Part 2

It’s wonderful what eatin’ will dew ter set ye right; It’s one the things ’bout farmin’ ’t nothin’ beats; Yew get all riled fer sweatin’ ’ithout a break in sight, But—yew fergit it when it’s time fer eats. Now toast an’ egg an’ coffee’s ’bout all the av’rage feller Kin eat fer breakfas’ in a swelt’rin’ town; But gosh all blinkin’ blazes, yew ain’t no clerk nor teller, Yew gotta hev reel feed, an’ wash it down.

So in yew go t’ the kitchen, a room o’ quite some size; Yew grab a cheer an’ haul it up t’ yer place; Matildy ’n’ Sophy ’s servin’, while Laury fans the flies, An’ Bill he mumbles thru a form o’ grace. I wish thet I was able ter dew Bill’s Laury jestice, An’ tell the diff’runt things she’s set afore ye; But I’m ez fer from doin’ thet ’ar ez east from west is, ’N’ I suttenly hev no desire ter bore ye.

But ennyhow jes’ listen: Pertaters mashed an’ wavy; A bowl of yeller butter thick an’ creamy; A plate o’ spicy sassage with eggs fried in the gravy, An’ chicken fricaseed, all hot an’ steamy; A dish o’ gravied dumplin’s, an’ one o’ beans an’ corn— Thet suckertash o’ Laury’s hits me hard! Her pickled beets is wonders, her slaw fresh ez the morn, Her passnips sweeter ’n frankinsense an’ nard.

An’ then they’s jams an’ jellies, a fluffy heap o’ bread, Hot corncake tew, ’f yew want it—which yew dew; A leaf o’ curly lettis, or, if yew wish, a head; An’ unyons raw, or peppered in a stew. An’ when yew’ve et thru this ’ere a time or tew or so, An’ drunk three cups o’ coffee ’thout a sigh (Ye never know it’s chic’ry, an’ ye never need ter know), Then, by the Great Lord Harry, comes the pie!

Two kinds at Laury’s allers, an’ a hunk o’ cheese with it, An’ top it off with do’nuts, milk, an’ cake; Bill passes yew a teethpick, yew settle back a bit, An’ reely think yew’re gittin’ wide awake. Wal, ye need thet kind o’ fuel, ’cos farm work’s tur’bel grillin’, On freezy days or in a b’ilin’ heat; It ain’t farm life or workin’, ez mos’ fokes thinks, is killin’— It’s when ye cain’t git all ye want ter eat!

