Part 1

Transcriber’s Note Italic text displayed as: _italic_ Spaced text displayes as: ~spaced~

TO THE PRESIDING SPIRIT (IN A MANNER OF SPEAKING) HEREIN CALLED “~BILL~” OF SKILLET FORK FARM ON THE BORDERS OF “EGYPT”

Idylls of the Skillet Fork

by

_Payson S. Wild_

_Ralph Fletcher Seymour_ _Chicago_

Copyrighted 1918 Ralph Fletcher Seymour

FOREWORD

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

P. S. W.

_Chicago, November, 1918._

Contents

_Page_

The Skillet 5

The Bootleg Gang at Sims’ 7

The Mocking Bird 11

The Siren 15

Laury at the ’Phone 17

The ’Possum Hunt 19

Jupiter 21

Laury’s Lullaby 23

Bill Non-Committal 25

Laury’s “Eats” 29

Bill on Seth Watts 33

The Katydid 37

Bill’s Vote 41

Bill’s “Risin’” 43

Calamitous Days 47

The Pet Calf 51

Bill on War 53

Treed 57

Bill on Tobacco 59

The New Year’s Turkey 65

The Picture 67

The Letter from Lon 69

The Drouth 73

The Labor Situation 75

Killed in Action 77

November 79

_Say, Bill, ef I’ve cast sparrergrass at yew In this ’ere book, ye needn’t think it’s trew; Fer yew air jes’ ’s yer be from day ter day In spite o’ what us foolin’ fellers say._

IDYLLS OF THE SKILLET FORK

I

The Skillet

I reck’n yew’ve never saw the Skillet? Wal, ye-e-es, they’s likelier streams; But when ye git ri’ daown to ’t, stranger, It kind o’ hants yer dreams.

It pokes along through grayish bottoms, An’ ’s crookeder then worms, An’ the water’s sometimes green an’ scummy, An’ full o’ things thet squirms.

All kinds o’ logs an’ sticks an’ driftin’s Hez here an’ thar got grounded, An’ almos’ everything thet’s in it Looks ’zac’ly like ’t was drownded.

Fokes yuseter say it’s jes’ thet crooked Yew couldn’t cross the crick ’Thout findin’ yew was whar ye started— But thet’s lay’n ’t on tew thick.

I wan’ ter tell ye tho’ they’s somepin’ ’Bout this ’ere Skillet “river” Right naow in Aprul time thet gives ye A reel poetic shiver.

Them gums an’ water-oaks an’ hick’ries, Thet grows along its aidges, Is jes’ alive with leafy swellin’s, Fur Spring’s a-keep’n’ ’er plaidges!

Yer see thet sassafras a-greenin’, Them voylets peekin’ at yer, Thet bunch o’ pinkish blows a-leerin’ Jessif they’d like ter bat yer?

An’ birds! I never heerd sich music, Nor seen sich ri’tous colors, From “Peter-birds” to larks an’ card’nals, An’ sparrers brown ez crullers.

Sa’, jevver hear o’ “cats”? I’ve saw ’em Git ketched in that thar crick; I’d tell ye haow ’f I knowed ye’d b’lieve me— They dew it awful slick.

Yew jes’ wade in—not seein’ nothin’, ’Cos all the water’s yaller— An’ then ye feel in ’raound the mud-holes Whar ’t’s nice an’ warm an’ shaller.

’F a “cat” ’s to home yew tech ’im gentle, An’ sort o’ stroke his flank; Then suddint like yew grab his collar, An’ sling ’im out’ the bank!

* * * * *

Yew’ve mebbe never saw this “river”? Thar is, p’r’aps, likelier streams; But when ye git ri’ daown to ’t, stranger, It right smart hants yer dreams.

II

The Bootleg Gang at Sims’

Yep, Egyp’s dry; ’z a gin’ral rule They ain’t much doin’ in likker; Saloons is skurce ’z a breedin’ mule, An’ shy ’z a nestin’ flicker. But fokes kin git it—“bootleg stuff”— An’ hev a reel good souse, Tho’ most o’ them that does it ’s tough, An’ allers startin’ rows.

