'y than Saturd'y!) 
 Dog come 'crost the road 
 And tuk a smell 
 
 And putt right back: 
 Mishler driv by 'ith a load 
 
 O' cantalo'pes he couldn't sell 
 
 Too mad, 'i jack! 
 To even ast 
 
 What wuz up, as he went past ! 
 Weather most outrageous hot! 
 
 Fairly hear it sizz 
 
 Roun' Dock and Mike tel Dock he shot,- 
 And Mike he slacked that grip o' his 
 And fell, all spraddled out. Dock riz 
 'Bout half up, a spittin' red, 
 And shuck his head. . . . 
 And I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em 
 As me and you is ! 
 
 123
 
 THE WAY IT WUZ 
 
 And Dock he says, 
 
 A-whisperin'-like, 
 "It hain't no use 
 
 A-tryin' ! Mike 
 
 He's jest ripped my daylights loose I- 
 Git that blame-don fiddler to 
 Let up, and come out here You 
 Got some burryin' to do, 
 
 Mike makes one, and, I expects, 
 'Bout ten seconds, I'll make two!" 
 
 And he drapped back, whare he'd riz, 
 'Crost Mike's body, black and blue, 
 
 Like a great big letter X ! 
 And I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em 
 As me and you is! 
 
 124
 
 PAP'S OLD SAYIN' 
 
 PAP had one old-fashioned sayin' 
 
 That I'll never 'quite fergit 
 And they's seven growed-up childern 
 
 Of us rickollects it yit! 
 Settin' round the dinner-table, 
 
 Talkin' 'bout our friends, perhaps, 
 Er abusin' of our neghbors, 
 
 I kin hear them words o' Pap's 
 "Shet up, and eat yer vittels!" 
 
 Pap he'd never argy with us, 
 
 Ner cut any subject short 
 Whilse we all kep' clear o' gossip, 
 
 And wuz actin' as we ort: 
 But ef we'd git out o' order 
 
 Like sometimes a fambly is, 
 Faultin' folks, er one another, 
 
 Then we'd hear that voice o' his 
 "Shet up, and eat yer vittels I" 
 
 I2 5
 
 PAP'S OLD SAYIN' 
 
 Wuz no hand hisse'f at talkin' 
 
 Never hadn't much to say, 
 Only, as I said, pervidin' 
 
 When we'd rile him thataway: 
 Then he'd allus lose his temper 
 
 Spite o' fate, and jerk his head 
 And slam down his caseknife vicious' 
 
 Whilse he glared around and said 
 " Shet up, and eat yer vittels! " 
 
 Mind last time 'at Pap was ailin' 
 
 With a misery in his side, 
 And had hobbled in the kitchen 
 
 Jest the day before he died, 
 Laury Jane she ups and tells him, 
 
 "Pap, you're pale as pale kin be 
 Hain't ye 'feard them-air cowcumbers 
 
 Hain't good fer ye ? " And says he, 
 "Shet up, and eat yer vittels!" 
 
 126
 
 PAP'S OLD SAYIN' 
 
 Well ! I've saw a-many a sorrow, 
 
 Forty year' , through thick and thin ; 
 I've got best, and I've got ivors'ted, 
 
 Time and time and time ag'in! 
 But I've met a-many a trouble 
 
 That I hain't run onto twice, 
 Haltin'-like and thinkin' over 
 
 Them-air words o' Pap's advice: 
 "Shet up, and eat yer vittels ! " 
 
 127
 
 ROMANCIN' 
 
 I' B'EN a-kindo' "musin'," as the feller says, and I'm 
 About o' the conclusion that they hain't no better time, 
 When you come to cipher on it, than the times we ust 
 
 to know 
 When we swore our first ' ' dog-gone-it ' ' sorto* solum- 
 
 like and low! 
 
 You git my idy, do you ? Little tads, you understand 
 Jest a-wishin' thue and thue you that you on'y wuz a 
 
 man. 
 
 Yit here I am, this minit, even sixty, to a day, 
 And fergettin' all that's in it, wishin' jest the other way ! 
 
 I hain't no hand to lectur' on the times, er demonstrate 
 Whare the trouble is, er hector and domineer with 
 
 Fate, 
 
 But when I git so flurried, and so pestered-like and blue, 
 And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what I 
 
 do! 
 
 128
 
 ROMANCIN 
 
 I jest gee-haw the bosses, and onhook the swingle-tree, 
 Whare the hazel-bushes tosses down theyr shadders 
 
 over me ; 
 And I draw my plug o' navy, and I climb the fence, 
 
 and set 
 Jest a-thinkin' here, i gravy! tel my eyes is wringin'- 
 
 wet! 
 
 Tho' I still kin see the trouble o' thepresunt, I kin see 
 Kindo' like my sight wuz double all the things that 
 
 ust to be ; 
 
 And the flutter o' the robin and the teeter o' the wren 
 Sets the wilier-branches bobbin' " howdy-do " thum 
 
 Nvm to Then I 
 
 The deadnin' and the thicket's jest a-bilin' full of June, 
 Thum the rattle o' the cricket, to the yallar-hammer's 
 
 tune; 
 And the catbird in the bottom, and the sapsuck on the 
 
 snag. 
 Seems ef they can't od-rot 'em! jest do nothin' else 
 
 but brag ! 
 
 129
 
 ROMANCIN 
 
 They's music in the twitter of the bluebird and the jay, 
 And that sassy little critter jest z-peckiri* all the day ; 
 They's music in the "flicker," and they's music in the 
 
 thrush, 
 And they's music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in the 
 
 brush ! 
 
 They's music all around me ! And I go back, in a 
 
 dream 
 Sweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep, and in the 
 
 stream 
 That ust to split the medder whare the dandylions 
 
 growed, 
 I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down the 
 
 road. 
 
 Then's when I' b'en a-fishin' ! And they's other fellers, 
 
 too, 
 With theyr hick'ry-poles a-swishin' out behind 'em; and 
 
 a few 
 
 130
 
 ROMANCIN 
 
 Little "shiners" on our stringers, with theyr tails tip- 
 
 toein' bloom, 
 As we dance 'em in our fingers all the happy jurney 
 
 home. 
 
 I kin see us, true to Natur', thum the time we started 
 
 out, 
 
 With a biscuit and a 'tater in our little "roundabout" ! 
 I kin see our lines a-tanglin', and our elbows in a jam, 
 And our naked legs a-danglin' thum the apern o' the 
 
 dam. 
 
 I kin see the honeysuckle climbin' up around the mill, 
 And kin hear the worter chuckle, and the wheel a-growl- 
 
 in' still ; 
 
 And thum the bank below it I kin steal the old canoe, 
 And jest git in and row it like the miller ust to do. 
 
 W'y, I git my fancy focussed on the past so mortul plane 
 I kin even smell the locus'-blossoms bloomin' in the lane ;
 
 ROMANCIN' 
 
 And I hear the cow-bells clinkin' sweeter tunes 'n 
 
 ' ' Money-musk ' ' 
 Fer the lightnin' bugs a-blinkin' and a-dancin' in the 
 
 dusk. 
 
 And when I've kep' on "musin'," as the feller says, 
 
 tel I'm 
 Firm-fixed in the conclusion that they hain't no better 
 
 time, 
 When you come to cipher on it, than the old times, I 
 
 de-clare 
 I kin wake and say "dog-gone-it! " jest as soft as any 
 
 prayer ! 
 
 13*
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 WILLIAM WILLIAMS his name was er so he said ; 
 Bill Williams they called him, and them 'at knowed him 
 best called him Bill Bills. 
 
 The first I seed o' Bills was about two weeks after he 
 got here. The Settlement wasn't nothin' but a baby in 
 them days, fer I mind 'at old Ezry Sturgiss had jist got 
 his saw and griss-mill a-goin', and Bills had come along 
 and claimed to know all about millin', and got a job 
 with him ; and millers in them times was wanted 
 worse'n congerssmen, and I reckon got better wages; 
 fer afore Ezry built, there wasn't a dust o' meal er flour 
 to be had short o' the White Water, better'n sixty mil'd 
 from here, the way we had to fetch it. And they used 
 to come to Ezry's fer their grindin' as fur as that; and 
 one feller I knowed to come from what used to be the 
 old South Fork, over eighty mil'd from here, and in the 
 wettest, rainyest weather; and mud! Law! 
 
 Well, this-here Bills was a-workin' fer Ezry at the 
 
 135
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 time part the time a-grindin', and part the time 
 a-lookin' after the sawin', and gittin' out timber and the 
 like. Bills was a queer-lookin' feller, shore ! About as 
 tall a build man as Tom Carter but of course you 
 don't know nothin' o' Tom Carter. A great big hulk 
 of a feller, Tom was ; and as fur back as Fifty-eight 
 used to make his brags that he could cut and putt up his 
 seven cord a day. 
 
 Well, what give Bills this queer look, as I was a-goin' 
 on to say, was, a great big ugly scar a-runnin 5 from the 
 corner o' one eye clean down his face and neck, and I 
 don't know how fur down his breast awful lookin' ; and 
 he never shaved, and there wasn't a hair a-growin' in that 
 scar, and it looked like a some kind o' pizen snake er 
 somepin' a-crawlin' in the grass and weeds. I never 
 seed sich a' out-and-out ornry-lookin' chap, and I'll 
 never fergit the first time I set eyes on him. 
 
 Steve and me Steve was my youngest brother; 
 Steve's be'n in Californy now fer, le' me see, well, 
 anyways, I rickon, over thirty year. Steve was a-driv- 
 in' the team at the time I allus let Steve drive ; 'peared 
 like Steve was made a-purpose fer bosses. The beat- 
 
 136
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 in'est hand with hosses 'at ever you did see and-I-know ! 
 W'y, a hoss, after he got kindo' used to Steve a-hand- 
 lin' of him, would do anything fer him ! And I've 
 knowed that boy to swap fer hosses 'at couldn't hardly 
 make a shadder ; and, afore you knowed it, Steve would 
 have 'em a-cavortin' around a-lookin' as peert and fat 
 and slick! 
 
 Well, we'd come over to Ezry's fer some grindin' 
 that day ; and Steve wanted to price some lumber fer a 
 house, intendin' to marry that Fall and would a-mar- 
 ried, I reckon, ef the girl hadn't a-died jist as she'd got 
 her weddin' clothes done and that set hard on Steve 
 fer a while. Yit he rallied, you know, as a youngster 
 will; but he never married, someway never married. 
 Reckon he never found no other woman he could love 
 well enough 'less it was well, no odds. The Good 
 Bein's jedge o' what's best fer each and all. 
 
 We lived then about eight mil'd from Ezry's, and it 
 tuck about a day to make the trip ; so you kin kindo' 
 git an idy o' how the roads was in them days. 
 
 Well, on the way over I noticed Steve was mighty 
 quiet-like but I didn't think nothin' of it, tel at last he 
 
 137
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 says, says he, " Ben, I want you to kindo' keep an eye 
 out fer Ezry's new hand " meanin' Bills. And then 
 I kindo' suspicioned somepin' o' nother was up betwixt 
 'em ; and shore enough there was, as I found out afore 
 the day was over. 
 
 I knowed 'at Bills was a mean sort of a man, from 
 what I'd heerd. His name was all over the neighbor 
 hood afore he'd be'n here two weeks. 
 
 In the first place, he come in a suspicious sorto' way: 
 Him and his wife, and a little baby on'y a few months 
 old, come through in a kivvered wagon with a fambly 
 a-goin' som'ers in The Illinoy ; and they stopped at the 
 mill, fer some meal er somepin', and Bills got to talkin' 
 with Ezry 'bout millin', and one thing o' nother, and 
 said he was expeerenced some 'bout a mill hisse'f, and 
 told Ezry ef he'd give him work he'd stop ; said his 
 wife and baby wasn't strong enough to stand trav'lin', 
 and ef Ezry'd give him work he was ready to lick into 
 it then and there ; said his woman could pay her board 
 by sewin' and the like, tel they got ahead a little ; and 
 then, ef he liked the neighberhood, he said he'd as lif 
 settle there as anywheres ; he was huntin' a home, he 
 
 138
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 said, and the outlook kindo' struck him, and his woman 
 railly needed rest, and wasn't strong enough to go much 
 furder. And old Ezry kindo' tuk pity on the feller; 
 and havin' house-room to spare, and railly in need of a 
 good hand at the mill, he said all right; and so the fel 
 ler stopped and the wagon druv ahead and left 'em ; 
 and they didn't have no things ner nothin' not even a 
 cyarpet-satchel, ner a stitch o' clothes, on'y what they 
 had on their backs. And I think it was the third er 
 fourth day after Bills stopped 'at he whirped Tomps 
 Burk, the bully o' here them days, tel you wouldn't 
 a-knowed him ! 
 