XI

Bill on Seth Watts

Seth Watts hed died, an’ Bill was tellin’ us Suthin’ about ’im. Bill he’d be’n a bearer ’t The funerel, an’ now hed jes’ got home, Hung up ’is Sunday clo’es an’ derby hat, And on the way out tew the thrashin’ enjin’ Paid tribute to Seth’s mem’ry. “Me an’ him Hed deakin’d it up thar t’ our church”—he jerked His head toward town—“for twenty years tergether. A right smart moodish feller Seth was, no Mistakin’ thet; I’ve offen saw ’t myself An’ heerd ’is naybers tell. Some mornin’s he Would git up with a feelin’ he must jes’ Be let alone an’ not be ast ter dew One solitary thing by ennyone, No matter who. He tried Almiry (that’s Mis’ Watts) more’n she’d let on. I reckon tho’ She didn’t git ter onderstand him ’s much She might; ’f she’d left ’im be ontil he come Around hisself, they’d both ’a’ be’n all right; A hour or two o’ sleep would fixt ’im up. But ’stid o’thet she ’peared ter feel a call Ter hev him dew a reg’ler mess of chores On them ’ar mornin’s. Wal, he’d stew an’ sw’ar, An’ kick the dawg, an’ onct he said he’s goin’ Ter quit an’ jes’ go off—but knowed he wouldn’t. Almiry’d cry an’ Seth would cuss, an’ then They’d shet the’r lips an’ never say a word Fer mebbe quite a spell, when suthin’ funny (It might ’a’ be’n most ennything) would up An’ happen; Seth would snort, Almiry’d giggle, An’ thet would end his moodin’. That ’ar way O’ doin’ ’s a hull lot better, ’pears ter me, Then fer a man ter never hev no chanct Ter hev a mood, ’f ’e wants ter, ’n know ’t will prob’ly Work out all right somehow.” Bill stopped a minnit, ’N’I seen ’im kind o’ turn an’ look ’t the house, An’ knowed what he was thinkin’ better’n if He’d said it plum ri’t out. His crows-feet showed Up awful plain. Bimeby I seen ’im grin: “I s’pose yew’ve noticed lots o’ fokes, when one The fambly’s daid, sez funny things about ’Im—funny ’cos yew knowed the one diseased Yerself, an’ seen right thru their line o’ talk. I like ter weigh fokes on a human scale, Daid or alive. It ain’t onkind ter size ’Em up fer what they was, onless they’s jes’ Plain or’n’ry trash, an’ then it ain’t wuth w’ile; I’d ruther keep my mouth shet ’n’ let ’em go. But reely human fokes thet hez good p’ints An’ bad all mixed tergether—like Seth was— I cain’t see why we try ter make ’em out Ez hevin’ be’n perfecshun; ’tain’t the trewth. I heerd Almiry ’smornin’ ’fore the fun’rel Say this ter one the naybers thar, sez she: ‘Seth never said no ha’sh or hasty word In all ’is life ter me,’ an’ bust out cry’n’. Jest then she ketched my eye—I dunno how It was, I reck’n she sensed the laff inside O’ me, ’n’ we both looked over t’ whar Seth laid— She knowed me ’n’ Seth was purty clost—’n’ I’m sure She ha’f expected he would set ri’t up An’ look at her, fer he could never stand Fer no Saphiry stuff, ’n’ Almiry knowed it. She quit her takin’ on, an’ carr’d herself So ca’m but wownded like, it made me swaller. I wouldn’t give a dam”—his minister Sez Bill kin carry off those kind o’ words The niftiest he ever heerd fer deakins— “Fer enny man ’bout who thet pious kind O’ rot might possibly be trew. They ain’t Sich people nohow, leastways not in this ’Ere Skillet deestric’.... Wal, boys, here we be.”

XII

The Katydid

Skeeters pest’rin’, Bites a-fest’rin’, Merc’ry ninety-four; Feelin’ groggy, Piller soggy, Makes me tur’bel sore.

Rollin’, groanin’, Tossin’, moanin’, Hotter ’n eggs a-fryin’; Houn’ dawg yellin’, Jack-ass hellin’, Little Willy cryin’.

Nerves a-tingle; Ev’ry single Nightish critter tootin’; Hosses champin’, Cattle stampin’, Even stars a-shootin’!

Air is deader Than a medder Whar they’s be’n a fire East all smoky, Moon-rise poky— Julluk out o’ mire.

Night’s a horrer; Like ter borrer Bill’s ol’ “make-’em-peep;” Shoot the dam things So’s ter ca’m things— Git fi’ minnits’ sleep.

Nature’s planned it Tho, ’n’ I’ll stand it— ’Cept one thing, by hellum! That’s thet rawcus Hoppin’ jaw-cuss Out on yender ellum.

Pesky thing Doosn’t sing; Line o’ talk ’S jist a squawk. Rubs its wings an’ Thinks it sings an’ Knocks my wits All ter bits; Never quits Throwin’ fits All the night Till it’s light; No beseechin’ Stops its screechin’; Filin’ saws, Grindin’ jaws, Windin’ clocks, Gratin’ locks— ’S music ’side That ’ar snide!

Change yer toon, yew Mis’bel loon, yew!

Mos’ly threes; Shift it, _please_!

“She did! She hid Her lid, She did!”

Now ’e’s say’n’ Threes again:

“Yes she did, Yes she did, Yes she, yes she, Yes she did!”

Gosh a’ mity, I’m mos’ flighty.

Insect ass, Scrapin’ brass, Co’se I know She done so. Now yew kill her. (Hang this piller!)

Thar, thet’s better; Hope yew’ve let ’er Die the death; Save yer breath, Mornin’s here, Breakfas’ near.

* * * * *

Durn ’er hide, Katy’s died!