Onct down ter Sims’, so people tell, A bunch o’ pickled runts Raised sev’ral kinds o’ p’tic’lar cain An’ pulled some rowdy stunts. Now ’Mersion ’s pop’lar thar ter Sims’, Some ’d ruther hev ’t than eatin’s; More ’n half the fokes sings Baptis’ hymns An’ goes ter all the meetin’s.

Wal, they jes’ give ’emselves a hunch An’ got the law behind ’em; The sheriff rounded up the bunch, An’ Jestice Herford fined ’em. This made the boozers awful sore; They’d git thet Baptis’ goat! So fer a week they planned an’ swore An’ kep’ their scheme remote.

Then suddint like one Sart’day night They took a hoss ’t hed died (They ’lowed it wan’t no pleasant sight), An’ lugged it right inside The Baptis’ church ’ithout a sound, An’ cut it all ter bits, Which they throwed ever’whar around, A-laffin’ mos’ ter fits.

It seems like sackerlege or libel, But fac’s is allers fac’s; Thet hoss’es head laid on the Bible, All bludjunned with a ax. The sexton cleaned the mess some way, An’ services was held; But no one hed no word ter say— Jes’ prayed an’ sang an’—smelled.

The foll’rin’ week some roughneck pup Shet caows up in the church; Which kind o’ het the members up— Enough ter start a search. But nothin’ doin’ till one dark night Thet rummy boozin’ crew Blowed up the church with dynamite, An’ then lit aout an’ flew.

Say, jevver see a Baptis’ _hot_, Not Christyun hot but human? The kind thet kin, jes’ ’s easy’s not, Coagerlate albewman? That’s what they was, jes’ reg’lar hellers; No more o’ heapin’ coals! They swore they’d jug them bootleg fellers ’F it cost their mortal souls.

They done it tew. Some tracks they seen They kivered up with pails; ’N’ a coupl’ o’ “bloods” thet wasn’t green Was sicked upon the trails. They chased the bums ter Hick’ry Run, An’ thar the Baptis’s tarred An’ feathered ev’ry doggone one, An’ chucked ’em under guard.

Them boys is crackin’ stun terday; A new church stan’s in Sims’, An’ now in peace they watch an’ pray An’ sing their Baptis’ hymns.

* * * * *

Yep, Egyp’s dry; ’z a gin’ral thing The toughs don’t dast ter dicker With enny kind o’ Baptis’ ring— Leastways when ’t comes ter likker.

III

The Mocking Bird

I was drinkin’ in the glory on a day Late in May, Feelin’ dreamy an’ delishus, like a chick’n, When she’s pick’n Tiny pebbles out o’ gravel, or a-fluffin’ An’ a-puffin’ All her feathers in a sunny nest o’ dust; An’ I cussed

Sich a foolish world fer sweatin’ an’ a-swinkin’, An’ a-thinkin’ Thet a feller hez ter rustle an’ be snappy Tew be happy. ’Twas a nawful loafy mornin’—tell ye thet— An’ I set Watchin’ ev’ry livin’ critter feel ’is oats. My, them shoats!

Say, yew’d orter heerd ’em gruntin’ an’ a-crunchin’ An’ a-munchin’, Jessif nuthin’ ever mattered in their creed ’Ceptin’ feed. An’ the pidjuns was a-cooin’ quite aloof On the roof; Thar was hosses, thar was heffers, thar was steers, Chanticleers,

Perky hens, an’ turkey cocks, an’, ’pon my word, Ev’ry bird Thet I ever seen or heerd of—all a-croakin’, An’ a-soakin’ In ol’ Feebus’ dazzlin’ rajunce—all a-eatin’ An’ a-tweetin’— Jim’ny Crickets, Holy Kittens! Dew ye wonder Now, by thunder,

’T I was glad ter jes’ be livin’ on the earth? W’y, ’twas worth All the sorrer, all the pain ’t I ever had, ’Twas, by gad! But I gotta tell ye suthin’ ’t ’appened then; Ever b’en Whar a mockin’-bird was tunin’ up ’is fiddle? It’s a riddle