 Well, I'd heerd o' this, and the facts is I'd made up 
 my mind 'at Bills was a bad stick, and the place wasn't 
 none the better fer his bein' here. But, as I was a-goin' 
 on to say, as Steve and me driv up to the mill, I 
 ketched sight o' Bills the first thing, a-lookin' out o' 
 where some boards was knocked off, jist over the worter* 
 wheel ; and he knowed Steve I could see that by his 
 face; and he hollered somepin', too, but what it was I 
 couldn't jist make out, fer the noise o' the wheel ; but 
 he looked to me as ef he'd hollered somepin' mean 
 
 J 39
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 a-purpose so's Steve wouldn't hear it, and he'd have the 
 consolation o* knowin' 'at he'd called Steve some ornry 
 name 'thout givin' him a chance to take it up. Steve 
 was allus quiet-like, but ef you raised his dander onc't 
 and you could do that 'thout much trouble, callin' him 
 names er somepin', particular' anything 'bout his mother. 
 Steve loved his mother allus loved his mother, and 
 would fight fer her at the drap o' the hat. And he was 
 her favo-rzfe allus a-talkin' o' " her boy, Steven," as 
 she used to call him, and so proud of him, and so keer- 
 ful of him allus, when he'd be sick or anything; nuss 
 him like a baby, she would. 
 
 So when Bills hollered, Steve didn't pay no attention ; 
 and / said nothin', o' course, and didn't let on like I 
 noticed him. So we druv round to the south side and 
 hitched; and Steve 'lowed he'd better feed; so I left 
 him with the bosses and went into the mill. 
 
 They was jist a-stoppin' fer dinner. Most of 'em 
 brought ther dinners lived so fur away, you know. The 
 two Smith boys lived on what used to be the old War- 
 rick farm, five er six mild, anyhow, from where the mill 
 stood. Great stout fellers, they was; and little Jake, 
 
 140
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 the father of 'em, wasn't no man at all not much big- 
 ger'n you, I rickon. Le' me see, now: There was 
 Tomps Burk, Wade Elwood, and Joe and Ben Carter; 
 and Wesley Morris, John Coke wiry little cuss, he 
 was, afore he got his leg sawed off; and Ezry, and 
 Well, I don't jist mind <z//the boys 's a long time ago, 
 and I never was much of a hand fer names. Now, 
 some folks'll hear a name and never fergit it, but I 
 can't boast of a good rickollection, 'specially o' names; 
 and fer the last thirty year my mem'ry's be'n a-failm' 
 me, ever sence a spell o' fever 'at I brought on onc't 
 fever and rheumatiz together : You see, I went a-sainin' 
 with a passel o' the boys, fool-like, and let my clothes 
 freeze on me a-comin' home. W'y, my breeches was 
 like stove-pipes when I pulled 'em off. 'LI, ef I didn't 
 pay fer that spree ! Rheumatiz got a holt o' me and 
 helt me there flat o' my back fer eight weeks, and 
 couldn't move hand er foot 'thout a-hollerin' like a' Injun. 
 And I'd a-be'n there yit, I rickon, ef it hadn't a-be'n fer 
 a' old hoss-doctor, name o' Jones ; and he gits a lot o' 
 sod and steeps it in hot whiskey and pops it on me, 
 and I'll be-switched-to-death ef it didn't cuore me up, 
 
 141
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 fer all I laughed and told him I'd better take the whis 
 key in'ardly and let him keep the grass fer his doctor 
 bill. But that's nuther here ner there! As I was 
 a-sayin' 'bout the mill: As I went in, the boys had 
 stopped work and was a-gittin' down their dinners, and 
 Bills amongst 'em, and old Ezry a-chattin' away great 
 hand, he was, fer his joke, and allus a-cuttin' up and 
 a-gittin' off his odd-come-shorts on the boys. And that 
 day he was in particular good humor. He'd brought 
 some liquor down fer the boys, and he'd be'n drinkin' a 
 little hisse'f, enough to feel it. He didn't drink much 
 that is to say, he didn't git drunk adzactly ; but he 
 tuk his dram, you understand. You see, they made 
 their own whiskey in them days, and it wasn't nothin' 
 like the bilin' stuff you git now. Old Ezry had a little 
 still, and allus made his own whiskey, enough fer fam- 
 bly use, and jist as puore as worter, and as harmless. 
 But now-a-days the liquor you git's rank pizen. They 
 say they putt tobacker in it, and strychnine, and the 
 Lord knows what; ner I never knowed why, 'less it 
 was to give it a richer-lookin' flavor, like. Well, Ezry 
 he'd brought up a jug, and the boys had be'n a-takin' it 
 
 142
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 purty free ; I seed that as quick as I went in. And old 
 Ezry called out to me to come and take some, the first 
 thing. Told him I didn't b'lieve I keered about it; but 
 nothin' would do but I must take a drink with the boys ; 
 and I was tired anyhow and I thought a little wouldn't 
 hurt; so I takes a swig; and as I set the jug down 
 Bills spoke up and says, "You're a stranger to me, and 
 I'm a stranger to you, but I rickon we can drink to our 
 better acquaintance," er somepin' to that amount, and 
 poured out another snifter in a gourd he'd be'n a-drinkin' 
 coffee in, and handed it to me. Well, I couldn't well 
 refuse, of course; so I says " Here's to us," and drunk 
 her down mighty nigh a half pint, I rickon. Now, I 
 railly didn't want it, but, as I tell you, I was obleegedto 
 take it, and I downed her at a swaller and never batted an 
 eye, fer, to tell the fact about it, I liked the taste e' 
 liquor; and I do yit, on'y I know when I' got enough. 
 Jist then I didn't want to drink on account o' Steve. 
 Steve couldn't abide liquor in no shape ner form fer 
 medicine ner nothin', and I've allus thought it was his 
 mother's doin's. 
 
 Now, a few months afore this I'd be'n to Vincennes, 
 
 '43
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 and I was jist a-tellin' Ezry what they was a-astin' fer 
 their liquor there fer I'd fetched a couple o' gallon home 
 with me 'at I'd paid six bits fer, and pore liquor at that: 
 And I was a-tellin' about it, and old Ezry was a-sayin' 
 what an oudacious figger that was, and how he could 
 make money a-sellin' it fer half that price, and was 
 a-goin' on a-braggin' about his liquor and it was a good 
 article fer new whiskey, and jist then Steve comes 
 in, jist as Bills was a-sayin' 'at a man 'at wouldn't 
 drink that whiskey wasn't no man at all! So, of 
 course, when they ast Steve to take some and he told 
 'em no, 'at he was much obleeged, Bills was kindo' tuk 
 down, you understand, and had to say somepin' ; and 
 says he, " I reckon you ain't no better'n the rest of us, 
 and 'we've be'n a-drinkin' of it." But Steve didn't let 
 on like he noticed Bills at all, and retch and shuk hands 
 with the other boys and ast how they was all a-comin' on. 
 I seed Bills was riled, and more'n likely wanted trou 
 ble ; and shore enough, he went on to say, kindo snarl- 
 in'-like, 'at "he'd knowed o' men in his day 'at had 
 be'n licked fer refusin' to drink when their betters ast 
 em"; and said furder 'at " a lickin' wasn't none too 
 
 144
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 good fer anybody 'at would refuse liquor like that o" 
 Ezry's, and in his own house too " er bulletin 1 ', ruther. 
 Ezry shuk his head at him, but I seed 'at Bills was 
 bound fer a quarrel, and I winks at Steve, as much as to 
 say, ''Don't you let him bully you; you'll find your 
 brother here to see you have fair play!" /was a-feel- 
 in' my oats some about then, and Steve seed I was, and 
 looked so sorry-like, and like his mother, 'at I jist 
 thought, "I kin fight fer you, and die fer you, 'cause 
 you're wuth it!" And I didn't someway feel like it 
 would amount to much ef I did die er git killed et 
 somepin' on his account. I seed Steve was mighty 
 white around the mouth, and his eyes was a-glitterin' 
 like a snake's ; yit Bills didn't seem to take warnin', but 
 went on to say 'at "he'd knowed boys 'at loved their 
 mothers so well they couldn't drink nothin' stronger'n 
 milk." And then you'd ort o' seed Steve's coat fly off, 
 jist like it wanted to git out of his way and give the boy 
 room accordin' to his stren'th. I seed Bills grab a 
 piece o' scantlin' jist in time to ketch his arm as he 
 struck at Steve, for Steve was a-comin' fer him dan- 
 gerss. But they'd ketched Steve from behind jist then ; 
 10 145
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 and Bills turned fer me. I seed him draw back, and I 
 seed Steve a-scufflin' to ketch his arm; but he didn't 
 reach it quite in time to do me no good. It must 
 a-come awful suddent. The first I rickollect was a 
 roarin' and a buzzin' in my ears, and when I kindo' 
 come a little better to, and crawled up and peeked over 
 the saw-log I was a-layin' the other side of, I seed a 
 couple clinched and a-rollin' over and over and a-makin' 
 the chips and saw-dust fly, now I tell you! Bills and 
 Steve it was head and tail, tooth and toe-nail, and 
 a-bleedin' like good fellers ! I seed a gash o' some 
 kind in Bills's head, and Steve was purty well tuck 
 ered and a-pantin' like a lizard ; and I made a rush 
 in, and one o' the Carter boys grabbed me and told 
 me to jist keep cool 'at Steve didn't need no he'p, 
 and they might need me to keep Bills's friends off 
 ef they made a rush. By this time Steve had whirlt 
 Bills, and was a-jist a-gittin' in a fair way to finish him 
 up in good style, when Wesley Morris run in I seed 
 him do it run in, and afore we could ketch him he 
 struck Steve a deadener in the butt o' the ear and knocked 
 him as limber as a rag. And then Bills whirlt Steve 
 
 146
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 and got him by the th'oat, and Ben Carter and me and old 
 Ezry closed in. Carter tackled Morris, and Ezry and me 
 grabs Bills and as old Ezry grabbed him to pull him 
 off, Bills kindo' give him a side swipe o' some kind and 
 knocked him I don't know how fur ! And jist then Car 
 ter and Morris come a-scufflin' back'ards right amongst 
 us, and Carter th'owed him right acrost Bills and Steve. 
 Well, it ain't fair, and I don't like to tell it, but I seed 
 it was the last chance and I tuk advantage of it : As 
 Wesley and Ben fell it pulled Bills down in a kindo' 
 twist, don't you understand, so's he couldn't he'p hisse'f, 
 yit still a-clinchin' Steve by the th'oat, and him black in 
 the face. Well, as they fell I grabbed up a little hick'ry 
 limb, not bigger'n my two thumbs, and I struck Bills a 
 little tap kindo' over the back of his head like, and, 
 wlame me ! ef he didn't keel over like a stuck pig and 
 not any too soon, nuther, fer he had Steve's chunk as 
 nigh putt out as you ever seed a man's, to come to agin. 
 But he was up th'reckly and ready to a-went at it ef Bills 
 could a-come to the scratch ; but Mister Bills he wasn't 
 in no fix to try it over! After a-waitin' a while fer him 
 to come to, and him not a-comin' to, we concluded 'at 
 
 147
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 we'd better he'p him, maybe. And we worked with him, 
 and warshed him, and drenched him with whiskey, but it 
 'peared like it wasn't no use. He jist laid there with his 
 eyes about half shet, and a-breathin' like a hoss when he's 
 bad sceart ; and I'll be dad-limbed ef I don't believe he'd 
 A-died on our hands ef it hadn't a-happened old Doc Zions 
 come a-ridin' past on his way home from the Murdock 
 neighberhood, where they was a-havin' sich a time with 
 the milk-sick. And he examined Bills, and had him laid 
 on a plank and carried down to the house 'bout a mil'd, 
 I reckon, from the mill. Looked kindo' cur'ous to see 
 Steve a-he'ppin' pack the feller, after his nearly chokin' 
 him to death. Oh, it was a bloody fight, I tell you ! 
 W'y, they wasn't a man in the mill 'at didn't have a 
 black eye er somepin' ; and old Ezry, where Bills hit him, 
 had his nose broke, and was as bloody as a butcher. And 
 you'd orta-seed the women-folks when our p'session come 
 a-bringin' Bills in. I never seed anybody take on like 
 Bills' s woman. It was distressin' ; it was, indeed. 
 Went into hysterics, she did ; and we thought fer a while 
 she'd gone plum crazy, fer she cried so pitiful over him, 
 and called him "Charley! Charley!" 'stid of his right 
 
 148
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 name, and went on, clean out of her head, tel she finally 
 jist fainted clean away. 
 
 Fer three weeks Bills laid betwixt life and death, and 
 that woman set by him night and day, and tended him 
 as patient as a' angel and she was a' angel, too ; and 
 he'd a-never lived to bother nobody agin ef it hadn't 
 a-be'n fer Annie, as he called her. Zions said there was 
 a 'brazure of the some kind o' p'tuber'nce, and ef he'd 
 a-be'n struck jist a quarter of a' inch below jist a quar 
 ter of a' inch he'd a be'n a dead man. And I've 
 sence wished not 'at I want the life of a human bein' 
 to account fer on'y, well, no odds I've sence wished 
 'at I had a-hit him jist a quarter of a' inch below! 
 
 Well, of course, them days they wasn't no law o* no 
 account, and nothin' was ever done about it. So Steve 
 and me got our grindin', and talked the matter over with 
 Ezry and the boys. Ezry said he was a-goin' to do all 
 he could fer Bills, 'cause he was a good hand, and when 
 he wasn't drinkin' they wasn't no peaceabler man in the 
 Settlement. I kindo' suspicioned what was up, but I 
 said nothin' then. And Ezry said furder, as we was 
 about drivin' off, that Bills was a despert feller, and it 
 
 149
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 was best to kindo' humor him a little. "And you must 
 kindo' be on you guard," he says, "and I'll watch him, 
 and ef anything happens 'at I git wind of I'll let you 
 know," he says; and so we putt out fer home. 
 
 Mother tuk on awful about it. You see, she thought 
 she'd be'n the whole blame of it, 'cause the Sunday 
 afore that her and Steve had went to meetin', and they 
 got there late, and the house was crowded, and Steve 
 had ast Bills to give up his seat to Mother, and he 
 wouldn't do it, and said somepin' 'at disturbed the 
 pray in', and the preacher prayed 'at the feller 'at was 
 a-makin* the disturbance might be forgive' ; and that 
 riled Bills so he got up and left, and hung around till it 
 broke up, so's he could git a chance at Steve to pick a 
 fight. And he did try it, and dared Steve and double- 
 dared him fer a fight, but Mother begged so hard 'at she 
 kep' him out of it. Steve said 'at he'd a-told me all 
 about it on the way to Ezry's on'y he'd promised 
 Mother, you know, not to say nothin' to me. 
 
 Ezry was over at our house about six weeks after the 
 fight, appearantly as happy as you please. We ast him 
 
 '50
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 how him and Bills was a-makin' it, and he said firstrate ; 
 said ' at Bills was jist a-doin' splendid ; said he'd got 
 moved in his new house 'at he'd fixed up fer him, and 
 ever'thing was a-goin' on as smooth as could be ; and 
 Bills and the boys was on better terms'n ever; and says 
 he, "As fur as you and Steve's concerned, Bills don't 
 'pear to bear you no 511 feelin's, and says as fur as he's 
 concerned the thing's settled." "Well," says I, "Ez- 
 ry, I hope so ; but I can't he'p but think they's some- 
 pin' at the bottom of all this"; and says I, "I don't 
 think it's in Bills to ever amount to anything good "; 
 and says I, "It's my opinion they's a dog in the well, 
 and now you mark it!" 
 
 Well, he said he wasn't jist easy, but maybe he'd 
 come out all right ; said he couldn't turn the feller off 
 he hadn't the heart to do that, with that-air pore, dili- 
 cate woman o' his, and the baby. And then he went 
 on to tell what a smart sorto' woman Bills's wife was, 
 one of the nicest little women he'd ever laid eyes on, 
 said she was ; said she was the kindest thing, and the 
 sweetest-tempered, and all and the handiest woman 
 'bout the house, and 'bout sewin', and cookin', and the
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 like, and all kinds o' housework ; and so good to the 
 childern, and all; and how they all got along so well; 
 and how proud she was of her baby, and allus a-goin' 
 on about it and a-cryin' over it and a-carryin' on, and 
 wouldn't leave it out of her sight a minute. And Ezry 
 said 'at she could write so purty, and made sich purty 
 pictur's fer the childern ; and how they all liked her 
 better'n their own mother. And, sence she'd moved, 
 he said it seemed so lonesome-like 'thout her about the 
 house like they'd lost one o' their own fambly; said 
 they didn't git to see her much now, on'y sometimes, 
 when her man would be at work, she'd run over fer a 
 while, and kiss all the childern and women-folks about 
 the place, the greatest hand fer the childern, she was; 
 tell 'em all sorts o' little stories, you know, and sing fer 
 'em; said 'at she could sing so sweet-like, 'at time and 
 time agin she'd break clean down in some song o' 
 nother, and her voice would trimble so mournful-like 'at 
 you'd find yourse'f a-cryin' afore you knowed it. And 
 she used to coax Ezry's woman to let her take the chil 
 dern home with her; and they used to allus want to go, 
 tel Bills come onc't while they was there, and they said
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 he got to jawin' her fer a-makin' some to-do over the 
 baby, and swore at her and tuk it away from her and 
 whirped it fer cryin', and she cried and told him to 
 whirp her and not little Annie, and he said that was jist 
 what he was a-doin'. And thechildern was allus afeard 
 to go there any more after that 'feard he'd come home 
 and whirp little Annie agin. Ezry said he jist done 
 that to skeer 'em away 'cause he didn't want a passel 
 o' childern a-whoopin' and a-howlin' and a-trackin' 
 round the house all the time. 
 
 But, shore enough, Bills, after the fight, 'peared like 
 he'd settled down, and went 'bout his business so stiddy- 
 like, and worked so well, the neighbers begin to think 
 he was all right after all, and railly some got to likin 1 
 him. But fer me, well, I was a leetle slow to argy 'at 
 the feller wasn't "a-possumin'." But the next time I 
 went over to the mill and Steve went with me old 
 Ezry come and met us, and said 'at Bills didn't have no 
 hard feelin's ef we didn't and 'at he wanted us to fergive 
 him ; said 'at Bills wanted him to tell us 'at he was sorry 
 the way he'd acted, and wanted us to fergive him. Well, 
 I looked at Ezry, and we both looked at him, jist perfectly 
 
 '53
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 tuk back the idee o' Bills a-wantin' anybody to fergive 
 him! And says I, "Ezry, what in the name o' common 
 sense do you mean? " And says he, "I mean jist what 
 I say ; Bills jined meetin' last night and had 'em all 
 a-prayin' fer him ; and we all had a glorious time," says 
 old Ezry ; "and his woman was there and jined, too, and 
 prayed and shouted and tuk on to beat all ; and Bills 
 got up and spoke and give in his experience, and said 
 he'd be'n a bad man, but, glory to God, them times was 
 past and gone ; said 'at he wanted all of 'em to pray fer 
 him, and he wanted to prove faithful, and wanted all his 
 inemies to fergive him; and prayed 'at you and Steve 
 and your folks would fergive him, and ever'body 'at he 
 ever wronged anyway." And old Ezry was a-goin' on, 
 and his eyes a-sparklin', and a-rubbin' his hands, he was 
 so excited and tickled over it, 'at Steve and me we jist 
 stood there a-gawkin' like, tel Bills hisse'f come up and 
 retch out one hand to Steve and one to me ; and Steve 
 shuk with him kindo' oneasy-like, and I well, sir, I 
 never felt cur'oser in my born days than I did that min 
 ute. The cold chills crep' over me, and I shuk as ef I 
 had the agur, and I folded my hands behind me and I 
 
 154
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 looked that feller square in the eye, and I tried to speak 
 three or four times afore I could make it, and when I 
 did, my voice wasn't natchurl sounded like a feller 
 a-whisperin' through a tin horn er somepin'. And I says, 
 says I, "You're a liar," slow and delibert. That was all. 
 His eyes blazed a minute, and drapped ; and he turned, 
 'thout a word, and walked off. And Ezry says, "He's 
 in airnest; I know he's in airnest, er he'd a-never a-tuk 
 that!" And so he went on, tel finally Steve jined in, 
 and betwixt 'em they p'suaded me 'at I was in the wrong 
 and the best thing to do was to make it all up, which I 
 finally did. And Bills said 'at he'd a-never a-felt jist 
 right 'thout my friendship, fer he'd wronged me, he said, 
 and he'd wronged Steve and Mother, too, and he wanted 
 a chance, he said, o' makin' things straight agin. 
 
 Well, a-goin' home, I don't think Steve and me talked o' 
 nothin' else but Bills how airnest the feller acted 'bout 
 it, and how, ef he 'wasn't in airnest, he'd a-never a- 
 swallered that "lie," you see. That's what walked my 
 log, fer he could a-jist as easy a-knocked me higher' n 
 Kilgore's kite as he could to walk away 'thout a-doin' 
 of it. 
 
 155
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 Mother was awful tickled when she heerd about it, fer 
 she'd had an idee 'at we'd have trouble afore we got 
 back, and a-gitten home safe, and a-bringin' the news 
 'bout Bills a-jinin' church and all, "tickled her so 'at she 
 mighty nigh shouted fer joy. You see, Mother was a' 
 old church-member all her life; and I don't think she 
 ever missed a sermont er a prayer-meetin' 'at she could 
 possibly git to rain er shine, wet er dry. When they 
 was a meetin' of any kind a-goin' on, go she would, and 
 nothin' short o' sickness in the fambly, er knowin' noth- 
 in' of it, would stop her I And clean up to her dyin' day 
 she was a God-fearin' and consistent Christian ef they 
 ever was one. I mind now when she was tuk with her 
 last spell and laid bedfast fer eighteen months, she used 
 to tell the preacher, when he'd come to see her and pray 
 and go on, 'at she could die happy ef she could on'y be 
 with 'em all agin in their love-feasts and revivals. She 
 was purty low then, and hadbe'n a-failin' fast fer a day er 
 two; and that day they'd be'n a-holdin' service at the 
 house. It was her request, you know, and the neighbers 
 had congergated and was a-prayin' and a-singin' her 
 favorite hymns one in p'tickler, " God moves in a mys- 
 
 I 5 6
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 ter'ous way his wunders to p'f orm, ' ' and 'bout his "Walk- 
 in' on the sea and a-ridin' of the storm." Well, anyway, 
 they'd be'n a-singin' that hymn ferher she used to sing 
 that'n so much, I rickollect as fur back as I kin remem 
 ber ; and I mind how it used to make me feel so lonesome- 
 like and solemn, don't you know, when I'd be a-knockin' 
 round the place along o' evenings, and she'd be a-milkin', 
 and I'd hear her, at my feedin', way off by myse'f, and it 
 allus somehow made me feel like afeller'dort 'otry and 
 live as nigh right as the law allows, and that's about my 
 doctern yit. Well, as I was a-goin' on to say, they'd jist 
 finished that old hymn, and Granny Lowry was jist a-goin' 
 to lead in prayer, when I noticed Mother kindo' tried to 
 turn herse'f in bed, and smiled so weak and faint-like, 
 and looked at me, with her lips a-kindo' movin' ; and I 
 thought maybe she wanted another dos't of her syrup 
 'at Ezry's woman had fixed up fer her, and I kindo' 
 stooped down over her and ast her ef she wanted any 
 thing. "Yes," she says, and nodded, and her voice 
 sounded so low and solemn and so fur-away-like 'at I 
 knowed she'd never take no more medicine on this airth. 
 And I tried to ast her what it was she wanted, but I 
 
 157
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 couldn't say nothin' ; my throat hurt me, and I felt the 
 warm tears a-boolgin' up, and her kind old face a-glim- 
 merin' away so pale-like afore my eyes, and still 
 a-smilin' up so lovin' and forgivin' and so good 'at it 
 made me think so fur back in the past I seemed to be a 
 little boy agin; and seemed like her thin gray hair was 
 brown and a-shinin' in the sun as it used to do when she 
 helt me on her shoulder in the open door, when Father 
 was a-livin' and we used to go to meet him at the bars ; 
 seemed like her face was young agin, and a-smilin' 
 like it allus used to be, and her eyes as full o' hope and 
 happiness as afore they ever looked on grief er ever 
 shed a tear. And I thought of all the trouble they had 
 saw on my account, and of all the lovin' words her lips 
 had said, and of all the thousand things her pore old 
 hands had done fer me 'at I never even thanked her 
 fer; and how I loved her better'n all the world be 
 sides, and would be so lonesome ef she went away. 
 Lord! I can't tell you what I didn't think and feel 
 and see. And I knelt down by her, and she whispered 
 then fer Steven, and he come, and we kissed her and 
 she died a-smilin' like a child jist like a child. 
 
 158
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 Well well! 'Pears lilfe I'm allus a-runnin' into 
 somepin' else. I wisht I could tell a story 'thout drift- 
 in' off in matters 'at hain't no livin' thing to do with 
 what I started out with. I try to keep from thinkin' of 
 afflictions and the like, 'cause sich is bound to come to 
 the best of us; but a feller's rickollection will bring 'em 
 'up, and I reckon it'd ort'o be er it wouldn't be ; and I've 
 thought, sometimes, it was done maybe to kindo' ad 
 monish a feller, as the Good Book says, of how good a 
 world'd"be 'thout no sorrow in it. 
 