How ’e symfonizes ev’ry sort o’ noise An’ employs A composer’s subterfujes (ez ye’ve noted) Single throated. Wal, I seen one settin’ up thar (knowed ’twas him) On a limb Of a deadish kind o’ ellum, ’n’ I could tell Jes’ ez well

’T ’e was cockyer than a roarin’ swearin’ pirate By the high rate He was thrashin’ o’ them wings o’ his, an’ tail Like a flail. First I tho’t I was a-list’nin’ tew a martin Sure for sartin; Then a blue-jay almos’ give me ’n awful shock With ’is squawk;

I was jest a-gittin’ used ter hearin’ that bird, When a cat-bird Started in ter yowl an’ sputter, julluk Tabby When she’s gabby; Then some swallers, chickadees, an’ whippoorwills Give me thrills, An’ I tell ye I was altergether foozled, Jes’ bamboozled,

Ez I watched that clever cynnic keep a-rockin’ An’ a-mockin’, Till at last he got so bubbly full o’ fizz Thet ’e riz Off thet lonely perch o’ his’n right up square Int’ the air, Still a-swingin’ an’ a-singin’ in ’is revel Like the devil!

Then ’e come ri’ down agin an’ hit the spot Whar ’e’d sot; Hadn’t lost a single note—jes’ kep’ ’er goin’ ’S if he’s mowin’.

* * * * *

Dew ye reckon I’ll fergit thet garrylus Little cuss? Wal, ye got anuther “reckon” comin’ then— Mebbe ten.

IV

The Siren

They’s a hull snarl o’ potes hez driveled ’bout Joon With its leefyness, freshness an’ greenth; ’N’ if I was anuther, I s’pose—which I ain’t— I’d be the four umpty an’ steenth.

Ez regards ter the Skillet—wal, pardner, b’leeve me, It’s right in its prime, buggosh; Yew kin talk all yer wanter, it’s fine ter jes’ sawnter An’ look at ol’ Nacher a-slosh.

I was thar spell ago—druv sixteen mile With Bill an’ a load o’ soy beans; An’ I swar ter the Dooce thet I never hed knowed Afore what _greenin’_ means.

Be’n a-rainin’ like sin, but hed then faired up An’ the sky was julluk a gentian; I ain’t never knew sich a hevvenly blue, Ef ye’ll ’low me in passin’ ter mention.

The river was full, plum full ter the top, A matter o’ thirty odd feet, An’ the water hed backed ont’ the bottoms right smart, But was dreenin’ off fast with the heat.

’Twas a sarpent o’ choc’lit a-rithin’ an’ twistin’ Ri’ down a arborial tunnel; An’ Bill ’e sez, “Naow, ef we hed a ol’ scaow, We could flote ter Noorleans thru a funnel!”

But the way them fiel’s was enjoyin’ thersel’s! They was fairly yellin’ with glee; I reckon I must ’a’ be’n pretty high keyed, An’ I tell ye it jes’ got me.

I kind o’ suspishun Bill heerd suthin’ tew, Fer a exstasy hit ’im like pain; It looked like fer sure he was feelin’ the lure O’ the siren thet sings after rain.

V

Laury at the ’Phone

Will’s drove ter Keene’s fer ’nockerlated seed; Queer, ain’t it, ’bout thet nitrigin—_Down Rover!_ Will sez we git mos’ twict ez much o’ feed Fer growin’ them thar teeny warts on clover....

Uh huh.... We’re limin’ tew; Will sez the sile Hez soured bad an’ needs a “alkali”.... I do’ know what ’tis—never heerd it—I’ll Ax him; on sich like words I’m kind o’ shy....

Malviny? Reely? Throwed anuther fit? Yew better call, I reckon, Docter Mott; Seems like she’s gittin’ old enuff ter quit— Will sez he ’lows it’s jes’ plain fits she’s got.