 Where was I? Oh, yes, I rickollect; about Bills 
 a-jinin' church. Well, sir, they wasn't a better-actin' 
 feller and more religious-like in all the neighberhood. 
 Spoke in meetin's, he did, and tuk a' active part in all 
 religious doin's, and, in fact, was jist as square a man, 
 appearantly, as the preacher hisse'f. And about six er 
 eight weeks after he'd jined, they got up another revi 
 val, and things run high. They was a big excitement, 
 and ever'body was a'tendin' from fur and near. Bills 
 and Ezry got the mill-hands to go, and didn't talk o' 
 nothin' but religion. People thought awhile 'at old 
 Ezry'd turn preacher, he got so interested 'bout church 
 
 159
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 matters. He was easy excited 'bout anything; and 
 when he went into a thing it was in dead airnest, 
 shore ! " jist flew off the handle," as I heerd a comical 
 feller git off onc't. And him and Bills was up and at 
 it ever' night prayin' and shoutin' at the top o' their 
 voice. Them railly did seem like good times when 
 ever'body jined together, and prayed and shouted ho- 
 sanner, and danced around together, and hugged each 
 other like they was so full o' glory they jist couldn't 
 he'p theirse'v's ! That's the reason / jined ; it looked 
 so kindo' whole-souled-like and good, you understand. 
 But law ! I didn't hold out on'y fer a little while, and 
 no wunder ! 
 
 Well, about them times Bills was tuk down with the 
 agur ; first got to chillin' ever' -other-day, ihenever' day, 
 and harder and harder, tel sometimes he'd be obleeged 
 to stay away from meetin' on account of it. And onc't 
 I was at meetin' when he told about it, and how when 
 he couldn't be with 'em he allus prayed at home, and he 
 said 'at he believed his prayers was answered, fer onc't 
 he'd prayed fer a new outpourin' of the Holy Sperit, 
 and that very night they was three new jiners. And an- 
 
 160
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 other time he said 'at he'd prayed 'at Wesley Morris 
 would jine, and lo and behold you! he did jine, and the 
 very night 'at he prayed he would. 
 
 Well, the night I'm a-speakin' of he'd had a chill the 
 day afore and couldn't go that night, and was in bed 
 when Ezry druv past fer him ; said he'd like to go, but 
 had a high fever and couldn't. And then Ezry's woman 
 ast him ef he was too sick to spare Annie ; and he said 
 no, they could take her and the baby: and told her to 
 fix his medicine so's he could reach it 'thout gittin' out 
 o' bed, and he'd git along 'thout her. And so she tuk 
 the baby and went along with Ezry and his folks. 
 
 I was at meetin' that night and rickollect 'em comin* 
 in. Annie got a seat jist behind me Steve give her 
 his'n and stood up ; and I rickollect a-astin' her how 
 Bills was a-gittin' along with the agur ; and little Annie, 
 the baby, kep' a-pullin' my hair and a-crowin' tel final 
 ly she went to sleep ; and Steve ast her mother to let 
 him hold her cutest little thing you ever laid eyes on, 
 and the very pictur' of her mother. 
 
 Old Daddy Barker preached that night, and ar mighty 
 good sermont. His text, ef I rickollect right, was 
 zz 161
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 "workin' out your own salvation" ; and when I listen to 
 preachers nowadays in their big churches and their fine 
 pulpits, I allus think o' Daddy Barker, and kindo' some 
 way wisht the old times could come agin, with the 
 old log meetin'-house with its puncheon-floor, and the 
 chinkin' in the walls, and old Daddy Barker in the pul 
 pit. He'd make you feel 'at the Lord could make His- 
 se'f at home there, and find jist as abundant comfort in 
 the old log house as He could in any of your fine- 
 furnished churches 'at you can't set down in 'thout pay- 
 in' fer the privilege, like it was a theatre. 
 
 Ezry had his two little girls jine that night, and I 
 rickollect the preacher made sich a purty prayer about 
 the Saviour a-cotin' from the Bible 'bout " Suffer little 
 childern to come unto Me" and all ; and talked so purty 
 'bout the jedgment day, and mothers a-meetin' their 
 little ones there and all ; and went on tel they wasn't 
 a dry eye in the house And jist as he was a-windin' up, 
 Abe Riggers stuck his head in at the door and hollered 
 "Fire!" loud as he could yell. We all rushed out, 
 a-thinkin* it was the meetin'-house ; but he hollered it 
 was the mill ; and shore enough, away off to the south- 
 
 162
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 'ards we could see the light acrost the woods, and see 
 the blaze a-lickin' up above the trees. I seed old Ezry 
 as he come a-scufflin' through the crowd ; and we putt 
 out together fer it. Well, it was two mil'd to the mill, 
 but by the time we'd half-way got there, we could tell 
 it wasn't the mill a-burnin', 'at the fire was furder to 
 the left, and that was Ezry's house ; and by the time we 
 got there it wasn't much use. We pitched into the 
 household goods, and got out the beddin', and the fur- 
 nitur' and cheers, and the like o' that ; saved the clock 
 and a bedstid, and got the bureau purt' nigh out when 
 they hollered to us 'at the roof was a-cavin' in, and we 
 had to leave it; well, we'd tuk the drawers out, all but 
 the big one, and that was locked ; and it and all in it 
 went with the buildin' ; arid that was a big loss : All 
 the money 'at Ezry was a-layin' by was in that-air 
 drawer, and a lot o' keepsakes and trinkets 'at Ezry's 
 woman said she wouldn't a-parted with fer the world 
 and all. 
 
 I never seed a troubleder fambly than they was. It 
 jist 'peared like old Ezry give clean down, and the wo 
 men and childern a-cryin' and a-takin' on. It looked 
 
 163
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 jist awful shore's you're born! Losin' ever'thing 
 they'd worked so hard fer and there it was, purt' nigh 
 midnight, and a fambly, jist a little while ago all so 
 happy, and now with no home to go to, ner nothin' ! 
 
 It was arranged fer Ezry's to move in with Bills 
 that was about the on'y chance on'y one room and a 
 loft ; but Bills said they could manage some way, fer a 
 while anyhow. 
 
 Bills said he seed the fire when it first started, and 
 could a-putt it out ef he'd on'y be'n strong enough to 
 git there ; said he started twic't to go, but was too weak 
 and had to go back to bed agin ; said it was a-blazin' 
 in the kitchen roof when he first seed it. So the gineral 
 conclusion 'at we all come to was it must a-ketched 
 from the flue. 
 
 It was too late in the fall then to think o' buildin' even 
 the onriest kind o' shanty, and so Ezry moved in with 
 Bills. And Bills used to say ef it hadn't a-be'n fer Ezry 
 he'd a-never a-had no house, ner nothin' to putt in it, 
 nuther! You see, all the household goods 'at Bills had 
 in the world he'd got of Ezry, and he 'lowed he'd be 
 
 164
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 a triflin' whelp ef he didn't do all in his power to make 
 Ezry perfeckly at home's long as he wanted to stay 
 there. And together they managed to make room fer 
 'em all, by a-buildin' a kindo' shed-like to the main 
 house, intendin' to build when Spring come. And 
 ever' thing went along first-rate, I guess ; never heerd 
 no complaints that is, p'tickler. 
 
 Ezry was kindo' down fer a long time, though ; didn't 
 like to talk about his trouble much, and didn't 'tend 
 meetin' much, like he used to ; said it made him think 
 'bout his house burnin', and he didn't feel safe to lose 
 sight o' the mill. And the meetin's kindo' broke up 
 altogether that winter. Almost broke up religious do- 
 in's, it did. 'S long as I've lived here I never seed jist 
 sich a slack in religion as they was that winter; and 'fore 
 then, I kin mind the time when they wasn't a night the 
 whole endurin' winter when they didn't have preachin' 
 er prayer-meetin' o' some kind a-goin' on. Wy, I 
 rickollect one night in p'tickler the coldest night, 
 nvhooh! And somebody had stold the meetin'-house 
 door, and they was obleeged to preach 'thout it. And 
 the wind blowed in so they had to hold their hats afore 
 
 165
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 the candles, and then onc't-in-a-while they'd git sluffed 
 out. And the snow drifted in so it was jist like settin' 
 out doors ; and they had to stand up when they prayed 
 yes-sir ! stood up to pray. I noticed that night they 
 was a' oncommon lot o' jiners, and I believe to this 
 day 'at most of 'em jined jist to git up where the stove 
 was. Lots o' folks had their feet froze right in meet- 
 in' ; and Steve come home with his ears froze like they 
 was whittled out o' bone ; and he said 'at Mary Mada- 
 line Wells's feet was froze, and she had two pair o' 
 socks on over her shoes. Oh, it 'was cold, now I tell 
 you! 
 
 They run the mill part o' that winter part they 
 couldn't. And they didn't work to say stiddy tel along 
 in Aprile, and then they was snow on the ground yit 
 in the shadders and the ground froze, so you couldn't 
 hardly dig a grave. But at last they got to kindo' jig- 
 gin' along agin. Plenty to do there was ; and old Ezry 
 was mighty tickled, too ; 'peared to recruit right up like. 
 Ezry was allus best tickled when things was a-stirrin', 
 and then he was a-gittin' ready fer buildin', you know, 
 wanted a house of his own, he said. And of course it 
 
 1 66
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 wasn't adzackly like home, all cluttered up as they was 
 there at Bills's. They got along mighty well, though, 
 together ; and the women-folks and childern got along 
 the best in the world., Ezry's woman used to say she 
 never laid eyes on jist sich another woman as Annie was. 
 Said it was jist as good as a winter's schoolin' fer the 
 childern ; said her two little girls had learnt to read, and 
 didn't know their a-b abs afore Annie learnt 'em ; well, 
 the oldest one, Mary Patience, she did know her letters, 
 I guess fourteen year old, she was ; but Mandy, the 
 youngest, had never seed inside a book afore that winter; 
 and the way she learnt was jist su'prisin'. She was 
 puny-like and frail-lookin' allus, but ever'body 'lowed she 
 was a heap smarter'n Mary Patience, and she was; and 
 in my opinion she railly had more sense'n all the rest o' 
 the childern putt together, 'bout books and cipherin' and 
 'rethmetic, and the like ; and John Wesley, the oldest of 
 'em, he got to teachin' at last, when he growed up, but, 
 law ! he couldn't write his own name so's you could read 
 it. I allus thought they was a good 'eal of old Ezry in 
 John Wesley. Liked to romance 'round with the young 
 sters 'most too well. Spiled him fer teachin', I allus 
 
 167
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 thought; fer instance, ef a scholard said somepin' funny 
 in school, John-Wes he'd jist have to have his laugh out 
 with the rest, and it was jist fun fer the boys, you know, 
 to go to school to him. Allus in fer spellin'-matches 
 and the like, and learnin' songs and sich. I rickollect 
 he give a' exhibition onc't, one winter, and I'll never 
 fergit it, I rickon. 
 
 The school-house would on'y hold 'bout forty, comf 'ta 
 ble, and that night they was up'ards of a hunderd er 
 more jist crammed and jammed ! And the benches 
 was piled back so's to make room fer the flatform they'd 
 built to make their speeches and dialogues on ; and fellers 
 a-settin' up on them back seats, their heads was clean 
 aginst the j'ist. It was a low ceilin', anyhow, and o' 
 course them 'at tuk a part in the doin's was way up, too. 
 Janey Thompson had to give up her part in a dialogue? 
 'cause she looked so tall she was afeard the congerga- 
 tion would laugh at her ; and they couldn't git her to come 
 out and sing in the openin' song 'thout lettin' her set 
 down first and git ready 'fore they pulled the curtain. 
 You see, they had sheets sewed together, and fixed on a 
 string some way, to slide back'ards and for'ards, don't 
 
 1 68
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 you know. But they was a big bother to 'em couldn't 
 git 'em to work like. Ever' time they'd git 'em slid 'bout 
 half-way acrost, somepin' would ketch, and they'd haf 
 to stop and fool with 'em awhile 'fore they could git 'em 
 the balance o' the way acrost. Well, finally, to'rds the 
 last, they jist kep* 'em drawed back all the time. It 
 was a pore affair, and spiled purt' nigh ever' piece ; but 
 the scholards all wanted it fixed thataway, the teacher 
 said, in a few appropert remarks he made when the 
 thing was over. Well, I was a-settin' in the back part 
 o' the house on them high benches, and my head was jist 
 even with them on the flatform, and the lights was pore, 
 and where the string was stretched fer the curtain to 
 slide on it looked like the p' formers was strung on it. 
 And when Lige Boyer's boy was a-speakin' kindo' 
 mumbled it, you know, and you couldn't half hear it 
 looked fer the world like he was a-chawin' on that-air 
 string ; and some devilish feller 'lowed ef he'd chaw it 
 clean in two it'd be a good thing fer the balance. After 
 that they all sung a sleigh-ridin' song, and it was right 
 purty, the way they got it off. Had a passel o' sleigh- 
 
 .69
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 bells they'd ring ever' onc't-in-a-while, and it sounded 
 purty shore ! 
 
 Then Hunicut's girl, Marindy, read a letter 'bout 
 winter, and what fun the youngsters allus had in winter 
 time, a-sleighin' and the like, and spellin'-matches, and 
 huskin'-bees, and all. Purty good, it was, and made a 
 feller think o' old times. Well, that was about the best 
 thing they was done that night ; but ever'body said the 
 teacher wrote it fer her; and I wouldn't be su'prised 
 much, fer they was married not long afterwards. I ex 
 pect he wrote it fer her. Wouldn't putt it past Wes! 
 
 They had a dialogue, too, 'at was purty good. Little 
 Bob Arnold was all fixed up had on his pap's old bell- 
 crowned hat, the one he was married in. Well, I jist 
 thought die I would when I seed that old hat and called 
 to mind the night his pap was married, and we all got 
 him a little how-come-you-so on some left-handed cider 
 'at' had be'n a-layin' in a whiskey-bar'l tel it was strong 
 enough to bear up a' egg. I kin rickollect now jist how 
 he looked in that hat, when it was all new, you know, 
 and a-settin' on the back of his head, and his hair in his 
 eyes; and sich hair! as red as git-out and his little 
 
 170
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 black eyes a-shinin' like beads. Well-sir, you'd a-died 
 to a-seed him a-clancin'. We danced all night that 
 night, and would a-be'n a-dancin' yit, I rickon, ef the 
 fiddler hadn't a-give out. Wash Lowry was a-fiddlin' 
 fer us; and along to'rds three er four in the morning 
 Wash was purty well fagged out. You see, Wash 
 could never play fer a dance er nothin' 'thout a-drinkin' 
 more or less, and when he got to a certain pitch you 
 couldn't git nothin' out o' him but " Barbary Allan " ; 
 so at last he struck up on that, and jist kep' it up, and 
 kep' it up, and nobody couldn't git nothin' else out of 
 him ! 
 
 Now, anybody 'at ever danced knows 'at "Barbary 
 Allan " hain't no tune to dance by, no way you can fix 
 it ; and, o' course, the boys seed at onc't their fun was 
 gone ef they couldn't git him on another tune. And 
 they'd coax and beg and plead with him, and maybe git 
 him started on "The Wind Blows over the Barley," 
 and 'bout the time they'd git to knockin' it down agin 
 purty lively, he'd go to sawin' away on "Barbary 
 Allan" and I'11-be-switched-to-death ef that feller 
 didn't set there and play hisse'f sound asleep on " Bar- 
 
 171
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 bary Allan," and we had to wake him up afore he'd 
 quit! Now, that's jes' the plum facts. And they 
 wasn't a better fiddler nowheres than Wash Lowry, 
 when he was at hisse'f. I've heerd a good many fid 
 dlers in my day, and I never heerd oneyit 'at could play 
 my style o' fiddlin' ekal to Wash Lowry. You see, 
 Wash didn't play none o' this-here new-fangled music 
 nothin' but the old tunes, you understand, " The 
 Forked Deer," and "Old Fat Gal," and " Gray Ea 
 gle," and the like. Now, them's music! Used to like 
 to hear Wash play " Gray Eagle." He could come as 
 nigh a-makin' that old tune talk as ever you heerd ! 
 Used to think a heap o' his fiddle and he had a good 
 one, shore. I've heerd him say, time and time agin, 
 'at a five-dollar gold-piece wouldn't buy it, and I 
 knowed him myse'f to refuse a calf fer it onc't yes-sir, 
 a yearland calf and the feller offered him a double- 
 bar'l'd pistol to boot, and blame ef he'd take it; said 
 he'd ruther part with anything else he owned than his 
 fiddle. But here I am, clean out o' the furry agin! 
 . . . Oh, yes ; I was a-tellin' 'bout little Bob, with that 
 old hat ; and he had on a swaller-tail coat and a lot o' 
 
 172
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 fixin's, a-actin' like he was a squire; and he had him a 
 great long beard made out o' corn-silks, and you 
 wouldn't avknowed him ef it wasn't fer his voice. 
 Well, he was a-p'tendin' he was a squire a-tryin' some 
 kind o' law-suit, you see ; and John Wesley he was the 
 defendunt, and Joney Wiles, I believe it was, played 
 like he was the plaintive. And they'd had a fallin' out 
 'bout some land, and was a-lawin' fer p'session, you 
 understand. Well, Bob he made out it was a mighty 
 bad case when John-Wes comes to consult him 'bout 
 it, and tells him ef a little p'int o' law was left out he 
 thought he could git the land fer him. And then John- 
 Wes bribes him, you understand, to leave out the p'int 
 o' law, and the squire says he'll do all he kin, and so 
 John-Wes goes out a-feelin' purty good. Then Wiles 
 comes in to consult the squire, don't you see. And the 
 'squire tells him the same tale he told John Wesley. 
 So Wiles bribes him to leave out the p'int o' law in his 
 favor, don't you know. So when the case is tried he 
 decides in favor o' John-Wes, a-tellin' Wiles some 
 cock-and-bull story 'bout havin' to manage it thataway 
 so's to git the case mixed so's he could git it fer him 
 
 173
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 shore; and posts him to sue fer change of venue or 
 somepin', anyway, Wiles gits a new trial, and then the 
 squire decides in his favor, arid tells John-Wes another 
 trial will fix it in his favor, and so on. And so it goes 
 on tel, anyway, he gits holt o' the land hisse'f and all 
 their money besides, and leaves them to hold the bag ! 
 Well-sir, it was purty well got up ; and they said it was 
 John-Wes's doin's, and I 'low it was he was a good 
 hand at anything o' that sort, and knowed how to make 
 fun. But I've be'n a-tellin' you purty much ever' thing 
 but what I started out with, and I'll try and hurry 
 through, 'cause I know you're tired. 
 
 'Long 'bout the beginnin' o' summer, things had got 
 back to purty much the old way. The boys round was 
 a-gittin' devilish, and o' nights 'specially theyr was a 
 sight o' meanness a-goin' on. The mill-hands, most of 
 'em, was mixed up in it Coke and Morris, and them 'at 
 had jined meetin' 'long in the winter had all backslid, 
 and was a-drinkin' and carousin' round worse'n ever. 
 
 People perdicted 'at Bills would backslide, but he 
 helt on faithful, to all appearance ; said he liked to see 
 a feller when he made up his mind to do right, he liked 
 
 174
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 to see him do it, and not go back on his word ; and even 
 went so fer as to tell Ezry ef they didn't putt a stop to 
 it he'd quit the neighberhood and go somers else. And 
 Bills was Ezry's head man then, and he couldn't a-got 
 along 'thout him ; and I b'lieve ef Bills had a-said the 
 word old Ezry would a-turned off ever' hand he had. 
 He got so he jist left ever'thing to Bills. Ben Carter 
 was turned off fer somepin' , and nobody ever knowed 
 what. Bills and him had never got along jist right 
 sence the fight. 
 
 Ben was with this set I was a-tellin' you 'bout, and 
 they'd got him to drinkin' and in trouble, o' course. I'd 
 knowed Ben well enough to know he wouldn't do noth- 
 in' ornry ef he wasn't agged on, and ef he ever was 
 mixed up in anything o' the kind Wes Morris and John 
 Coke was at the bottom of it, and I take notice they 
 wasn't turned off when Ben was. 
 
 One night the crowd was out, and Ben amongst 'em, 
 o' course. Sence he'd be'n turned off he'd be'n a-drink- 
 in', and I never blamed him much ; he was so good- 
 hearted like and easy led off, and I allus b'lieved it 
 wasn't his own doin's. 
 
 175
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 Well, this night they cut up awful, and ef they was 
 one fight they was a dozend ; and when all the devilment 
 was done they could do, they started on a stealin' expedi 
 tion, and stold a lot o' chickens and tuk 'em to the mill 
 to roast 'em ; and, to make a long story short, that night 
 the mill burnt clean to the ground. And the whole pack 
 of 'em collogued together aginst Carter to saddle it onto 
 him ; claimed 'at they left Ben there at the mill 'bout 
 twelve o'clock which was a fact, fer he was dead drunk 
 and couldn't git away. Steve stumbled over him while 
 the mill was a-burnin' and drug him out afore he knowed 
 what was a-goin' on, and it was all plain enough to Steve 
 'at Ben didn't have no hand in the firm' of it. But I'll 
 tell you he sobered up mighty suddent when he seed 
 what was a-goin' on, and heerd the neighbers a-holler- 
 in', and a-threatenin' and a-goin' on! fer it seemed to 
 be the ginerl idee 'at the buildin' was fired a-purpose. 
 And says Ben to Steve, says he, " I expect I'll haf to 
 say good-bye to you, fer they've got me in a ticklish 
 place! I kin see through it all now, when it's too 
 late!" And jist then Wesley Morris hollers out, 
 "Where's Ben Carter?" and started to'rds where me 
 
 176
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 and Ben and Steve was a-standin' ; and Ben says, wild- 
 like, "Don't you two fellers ever think it was my 
 doin's," and whispers "Good-bye," and started off; 
 and when we turned, Wesley Morris was a-layin' flat of 
 his back, and we heerd Carter yell to the crowd 'at 
 "that man" meanin' Morris "needed lookin' after 
 worse than he did," and another minute he plunged 
 into the river and swum acrost ; and we all stood and 
 watched him in the flickerin' light tel he clum out on 
 t'other bank; and 'at was the last anybody ever seed o' 
 Ben Carter! 
 
 It must a-be'n about three o'clock in the morning by 
 this time, and the mill then was jist a-smoulderin' to 
 ashes fer it was as dry as tinder and burnt like a flash 
 and jist as a party was a-talkin' o' organizin' and fol- 
 lerin' Carter, we heerd a yell 'at I'll never fergit ef I'd 
 live tell another flood. Old Ezry, it was, as white as a 
 corpse, and with the blood a-streamin' out of a gash in 
 his forred, and his clothes half on, come a-rushin' into 
 the crowd and a-hollerin' fire and murder ever' jump. 
 " My house is a-burnin', and my folks is all a-bein' mur 
 dered whilse you're a-standin' here ! And Bills done it ! 
 
 12 177
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 Bills done it!" he hollered, as he headed the crowd and 
 started back fer home. " Bills done it! I caught him at 
 it; and he would a-murdered me in cold blood ef it 
 hadn't a-be'n fer his woman. He knocked me down, and 
 had me tied to a bed-post in the kitchen afore I come to. 
 And his woman cut me loose and told me to run fer he'p ; 
 and says I, ' Where's Bills?' and she says, 'He's after 
 me by this time.' And jist then we heerd Bills holler, 
 and we looked, and he was a-standin' out in the clearin' 
 in front o' the house, with little Annie in his arms ; and 
 he hollered wouldn't she like to kiss the baby good-bye. 
 And she hollered My God ! fer me to save little Annie, 
 and fainted clean dead away. And I heerd the roof 
 a-crackin', and grabbed her up and packed her out jist 
 in time. And when I looked up. Bills hollered out agin, 
 and says, ' Ezry,' he says, ' you kin begin to kindo' git 
 an idee o' what a good feller I am! Andef you hadn't 
 a-caught me you'd a-never a-knowed it, and ''Brother 
 Williams " wouldn't a-be'n called away to another ap- 
 p'intment like he is.' And says he, ' Now, ef you foller 
 me I'll finish you shore! You're safe now fer I hain't 
 got time to waste on you furder.' And jist then his 
 
 178
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 woman kindo' come to her senses ag'in and hollered fer 
 little Annie, and the child heerd her and helt out its 
 little arms to go to her, and hollered ' Mother! Mother!' 
 And Bills says, 'Dam yer mother! ef it hadn't a-be'n 
 fer her I' a-be'n all right. And dam you, too ! ' he says 
 to me. ' This'll pay you fer that lick you struck me; 
 and fer you a-startin' reports, when I first come, 'atmore'n 
 likely I'd done somepin' mean over East and come out 
 West to reform ! And I wonder ef I didn't do somepin' 
 mean afore I come here ?' he went on ; ' kill somebody er 
 somepin' ? And I wonder ef I ain't reformed enough 
 to go back? Good-bye, Annie!' he hollered; ' and you 
 needn't fret about yer baby, I'll be the same indulgent 
 father to it I've allus be'n ! ' And the baby was a-cryin' 
 and a-reachin' out its little arms to'rds its mother, when 
 Bills he turned and struck off in the dark to'rds the river." 
 