Our Duroc “Iphijeny” ’s littered ... eight.... Jes’ walkin’ cherries! My, but how they’ll grow! Will’s figg’rin’ now on what’ll be the’r weight Come Fall; he sez our corn’s a-runnin’ low....

D’yew say it’s yaller? Prob’ly got “damp feet”; Will sez alfalfy’ll do thet when’t’s tew wet.... The way it gits ter rain _is_ hard ter beat; But then, Will sez it ain’t no use ter fret....

No, couldn’t go las’ night—set up fer Nell; Vern Rowell druv ’er out—seemed like all night; ’Twas nine afore they come.... He means reel well, But Will he sez the Rowells ain’t quite right....

She _was_? She’s led the singin’ awful good; I never tho’t she’d be baptized; Will sez— _O Willie! Git right off!_—He’s clum the wood Pile; that ’ar’ way he’ll _fall_—Lan’ sakes, he _hez_!

VI

The ’Possum Hunt

“Four Mile” was jes’ kind o’ googlin’ along (It ketches the Skillet in “Thirty-three” Whar the woods is thick an’ the moon ain’t strong, An’ the ’possum hides in a holler tree); ’T was shimmerin’ thar all gold an’ bright Ez we loafed threw the medder thet Awtum night.

We’d et a light supper—sow belly, corn bread, Pickled beets, fried eggs an’ two kinds o’ pie— When Bill, sort o’ cazuel, shoved back an’ said, A-squintin’ aloft at a perfec’ sky: “’S a pretty good night fer coons; so still Yer kin hear yer heart when yer’ve clum up hill.”

I sensed what he meant, so I flaxed around, An’ in less ’n no time we was out on the trail. Bill’s houn’ dawg, ol’ Jess, was sniffin’ the ground Pertendin’ tew ax, “Is it ’possum or quail?” Tho’ she knowed well enough thet a Hunter’s Moon Don’t never mean nuthin’ ’cept ’possum or coon.

I’ve heerd tell o’ moonlights on earth here an’ thar, In Venice, an’ down in ol’ Rome’s Colyseum; But gim _me_ the light of our lunary star When dew turns ter di’monds in Frost’s jubileum; When the ’simmons is ripe, an’ not a leaf stirs, An’ the fiel’s is jes’ drownded in silvery blurs!

We was strollin’ ’long “Four Mile” when suddenly Jess With a sharp, quick yelp shot off threw the bresh. Jehosaphat, pard, I gotta confess How a houn’ dawg’s tonguin’ will quicken the flesh! For over a hour me ’n Bill snook along, An’ never got tired o’ foll’rin’ thet song.

She was pawin’ a tree when we seen ’er at last, A-yelpin’ an’ whinin’ jessif she’s possessed. ’T was a gum, thick an’ solid, an’ big ez a mast, An’ ’fore I could speak Bill was down tew ’is vest. Some chopper is Bill, an’ I sure never seen A tree cut cleaner—nor ha’f ez clean.

All shiny an’ white like a human kid Thet ’possum looked when we hauled ’er out! I felt like ’t was murder, I suttenly did, But Bill ’e sez, “Now, keep a eye on ’er snout; She’ll ac’ ’z if she’s daid ez long ez it’s curled, An’ don’t ye leggo of ’er—not fer the world.”

* * * * *

When we reached “Four Mile” we sed down ter rest, Completely bewitched by thet orb in the West. We was talkin’ ’bout Injuns, an’ _seein’_ ’em tew, When I noticed, by jing, that ’ar ’possum hed blew!

VII

Jupiter

Few months ago, I ’member well, me’n Bill Was settin’ by the cattle wat’rin’-trough A-lis’nin’ tew the steers thet skwudged around The muddy yard an’ chawed the’r cuds an’ sighed. A bunch o’ smallish hogs hed quit the’r rootin’ An’ packed the’rsel’s up close agin the fence, An’ yew’d ’a’ laft ter hear ’em goin’ ter sleep. Ef one the runts was squeezed a mite tew much By ’nother layin’ on ’im kind o’ hard, He’d snort an’ squeal ter beat a callioap, Then shove the bunch aside an’ wiggle out, An’ give ’em fits, an’ then go ’long an’ plunk His carcuss on some other one; an’ then We’d git the hull dum show all over ’gin.