 This was about the tale 'at Ezry told us, as nigh as I 
 can rickollect: and by the time he finished, I never want 
 to see jist sich another crowd o' men as was a-swarmin' 
 there. Ain't it awful when sich a crowd gits together? 
 I tell you it makes my flesh creep to think about itl 
 
 As Bills had gone in the direction of the river, we 
 179
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 wasn't long in makin' our minds up 'at he'd haf to cross 
 it, and ef he done that he'd haf to use the boat 'at was 
 down below the mill, er wade it at the ford, a mil'd er 
 more down. So we divided in three sections, like one 
 to go and look after the folks at the house, and another 
 to the boat, and another to the ford. And Steve and 
 me and Ezry was in the crowd 'at struck fer the boat: 
 and we made time a-gittin' there ! It was awful dark, 
 and the sky wasa-cloudin' up, like a storm ; but we wasn't 
 long a-gittin' to the p'int where the boat was allus tied ; 
 but they wasn't no boat there! Steve kindo' tuk the 
 lead, and we all talked in whispers. And Steve said to 
 kindo' lay low and maybe we could hear somepin' ; and 
 some feller said he thought he heerd somepin' strange- 
 like, but the wind was kindo' raisin' and kep' up sich a 
 moanin' through the trees along the bank 'at we couldn't 
 make out nothin'. " Listen !" says Steve, suddent-like, 
 "/hear somepin' !" We was all still ag'in and we all 
 heerd a moanin' 'at was sadder'n the wind sounded 
 mournfuller to me, 'cause I knowed it in a minute, and I 
 whispered, "Little Annie." And 'way out acrost the 
 river we could hear the little thing a-sobbin', and we all 
 
 180
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 was still's death ; and we heerd a voice we knowed was 
 Bills's say, "Dam ye! Keep still, or I'll drowndye!" 
 And the wind kindo' moaned ag'in, and we could hear 
 the trees a-screetchin' together in the dark, and the 
 leaves a-rustlin' ; and when it kindo' lulled ag'in, we 
 heerd Bills make a kindo' splash with the oars ; and jist 
 then Steve whispered fer to lay low and be ready he 
 was a-goin' to riconn'itre; and he took his coat and 
 shoes off, and slid over the bank and down into the 
 worter as slik as a' eel. Then ever'thing was still 
 ag'in, 'cept the moanin' o' the child, which kep* a-git- 
 tin' louder and louder; and then a voice whispered to 
 us, "He's a-comin' back; the crowd below has sent 
 scouts up, and they're on t'other side. Now watch 
 clos't, and he's our meat." We could hear Bills, by 
 the moanin' o' the baby, a-comin' nearder and nearder, 
 tel suddently he made a sorto' miss-lick with the oar, I 
 reckon, and must a-splashed the baby, fer she set up a 
 loud cryin' ; and jist then old Ezry, who was a-leanin' 
 over the bank, kindo' lost his grip, some way o' nother, 
 and fell kersplash in the worter like a' old chunk. 
 "Hello!" says Bills, through the dark, "you're there, 
 
 181
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 too, air ye?" as old Ezry splashed up the bank ag'in. 
 And "Cuss you!" he says then, to the baby "ef it 
 hadn't be'n fer your infernal squawkin' I'd a-be'n all 
 right ; but you've brought the whole neighberhood out, 
 and, dam you, I'll jist let you swim out to 'em !" And 
 we heerd a splash, then a kindo gurglin', and then 
 Steve's voice a-hollerin', "Close in on him, boys; I've 
 got the baby!" And about a dozent of us bobbed off 
 the bank like so many bull-frogs, and I'll tell you the 
 worter b'iled! We could jist make out the shape o' 
 the boat, and Bills a-standin' with a' oar drawed back to 
 smash the first head 'at come in range. It was a mean 
 place to git at him. We knowed he was despert, and 
 fer a minute we kindo' helt back. Fifteen foot o' 
 worter's a mighty onhandy place to git hit over the 
 head in! And Bills says, "You hain't afeard, I rickon 
 twenty men ag'in one ! " "You'd better give yourse'f 
 up!" hollered Ezry from the shore. "No, Brother 
 Sturgiss," says Bills, " I can't say 'at I'm at all anxious 
 'bout bein' borned ag'in, jist yit awhile," he says; "I 
 see you kindo' 'pear to go in fer baptism; guess you'd 
 better go home and git some dry clothes on; and, 
 
 182
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 speakin* o' home, you'd ort 'o be there by all means 
 your house might catch afire and burn up whilse you're 
 gone!" And jist then the boat give a suddent shove 
 under him some feller'd div under and tilted it and 
 fer a minute it throwed him off his guard, and the boys 
 closed in. Still he had the advantage, bein' in the boat: 
 and as fast as a feller would climb in he'd git a whack 
 o' the oar, tell finally they got to pilin' in a little too 
 fast fer him to manage, and he hollered then at we'd 
 have to come to the bottom ef we got him, and with 
 that he div out o' the end o' the boat, and we lost sight 
 of him ; and I'll be blame ef he didn't give us the slip 
 after all! 
 
 Wellsir, we watched fer him, and some o' the boys 
 swum on down stream, expectin' he'd raise, but couldn't 
 find hide ner hair of him ; so we left the boat a-driftin' 
 off down stream and swum ashore, a-thinkin' he'd jist 
 drownded hisse'f a-purpose. But they was more su'- 
 prise waitin' fer us yit, fer lo-and-behold-ye, when we 
 got ashore they wasn't no trace o' Steve er the baby to 
 be found. Ezry said he seed Steve when he fetched 
 little Annie ashore, and she was all right, on'y she was 
 
 183
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 purt-nigh past cryin' ; and he said Steve had lapped his 
 coat around her and give her to him to take charge of, 
 and he got so excited over the fight he laid her down 
 betwixt a couple o* logs and kindo' fergot about her tel 
 the thing was over, and he went to look fer her, and she 
 was gone. Couldn't a-be'n 'at she'd a-wundered off 
 her-own-se'f ; and it couldn't a-be'n 'at Steve 'd take 
 her, 'thout a-lettin' us know it. It was a mighty ag- 
 gervatin' conclusion to come to, but we had to do it, 
 and that was, Bills must a-got ashore unbeknownst to 
 us and packed her off. Sich a thing wasn't hardly 
 probable, yit it was a thing 'at might be ; and after 
 a-talkin' it over we had to admit 'at that must a-be'n 
 the way of it. But where was Steve? W'y, we argied, 
 he'd diskivvered she was gone, and had putt out on 
 track of her 'thout losin' time to stop and explain the 
 thing. The next question was, what did Bills want 
 with her ag'in? He'd tried to drownd her onc't. We 
 could ast questions enough, but c'rect answers was 
 mighty skearce, and we jist concluded 'at the best thing 
 to do was to putt out fer the ford, fer that was the nigh- 
 dest place Bills could cross 'thout a boat, and ef it was 
 
 184
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 him tuk the child, he was still on our side o' the river, 
 o' course. So we struck out fer the ford, a-leavin' 
 a couple o' men to search up the river. A drizzlin' 
 sorto' rain had set in by this time, and with that and 
 the darkness and the moanin' of the wind, it made 'bout 
 as lonesome a prospect as a feller ever wants to go 
 through ag'in. 
 
 It was jist a-gittin' a little gray-like in the morning by 
 the time we reached the ford, but you couldn't hardly 
 see two rods afore you fer the mist and the fog 'at had 
 settled along the river. We looked fer tracks, but 
 couldn't make out nothin'. Thereckly old Ezry punched 
 me and p'inted out acrost the river. "What's that?" 
 he whispers. Jist 'bout half-way acrost was somepin' 
 white-like in the worter couldn't make out what per- 
 feckly still it was. And I whispered back and told him 
 I guess it wasn't nothin' but a sycamore snag. "Listen!" 
 says he ; "sycamore snags don't make no noise like that!" 
 And, shore enough, it was the same moanin' noise we'd 
 heerd the baby makin' when we first got on the track. 
 Sobbin' she was, as though nigh about dead. "Well, ef 
 that's Bills" says I "and I reckon they hain't no 
 
 185
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 doubt but it is what in the name o' all that's good and 
 bad's the feller a-standin' there fer!" And a-creepin' 
 clos'ter, we could make him out plainer and plainer. It 
 was him ; and there he stood breast-high in the worter, 
 a-holdin' the baby on his shoulder like, and a-lookin' up 
 stream, and a-waitin.' 
 
 "What do you make out of it?" saysEzry. "What's 
 he waitin' fer?" 
 
 And, a-strainin' my eyes in the direction he was 
 a-lookin', I seed somepin' a-movin' down the river, and 
 a minute later I'd made out the old boat a-driftin' down 
 stream ; and then of course ever'thing was plain enough : 
 He was waitin' fer the boat, and ef he got that he'd 
 have the same advantage on us he had afore. 
 
 "Boys," says I, "he mustn't git that boat ag'in! 
 Foller me, and don't let him git to the shore alive!" 
 And in we plunged. He seed us, but he never budged, 
 on'y to grab the baby by its little legs, and swing it out 
 at arms-len'th. "Stop, there!" he hollered. "Stop 
 jist where ye air! Move another inch and I'll drownd 
 this dam young-un afore yereyes!" he says. And he'd 
 a-done it. " Boys," says I, " he's got us. Don't move,' 
 
 186
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 This thing'll have to rest with a higher power'n our'n! 
 Ef any of you kin pray" says I, " now's a good time to 
 do it!" 
 
 Jist then the boat swung up, and Bills grabbed it and 
 retch 'round and set the baby in it, never a-takin' his eye 
 off o' us, though, fer a minute. "Now," says he, with a 
 sorto' snarlin' laugh, " I've on'y got a little while to stay 
 with you, and I want to say a few words afore I go. I 
 want to tel you fellers, in the first place, 'at you've be'n 
 fooled in me: I hain't a good feller now, honest! And 
 ef you're a little the worse fer findin' it out so late in the 
 day, you hain't none the worse fer losin' me so soon 
 fer I'm a-goin' away now, and any interference with my 
 arrangements' 11 on'y give you more trouble ; so it's better 
 all around to let me go peaceable and jist while I'm in 
 the notion. I expect it'll be a disapp'intment to some o' 
 you that my name hain't 'Williams,' but it hain't. And 
 maybe you won't think nigh as much o' me when I tell 
 you furder 'at I was obleeged to 'dopt the name o' 'Wil 
 liams ' onc't to keep from bein' strung up to a lamp-post, 
 but sich is the facts. I was so extremely unfortunit 
 onc't as to kill a p'tickler friend o' mine, and he forgive 
 
 187
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 me with his dyin* breath, and told me to run whilse I 
 could, and be a better man. But he'd spotted me with 
 a' ugly mark 'at made it kindo' onhandy to git away, but 
 I did at last ; and jist as I was a-gittin' reformed-like, you 
 fellers had to kick in the traces, and I've made up my 
 mind to hunt out a more moraler community, where 
 they don't make sich a fuss about trifles. And havin' 
 nothin' more to say, on'y to send Annie word 'at I'll still 
 be a father to her young-un here, I'll bid you all good 
 bye." And with that he turned and clum in the boat 
 or ruther_/e//in, fer somepin' black-like had riz up in 
 it, with a' awful lick my God! And, a minute later, 
 boat and baggage was a-gratin' on the shore, and a 
 crowd come thrashin' 'crost from t'other side to jine us, 
 and 'peared like wasn't a second longer tel a feller was 
 a-swingin' by his neck to the limb of a scrub-oak, his 
 feet clean off the ground and his legs a-jerkin' up and 
 down like a limber-jack's. 
 
 And Steve it was a-layin' in the boat, and he'd rid a 
 mil'd er more 'thout knowin' of it. Bills had struck and 
 stunt him as he clum in whilse the rumpus was a-goin* 
 
 188
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 on, and he'd on'y come to in time to hear Bills's fare 
 well address to us there at the ford. 
 
 Steve tuk charge o' little Annie ag'in, and ef she'd 
 a-be'n his own child he wouldn't a-went on more over her 
 than he did ; and said nobody but her mother would git 
 her out o' his hands ag'in. And he was as good as his 
 word ; and ef you could a-seed him a half hour after 
 that, when he did give her to her mother all lapped up 
 in his coat and as drippin' wet as a little drownded 
 angel it would a-made you wish't you was him to see 
 that little woman a-caperin' round him, and a-thankin' 
 him, and a-cryin' and a-laughin', and almost a-huggin' 
 him, she was so tickled, well, I thought in my soul 
 she'd die ! And Steve blushed like a girl to see her 
 a-takin' on, and a-thankin' him, and a-cryin', and a-kissin' 
 little Annie, and a-goin' on. And when she inquired 
 'bout Bills, which she did all suddent-like, with a burst 
 o' tears, we jist didn't have the heart to tell her on'y 
 we said he'd crossed the river and got away. And he 
 had! 
 
 And now comes a part o' this thing 'at'll more'n like 
 tax you to believe it: Williams and her wasn't man and 
 
 1 80
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 wife and you needn't look su'prised, nuther, and I'll 
 tell you f er why : They was own brother and sister ; and 
 that brings me to her part of the story, which you'll haf 
 to admit beats anything 'at you ever read about in books. 
 
 Her and Williams that wasn't his name, like he ac 
 knowledged, hisse'f, you rickollect ner she didn't want 
 to tell his right name ; and we forgive her fer that. Her 
 and "Williams" was own brother and sister, and their 
 parunts lived in Ohio some'ers. Their mother had be'n 
 dead five year' and better grieved to death over her 
 onnachurl brother's recklessness, which Annie hinted 
 had broke her father up in some way, in tryin' to shield 
 him from the law. And the secret of her bein' with him 
 was this : She had married a man o' the name of Curtis 
 or Custer, I don't mind which, adzackly but no mat 
 ter; she'd married a well-to-do young feller 'at her 
 brother helt a' old grudge ag'in, she never knowed what ; 
 and, sence her marriage, her brother had went on from 
 bad to worse, tel finally her father jist give him up and 
 told him to go it his own way he'd killed his mother 
 and ruined him, and he'd jist give up all hopes! But 
 
 190
 
 AN OLD SETTLER S STORY 
 
 Annie you know how a sister is she still clung to him 
 and done ever'thing fer him, tel finally, one night, about 
 three years after she was married, she got word some 
 way that he was in trouble ag'in, and sent her husband 
 to he'p him; and a half hour after he'd gone, her 
 brother come in, all excited and bloody, and told her to 
 git the baby and come with him, 'at her husband had got 
 in a quarrel with a friend o' his and was bad hurt. And 
 she went with him, of course, and he tuk her in a bug 
 gy, and lit out with her as tight as he could go all 
 night; and then told her 'at he was the feller 'at had 
 quarrelled with her husband, and the officers was after 
 him, and he was obleeged to leave the country, and fer 
 fear he hadn't made shore work o' him, he was a-takin' 
 her along to make shore of his gittin' his revenge ; and 
 he swore he'd kill her and the baby too ef she dared to 
 whimper. And so it was, through a hunderd hardships 
 he'd made his way at last to our section o' the country, 
 givin' out 'at they was man and wife, and keepin' her 
 from denyin' of it by threats, and promises of the time 
 a-comin' when he'd send her home to her man ag'in in 
 case he hadn't killed him. And so it run on tel you'd 
 
 191
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 a-cried to hear her tell it, and still see her sister's love 
 fer the feller a-breakin' out by a-declarin' how kind he 
 was to her at times, and how he wasn't railly bad at 
 heart, on'y fer his ungov'nable temper. But I couldn't 
 he'p but notice, when she was a-tellin' of her hist'ry, 
 what a quiet sorto* look o' satisfaction settled on the 
 face o' Steve and the rest of 'em, don't you understand. 
 
 And now they was on'y one thing she wanted to ast, 
 she said ; and that was, could she still make her home 
 with us tel she could git word to her friends? and 
 there she broke down ag'in, not knowin', of course, 
 whether they was dead er alive; fer time and time ag'in 
 she said somepin' told her she'd never see her husband 
 ag'in on this airth; and then the women-folks would cry 
 with her and console her, and the boys would speak 
 hopeful all but Steve ; some way o' nother Steve was 
 never like hisse'f from that time on. 
 
 And so things went fer a month and better. Ever'- 
 thing had quieted down, and Ezry and a lot o' hands, 
 and me and Steve amongst 'em, was a-workin' on the 
 frame-work of another mill. It was purty weather, and 
 we was all in good sperits, and it 'peared like the whole 
 
 192
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 neighberhood interested and they was, too women 
 folks and ever'body. And that day Ezry's woman and 
 amongst 'em was a-gittin' up a big dinner to fetch down 
 to us from the house ; and along about noon a spruce- 
 lookin' young feller, with a pale face and a black beard, 
 like, come a-ridin' by and hitched his hoss, and comin' 
 into the crowd, said "Howdy," pleasant-like, and we 
 all stopped work as he went on to say 'at he was on the 
 track of a feller o' the name o' "Williams," and want 
 ed to know ef we could give him any infermation 'bout 
 sich a man. Told him maybe, 'at a feller bearin' 
 that name desappeared kindo' myster'ous from our 
 neighberhood 'bout five weeks afore that. "My God!" 
 says he a-turnin' paler'n ever, "am I too late? Where 
 did he go, and was his sister and her baby with him?" 
 Jist then I ketched sight o' the women-folks a-comin' 
 with the baskets, and Annie with 'em, with a jug o' 
 worter in her hand ; so I spoke up quick to the stranger, 
 and says I, "I guess 'his sister and her baby' wasn't 
 along," says I, " but his wife and baby's some'eres here 
 in the neighberhood yit." And then a-watchin' him 
 clos't, I says, suddent, a-p'intin' over his shoulder, 
 
 '3 193
 
 AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY 
 
 "There his woman is now that one with the jug, 
 there." Well, Annie had jist stooped to lift up one o' 
 the little girls, when the feller turned, and their eyes 
 met. "Annie! My wife!" he says; and Annie she 
 kindo' give a little yelp like and come a-flutterin' down 
 in his arms ; and the jug o' worter rolled clean acrost 
 the road, and turned a somerset and knocked the cob 
 out of its mouth and jist laid back and hollered "Good 
 good good good good!" like as ef it knowed 
 what was up and was jist as glad and tickled as the rest 
 of us. 
 
 194
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 '95
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 ''And the common people heard him gladly." 
 
 OF what shall be said herein of dialect, let it be un% 
 derstood the term dialect referred to is of that general 
 breadth of meaning given it to-day, namely, any speech 
 or vernacular outside the prescribed form of good En 
 glish in its present state. The present state of the 
 English is, of course, not any one of its prior states. 
 So first let it be remarked that it is highly probable that 
 what may have been the best of English once may now 
 by some be counted as a weak, inconsequent patois, or 
 dialect. 
 
 To be direct, it is the object of this article to show 
 that dialect is not a thing to be despised in any event 
 that its origin is oftentimes of as royal caste as that of 
 any speech. Listening back, from the standpoint of to 
 day, even to the divine singing of that old classic master 
 to whom England's late laureate refers as 
 
 197
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 "... the first warbler, whose sweet breath 
 Preluded those melodious bursts that fill 
 The spacious times of great Elizabeth 
 With sounds that echo still"; 
 
 or to whom Longfellow alludes, in his matchless sonnet, as 
 
 "... the poet of the dawn, who wrote 
 The Canterbury Tales, and his old age 
 Made beautiful with song"; 
 
 Chaucer's verse to us is now as veritably dialect as to 
 that old time it was the chastest English ; and even then 
 his materials were essentially dialect when his song was 
 at best pitch. Again, our present dialect, of most 
 plebeian ancestry, may none the less prove worthy. 
 Mark the recognition of its own personal merit in the 
 great new .dictionary, where what was, in our own re 
 membrance, the most outlandish dialect, is now good, 
 sound, official English. 
 
 Since Literature must embrace all naturally existing 
 materials physical, mental, and spiritual we have no 
 occasion to urge its acceptance of so-called dialect, for 
 
 198
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 dialect is in Literature, and has been there since the be 
 ginning of all written thought and utterance. Strictly 
 speaking, as well as paradoxically, all verbal expression 
 is more or less dialectic, however grammatical. While 
 usage establishes grammar, it no less establishes so- 
 called dialect. Therefore we may as rightfully refer to 
 "so-called grammar." 
 
 It is not really a question of Literature's position 
 toward dialect that we are called upon to consider, but 
 rather how much of Literature's valuable time shall be 
 taken up by this dialectic country cousin. This question 
 Literature her gracious self most amiably answers by 
 hugging to her breast voluminous tomes, from Chaucer 
 on to Dickens, from Dickens on to Joel Chandler Harris. 
 And this affectionate spirit on the part of Literature, in 
 the main, we all most feelingly indorse. 
 
 Briefly summed, it would appear that dialect means 
 something more than mere rude form of speech and 
 action that it must, in some righteous and substantial 
 way, convey to us a positive force of soul, truth, dignity, 
 beauty, grace, purity and sweetness that may even touch 
 us to the tenderness of tears. Yes, dialect as certainly 
 
 199
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 does all this as that speech and act refined may do it, 
 and for the same reason: it is simply, purely natural 
 and human. 
 
 /et the Lettered and the Unlettered powers are at 
 swords' points; and very old and bitter foemen, too, 
 they are. As fairly as we can, then, let us look over 
 the field of these contending forces and note their di 
 verse positions: First, the Lettered they who have 
 the full advantages of refined education, training, and 
 association are undoubtedly as wholly out of order 
 among the Unlettered as the Unlettered are out of order 
 in the exalted presence of the Lettered. Each faction 
 may in like aversion ignore or snub the other; but a 
 long-suffering Providence must bear with the society of 
 both. There may be one vague virtue demonstrated by 
 this feud: each division will be found unwaveringly 
 loyal to its kind, and mutually they desire no inter 
 change of sympathy whatever. Neither element will 
 accept from the other any patronizing treatment; and, 
 perhaps, the more especially does the Unlettered faction 
 reject anything in vaguest likeness of this spirit. Of 
 the two divisions, in graphic summary, one knows the 
 
 200 -/
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 very core and centre of refined civilization, and this 
 only ; the other knows the outlying wilds and suburbs 
 of civilization, and this only. Whose, therefore, is the 
 greater knowledge, and whose the just right of any whit 
 of self-glorification? 
 
 A curious thing, indeed, is this factional pride, as 
 made equally manifest in both forces; in one, for in 
 stance, of the Unlettered forces: The average farmer, 
 or countryman, knows, in reality, a far better and wider 
 range of diction than he permits himself to use. He re 
 stricts and abridges the vocabulary of his speech, funda 
 mentally, for the reason that he fears offending his rural 
 neighbors, to whom a choicer speech might suggest, on 
 his part, an assumption a spirit of conscious superior 
 ity) and therewith an implied reflection on their lack of 
 intelligence and general worthiness. If there is any one 
 text universally known and nurtured of the Unlettered 
 masses of our common country, it is that which reads, 
 "All men are created equal." Therefore it is a becom 
 ing thing when true gentility prefers to overlook some 
 variations of the class who, more from lack of cultiva 
 tion than out of rude intent, sometimes almost compel a 
 
 20 1
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 positive doubt of the nice veracity of the declaration, or 
 at least a grief at the munificent liberality of the so-be- 
 quoted statement. The somewhat bewildering position 
 of these conflicting forces leaves us nothing further to 
 consider, but how to make the most and best of the sit 
 uation so far as Literature may be hurt or helped 
 thereby. 
 
 Equally with the perfect English, then, dialect should 
 have full justice done it. Then always it is worthy, and 
 in Literature is thus welcome. The writer of dialect 
 should as reverently venture in its use as in his chastest 
 English. His effort in the scholarly and elegant direc 
 tion suffers no neglect he is schooled in that, perhaps, 
 he may explain. Then let him be schooled in dialect 
 before he sets up as an expounder of it a teacher, for 
 sooth a master! The real master must not only know 
 each varying light and shade of dialect expression, but 
 he must as minutely know the inner character of the 
 people whose native tongue it is, else his product is 
 simply a pretence a wilful forgery, a rank abomina 
 tion. Dialect has been and is thus insulted, vilified, 
 and degraded, now and continually; and through this 
 
 202
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 outrage solely, thousands of generous-minded readers 
 have been' turned against dialect who otherwise would 
 have loved and blessed it in its real form of crude purity 
 and unstrained sweetness 
 
 " Honey dripping from the comb ! " 
 
 Let no impious faddist, then, assume its just interpre 
 tation. He may know everything else in the world, but 
 not dialect, nor dialectic people, for both of which he 
 has supreme contempt, which same, be sure, is heartily 
 returned. Such a "superior" personage may even go 
 among these simple country people and abide indefinitely 
 in the midst of them, yet their more righteous contempt 
 never for one instant permits them to be their real selves 
 in his presence. In consequence, his most conscientious 
 report of them, their ways, lives, and interests, is abso 
 lutely of no importance or value in the world. He never 
 knew them, nor will he ever know them. They are not 
 his kind of people, any more than he is their kind of 
 man ; and their disappointment grieves us more than his. 
 