Wal, me an’ Bill was watchin’ on ’em quar’l An’ slowly qui’tin’ down. ’T was one them nights— Yew’ve saw ’em, co’se, ef yew was country raised— A leetle tinge o’ red left in the west, When yew kin still set out without a coat, An’ yit yer sort o’ glad when yew come in An’ find the lamp’s het up the room. Yew felt Thet Fallish dreaminess thet ain’t like May’s, When Nacher’s takin’ off ’er overalls, But ain’t quite done with cleanin’ up the ruck. We got a-talkin’ speckerlatish like, ’N’ I sez, a-lookin’ up t’ them milyun stars, “I bet ye, Bill, they’s farms on Jupiter,” An’ Bill ’e sez, “I’ve offen thought o’ that.”

An’ then he started in an’ reeled it off Jessif he’s readin’ po’try outen books: “A Jovial Spring,” he sez (his very words), “Mus’ last fer mos’ three years, an’ Fall the same. Jes’ think o’ havin’ apple blows, or ’simmons, All ’t once that long! But then yer’d hev ter plow An’ harrer tew fer three four years ’t a stretch; Things ’d even up about the same, I reckon ... Eight kinds o’ moonlight thar, Jehosaphat! Wonder’f thet means eight kinds o’ moonshine tew! An’ whadyer’ spose it dooz ter lovers, potes, An’ bayin’ houn’ dawgs——” “O Bil-l-l! Ain’t ye com’n?” ’T was Laury callin’ ’im. She never knowed How much she pestered Bill. “Le’s gwin,” he sez.

VIII

Laury’s Lullaby

All day I’d b’en a-cuttin’ wheat In the drippin’est kind o’ heat, While Bill he’d drug the road right smart An’ hed made what he called a start Out on the forty west the silos (On the road leadin’ down to Milo’s). We both was watchin’ th’ evenin’ star, Sort o’ smokin’ an’ dozin’ thar, When Laury’s voice begun ter croon With the follerin’ drowsy toon:

_Sleep O, Willy bright! The whip-poor-will’s pleadin’, But mommy ain’t heedin’, Fer Willy aint needin’ No beatin’ ternight._

_Hushaby, Willy wise! Tree-frogs is a pipin’, An’ dad’s gone a-snipin’, While mommy’s a-wipin’ Yo’ pore little eyes._

_O bye Willy bye! The screech-owl’s a-screechin’, The veery’s beseechin’, An’ mommy feels meachin’ Ter hear Willy cry._

_In the chimly they’s chitt’rin’ An’ twitt’rin’ an’ litt’rin’, Sleep O, sleep O, Willy wee; Fer the swallers is cheepin’ An’ peepin’ an’ sleepin’— That’s whar Willy wee orter be._

_On ’is little bed O, With nary dread O, An’ a milk-weed puffy Fer ’is coverlet fluffy, Hushaby, hushaby, Willy O;_

_An’ ’is piller a gossam— Y blow from the blossom Thet floats from a thistle Whar tralaloos whistle— Hushaby, hushaby, Willy O!_

* * * * *

Next mornin’ ’t breakfas’ Bill aver’d: “Wal, I reckon thet tralaloo bird Was mos’ tew much fer yew an’ me; Did ye know it was ha’f pas’ three....” “Shet up,” I sez. O’ co’se I knew, ’Cos my clo’es was jes’ soaked with dew!

IX

Bill Non-Committal

I s’pose all farmers gits thet way in time, An’ I don’t wonder; it’s enough ter make Perfesh’nal prophits feel onsartin like. I mean the everlastin’ buckin’ up Agin ol’ Nacher an’ the elemunts Year in, year out, ontil ye wouldn’t sw’ar ’T ye’ve got ’ny oats at all, f’r exampel, even When cut an’ thrashed an’ layin’ in the bin; Yew know thet somp’n still kin spile thet crop. ’F a farmer wants ter gamble, he don’t hev Ter speckerlate on ’Change; I should say not; Jes’ let ’im farm it, plain an’ orn’ry farm it— Thet’s all he’s gotta dew. I’ll bet ye’n less ’N a fortnit he’d be plum dead sure ’t ’is chances Fer buy’n’ a kerosene kerridge playin’ faro Was ten ter one agin the farmin’ game. Naow jes’ consider what the farmer’s got Ter fight; they’s tew much rain or not enough; ’F ’e ’s got a crick, ’t will overflow an’ drownd ’Is corn, or else ’t will be a ditch o’ dust; An’ then they’s ev’ry bug in all helnation A-eatin’ off his truck an’ animuls; They’s lightnin’, winter-killin’, rust, an’ smut, An’ wind—’d yew ever see one them black twisters Come rippin’ down an’ shave the ten foot silage Right off a eighty slick’s a whistle? I hev. It’s one the grandes’, weerdes’ sights on earth, But hell on farmin’. Yew cain’t blame a farmer ’F ’e aint quite sure thet death an’ taxes might Not leave ’im be. Mos’ farmers won’t commit The’rsel’s on nothin’ ’t all, an’ ain’t they right? The trooth on’t is, they don’t jes’ ’zac’ly know The’r soul’s the’r own, an’ Bill he’s that ’a’ way.

I never seen a feller thet could git Away with sech a everlastin’ lot O’ beatin’ round the bush an’ dodgin’ ’s Bill. W’y, he aint sure o’ heaven or hell, or enny O’ them things fokes knows mostly all about. ’F I ast ’im if they’s “cats” in Four Mile, “Wal,” He’d say—an’ mebbe Laury’d jes’ be’n cleanin’ A mess he’d ketched thet day—“they git ’em thar, So I’ve heerd tell, but I dunno’s they is, An’ dunno _as_ they is.” An’ when I ’low It looks right smart like rain, Bill squints aroun’ An’ sez he shouldn’t wonder whether ’t did Or not. An’ when he’s stuck a pig, an’ Willy, A-lookin’ on with bulgin’ baby eyes, Sez breathless, “Paw, ’s ’e daid?”—all Bill kin say’s, “Wal, I suspishun so; he’d orter be.”

I ast ’im onct ’f ’e tho’t th’ alfalfy’d ketch. He spit an’ picked a blade o’ grass an’ et it. “Seems like ’f we hed a shower o’ rain, an’ then A warmish spell thet didn’t run ter drouth, No killin’ frost or long wet rainy days, An’ ’f Lon mixed in thet fosfate half way right, An’ all thet ’nockerlatin’ ’s enny good, An’ ’f luck should kind o’ come our way a bit, Thet air alfalfy’d mebbe make a start.” I knowed jes’ much then ’zif I hedn’t ast. One time a mule kicked Bill squar’ on the jaw. He seen it comin’—hed no chance ter dodge. He laid in bed a week afore he woke, An’ staid thar ’nother nursin’ up ’is face. A few days later meetin’ that ’ar mule Bill sez, a-shak’n’ ’is finger playful-like, “’F I knowed fer sure ’t was yew thet done this ’ere, I reck’n I might git mad, but I dunno,” An’ han’s the graynose cuss a fresh pulled carrot. That’s Bill all over. Fifty years o’ playin’ The game agin the god o’ Luck hez made ’Im jest a leetle guarded in ’is speech, An’ l’arned ’im how ter take ’is dose ’thout squealin’.

X

Laury’s “Eats”

“It’s quarter t’ five,” Bill hollers; yew sigh an’ mutter “Gosh!” An’ jes’ slide int’ yer overhalls an’ shirt; It ain’t much use ter bother with try’n’ ter take a wash, F’r in ha’f a hour yew’ll be jes’ ’s bad fer dirt. Yew’re ou’ the barn ’n a jiffy a-feedin’ Ball an’ Belle, An’ rubbin’ up ol’ Zilfy’s battered hide; Yew’re like a tired enjin’, ’cos yer didn’t sleep right well, But say—that breakfas’ waitin’ thar inside!