 The master in Literature, as in any art, is that "di 
 vinely gifted man" who does just obeisance to all living 
 
 203
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 creatures, "both man and beast and bird." It is this 
 master only who, as he writes, can sweep himself aside 
 and leave his humble characters to do the thinking and 
 the talking. This man it is who celebrates his perform 
 ance not himself. His work he celebrates because it 
 is not his only, but because he feels it the conscientious 
 reproduction of the life itself as he has seen and known 
 and felt it; a representation it is of God's own script, 
 translated and transcribed by the worshipful mind and 
 heart and hand of genius. This virtue in all art is im 
 partially demanded, and genious only can fully answer 
 the demand in any art for which we claim perfection. 
 The painter has his expression of it, with no slighting 
 of the dialectic element; so, too, the sculptor, the musi 
 cian, and the list entire. In the line of Literature and 
 literary material, an illustration of the nice meaning and 
 distinction of dialectic art will be found in Charles Dud 
 ley Warner's comment of George Cable's work, as far 
 back as 1883, referring to the author's own rendition of 
 it from the platform. Mr. Warner says: 
 
 While the author was unfolding to his audience a life and 
 society unfamiliar to them and entrancing them with pictures^ 
 
 2Q4.
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 the reality of which none doubted and the spell of which none 
 cared to escape, it occurred to me that here was the solution of 
 all the pother we have recently got into about the realistic and 
 the ideal schools in fiction. In " Posson Jone," an awkward 
 camp-meeting country preacher is the victim of a vulgar con 
 fidence game ; the scenes are the street, a drinking-place, a 
 gambling-saloon, a bull-ring, and a calaboose ; there is not a 
 " respectable " character in it. Where shall we look for a more 
 faithful picture of low life ? Where shall we find another so 
 vividly set forth in all its sordid details ? And yet see how art 
 steps in, with the wand of genius, to make literature ! Over the 
 whole the author has cast an ideal light ; over a picture that, in 
 the hands of a bungling realist, would have been repellant he 
 has thrown the idealizing grace that makes it one of the most 
 charming sketches in the world. Here is nature, as nature only 
 ought to be in literature, elevated but never departed from. 
 
 So we find dialect, as a branch of Literature, worthy 
 of the high attention and employment of the greatest 
 master in letters not the merest mountebank. Turn to 
 Dickens, in innumerable passages of pathos : the death 
 of poor Jo, or that of the " Cheap John's "little daughter 
 in her father's arms, on the foot-board of his peddling 
 cart before the jeering of the vulgar mob ; smile moistly, 
 too, at Mr. Sleary's odd philosophies ; or at the trials of 
 
 205
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 Sissy Jupe ; or lift and tower with indignation, giving 
 ear to Stephen Blackpool and the stainless nobility of 
 his cloyed utterances. 
 
 The crudeness or the homeliness of the dialectic ele 
 ment does not argue its unfitness in any way. Some 
 readers seem to think so ; but they are wrong, and very 
 gravely wrong. Our own brief history as a nation, and our 
 rinding and founding and maintaining of it, left our fore 
 fathers little time indeed for the delicate cultivation of 
 the arts and graces of refined and scholarly attainments. 
 And there is little wonder, and great blamelessness on 
 their part, if they lapsed in point of high mental ac 
 complishments, seeing their attention was so absorbed 
 by propositions looking toward the protection of their 
 rude farm-homes, their meagre harvests, and their half- 
 stabled cattle from the dread invasion of the Indian. 
 Then, too, they had their mothers and their wives and 
 little ones to protect, to clothe, to feed, and to die for 
 in this awful line of duty, as hundreds upon hundreds 
 did. These sad facts are here accented and detailed not 
 so much for the sake of being tedious as to more clearly 
 indicate why it was that many of the truly heroic an- 
 
 306
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 cestry of " our best people " grew unquestionably dialect 
 of caste not alone in speech, but in every mental trait 
 and personal address. It is a grievous fact for us to 
 confront, but many of them wore apparel of the com 
 monest, talked loudly, and doubtless said "thisaway" 
 and " thataway," and " Watch y' doin'of ?" and "Whur 
 y' goin' at? " using dialect even in their prayers to Him 
 who, in His gentle mercy, listened and was pleased; and 
 who listens verily unto this hour to all like prayers, and 
 yet pleased ; yea, haply listens even to the refined rhetor 
 ical petitions of those who are not pleased. 
 
 There is something more at fault than the language 
 when we turn from or flinch at it; and, as has been in 
 timated, the wretched fault may be skulkingly hidden 
 away in the ambush of ostensible dialect that type of 
 dialect so copiously produced by its sole manufacturers, 
 who, utterly stark and bare of the vaguest idea of 
 country life or country people, at once assume that all 
 their "gifted pens" have to do is to stupidly misspell 
 every word ; vulgarly mistreat and besloven every theme, 
 however sacred; maim, cripple, and disfigure language 
 never in the vocabulary of the countryman then 
 
 207
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 smuggle these monstrosities of either rhyme or prose 
 soHiehow into the public print that is to innocently 
 smear them broadcast all over the face of the country 
 they insult. 
 
 How different the mind and method of the true inter 
 preter. As this phrase goes down the man himself 
 arises the type perfect Colonel Richard Malcolm 
 Johnston, who wrote "The Dukesborough Tales" an 
 accomplished classic scholar and teacher, yet no less an 
 accomplished master and lover of his native dialect of 
 middle Georgia. He, like Dickens, permits his rustic 
 characters to think, talk, act, and live, just as nature 
 designed them. He does not make the pitiable error of 
 either patronizing or making fun of them. He knows 
 them and he loves them ; and they know and love him in 
 return. Recalling Colonel Johnston's dialectic sketches, 
 with his own presentation of them from the platform, 
 the writer notes a fact that seems singularly to obtain 
 among all true dialect-writers, namely, that they are 
 also endowed with native histrionic capabilities : Hear, 
 as well as read, Twain, Cable, Johnston, Page, Smith, 
 and all the list, with barely an exception. 
 
 208
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 Did space permit, no better illustration of true dialect 
 sketch and characterization might here be offered than 
 Colonel Johnston's simple story of "Mr. Absalom Bil- 
 lingslea," or the short and simple annals of his like 
 quaint contemporaries, "Mr. Bill Williams" and "Mr. 
 Jonas Lively." The scene is the country and the very 
 little country town, with landscape, atmosphere, sim 
 plicity, circumstance all surroundings and conditions 
 veritable everything rural and dialectic, no less than 
 the simple, primitive, common, wholesome-hearted men 
 and women who so naturally live and have their blessed 
 being in his stories, just as in the life itself. This is the 
 manifest work of the true dialect writer and expounder 
 In every detail, the most minute, such work reveals the 
 master-hand and heart of the humanitarian as well as 
 artist the two are indissolubly fused and the result of 
 such just treatment of whatever lowly themes or charac 
 ters we can but love and loyally approve with all our 
 human hearts. Such masters necessarily are rare, and 
 such ripe perfecting as is here attained may be in part 
 the mellowing result of age and long observation, though 
 
 14 209
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 it can but be based upon the wisest, purest spirit of the 
 man as well as artist. 
 
 In no less excellence should the work of Joel Chandler 
 Harris be regarded : His touch alike is ever reverential. 
 He has gathered up the bruised and broken voices and 
 the legends of the slave, and from his child-heart he 
 has affectionately yielded them to us in all their eerie 
 beauty and wild loveliness. Through them we are made 
 to glorify the helpless and the weak and to revel in their 
 victories. But, better, we are taught that even in bar 
 baric breasts there dwells inherently the sense of right 
 above wrong equity above law and the One Unerring 
 Righteousness Eternal. With equal truth and strength, 
 too, Mr. Harris has treated the dialectic elements of the 
 interior Georgia country the wilds and fastnesses of 
 the " moonshiners." His tale of " Teague Poteet," of 
 some years ago, was contemporaneous with the list of 
 striking mountain stories from that strong and highly 
 gifted Tennesseean, Miss Murfree, or "Charles Egbert 
 Craddock. " In the dialectic spirit her stories charm and 
 hold us. Always there is strangely mingled, but most 
 naturally, the gentle nature cropping out amid the most 
 
 210
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 desperate and stoical : the night scene in the isolated 
 mountain cabin, guarded ever without and within from 
 any chance down-swooping of the minions of the red- 
 eyed law ; the great man-group of gentle giants, with 
 rifles never out of arm's-reach, in tender rivalry ranged 
 admiringly around the crowing, wakeful little boy- 
 baby; the return, at last, of the belated mistress of the 
 house the sister, to whom all do great, awkward rev 
 erence. Jealously snatching up the babe and kissing it, 
 she querulously demands why he has not long ago been 
 put to bed. " He 'lowed he wouldn't go," is the reply. 
 
 Thomas Nelson Page, of Virginia, who wrote " Meh 
 Lady" a positive classic in the Negro dialect: his 
 work is veritable strong and pure and sweet ; and as an 
 oral reader of it the doubly gifted author, in voice and 
 cadence, natural utterance, every possible effect of 
 speech and tone, is doubtless without rival anywhere. 
 
 Many more, indeed, than may be mentioned now 
 there are of these real benefactors and preservers of the 
 wayside characters, times, and customs of our ever- 
 shifting history. Needless is it to speak here of the earlier 
 of our workers in the dialectic line of James Russell 
 
 211
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 Lowell's New England " Hosea Biglow," Dr. Eggles- 
 ton's " Hoosier School-Master," or the very rare and 
 quaint, bright prattle of "Helen's Babies." In connec 
 tion with this last let us very seriously inquire what this 
 real child has done that Literature should so persistently 
 refuse to give him an abiding welcome ? Since for ages 
 this question seems to have been left unasked, it maybe 
 timely now to propound it. Why not the real child in 
 Literature? The real child is good enough (we all 
 know he is bad enough) to command our admiring at 
 tention and most lively interest in real life, and just as 
 we find him " in the raw." Then why do we deny him 
 any righteous place of recognition in our Literature? 
 From the immemorial advent of our dear old Mother 
 Goose, Literature has been especially catering to the 
 juvenile needs and desires, and yet steadfastly overlook 
 ing, all the time, the very principles upon which Nature 
 herself founds and presents this lawless little brood of 
 hers the children. It is not the children who are out 
 of order; it is Literature. And not only is Literature 
 out of order, but she is presumptuous ; she is impudent. 
 She takes Nature's children and revises and corrects 
 
 212
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 them till "their own mother doesn't know them." This 
 is literal fact. So, very many of us are coming to in 
 quire, as we've a right, why is the real child excluded 
 from a just hearing in the world of letters as he has in 
 the world of fact? For instance, what has the lovely 
 little ragamuffin ever done of sufficient guilt to eternally 
 consign him to the monstrous penalty of speaking most 
 accurate grammar all the literary hours of the days of 
 the years of his otherwise natural life ? 
 
 "Oh, mother, may I go to school 
 With brother Charles to-day ? 
 The air is very fine and cool ; 
 Oh, mother, say I may ! " 
 
 Is this a real boy that would make such a request, 
 and is it the real language he would use ? No, we are 
 glad to say that it is not. Simply it is a libel, in every 
 particular, on any boy, however fondly and exactingly 
 trained by parents however zealous for his overdecorous 
 future. Better, indeed, the dubious sentiment of the 
 most trivial nursery jingle, since the latter at least main 
 tains the lawless though wholesome spirit of the child- 
 genuine. 
 
 213
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 " Hink ! Minx ! The old witch winks 
 
 The fat begins to fry ; 
 There's nobody home but Jumping Joan, 
 Father and mother and I." 
 
 Though even here the impious poet leaves the scar of 
 grammatical knowledge upon childhood's native diction ; 
 and so the helpless little fellow is again misrepresented, 
 and his character, to all intents and purposes, is as 
 saulted and maligned outrageously thereby. 
 
 Now, in all seriousness, this situation ought not to be 
 permitted to exist, though to change it seems an almost 
 insurmountable task. The general public, very proba 
 bly, is not aware of the real gravity of the position of 
 the case as even unto this day it exists. Let the public 
 try, then, to contribute the real child to the so-called 
 Child Literature of its country, and have its real child 
 returned as promptly as it dare show its little tousled 
 head in the presence of that scholarly and dignified in 
 stitution. Then ask why your real child has been 
 spanked back home again, and the wise mentors there 
 will virtually tell you that Child Literature wants no 
 real children in it, that the real child's example of de- 
 
 214
 
 DIALECT IN LITERATURE 
 
 fective grammar and lack of elegant deportment would 
 furnish to its little patrician patrons suggestions very 
 hurtful indeed to their higher morals, tendencies, and 
 ambitions. Then, although the general public couldn't 
 for the life of it see why or how, and might even be 
 reminded that it was just such a rowdying child itself, 
 and that its father the Father of his Country was just 
 such a child ; that Abraham Lincoln was just such a 
 lovable, lawless child, and yet was blessed and chosen in 
 the end for the highest service man may ever render 
 unto man, all all this argument would avail not in 
 the least, since the elegantly minded purveyors of Child 
 Literature can not possibly tolerate the presence of any 
 but the refined children the very proper children the 
 studiously thoughtful, poetic children ; and these must 
 be kept safe from the contaminating touch of our rough- 
 and-tumble little fellows in "hodden gray," with frowzly 
 heads, begrimed but laughing faces, and such awful, 
 awful vulgarities of naturalness, and crimes of sim 
 plicity, and brazen faith and trust, and love of life and 
 everybody in it. All other real people are getting into 
 Literature ; and without some real children along will 
 they not soon be getting lonesome, too?
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY 
 This book is DUE on the last date stamped below 
 
 Form L-9 
 20m -1,' 42 (8518)
 
 PS 
 704 
 
 K31 
 1899 
 
 Riley - 
 
 Neighborly 
 poems and _ 
 
 dialect 
 sketches. 
 
 PS 
 
 2704 
 N31 
 1899