XIII

Bill’s Vote

(_November, 1916_)

I ast Bill lately how ’e’s goin ter vote. We stood thar in the feed lot handin’ out Ter gruntin’ Durocs ears o’ yeller corn. Bill kep’ ’is mouth shet longer ’n I could wait, An’ so I ast again: “Yo’ ain’t decided?” He looked right smart like he was goin’ ter laff, But didn’t, tho’ a smile loafed ’round ’is eyes. “It’s kind o’ mixy, true ’s yew live,” he sez, A-pokin’ with ’is boot a big fat sow (Who’d swiped a ear from one the little runts) Until she squealed an’ cussed at ’im in what Bill calls Hog Latin, ran a rod, an’ sulked Fi’ seconds, then snook back ter snitch some more— “Yer caint tell nothin’ ’bout a feller’s vote This year. Take ol’ Doc Garner—demicrat Sence ’sixty-nine, but sez he’s goin’ ter vote Agin th’ administration ’cos he jes’ Caint stand fer no ameeba (mebbe yew Know what thet is) fer president. An’ then Thar’s Peleg Towle ’at runs the paper here— Oak-ribbed republican sence I dunno— He sez we’d orter be almity glad We ain’t ter war, an’ he do’ want no ice-berg A-settin’ on no Congress’ back door steps A-try’n’ ter hatch no batch o’ tory laws! Wal, thar ye be; it’s julluk thet all ’round; A feller’s looks don’t give away ’is vote. I uster guess yer polytics by how Ye spoke an’ acted, but I caint this year.” “I sure don’t git yoors, Bill, from ennything I’ve heerd ye say all Fall,” I sez; “How ’bout it?” An’ then ’e come ri’t out: “I s’pose I might’s Well tell ye how it is. Yew know I come From down Mizzoura way. My Paw’s relidjun Was votin’ demicratic ev’ry chanct He got, an’ never nothin’ else. I reck’n I kind o’ got thet feel myself, an’ no Amount o’ reason ’pears ter knock it out. I’ve heerd the argyments from A to Izzard, An’ reely, I’ll admit I ain’t no use Fer empty words an’ hifalutin’ guff ’Bout war prosperity, humanity, An’ stuff like thet, an’ layin’ down like pups When some one hollers loud an’ suddin like. But when I think o’ Paw, an’ Colonel Sims, An’ all them early days at Gravel Point— Wal, I’m _agin_ what I am _for_, that’s all! I’ll give ye now my reelest reason why I’m votin’ demicratic come next week. I ain’t no pessimist, but I beleeve This here U. S. hez got ter git ri’ down Ter brass tacks soon or late. We gotta hev A awful mess o’ trubble, go thru fire An’ brimstun, hell, an’ purgatory ’fore We’ll ever ’mount ter shucks; an’ I b’en thinkin’ The quickest way ter git us thar ’s ter vote The way I’m goin’ ter.”

XIV

Bill’s “Risin’”

One mornin’ Bill he took ’is chair at table, ’N’ I seen ’is right hand almos’ kivered With bandages, an’ ’e wan’t scassly able Ter eat—jes’ set an’ kind o’ shivered.

I didn’t say en’thing till I hed et ’Mos’ threw my breakfas’; then I said, “I reckin, Bill, yew better quit an’ let Us fix ye up, or go ter bed.”

Thet hand o’ his was awful red, an’ swoll’d Ez big ’s a baby colt’s hind legs; The fingers on ’t looked whitish blew an’ cold, An’ stuck up like ol’ harness pegs.

He suffered dretful, thet was plain enuff, Tho’ Laury ’d doctered ’im with messes, An’ polticed ’im with ev’ry kind o’ stuff, Horse linyments an’ warm compresses.

But no, he wouldn’t go ter bed; he ’d see The dum thing threw ’f it took a week; We might ez well, he said, jes’ leeve ’im be, He wouldn’t show no yeller streak.

An’ so he wandered ’round all day a-nussin’ Thet fest’rin’ dead man’s hand o’ his; He said it wan’t no use ter dew no cussin’— The more he swore the more it riz.

By night the pain hed drove ’im almos’ wild, ’N’ is arm was big’s a water oak; It wouldn’t took much then ter git ’im riled, Or skeer ’im stiff he’s goin’ ter croak.

But still he’d grin—tho’ co’se I knowed he’s fakin’— An’ say he didn’t give a dam fer A thing ’cept t’ ev thet “risin’” quit its achin’; An’ then he ’d sniff ’t a bottl’ o’ camfer.

At last I sez, an’ tapped ’im on the wrist, “Ef I was yew I’d chuck fer fair Them soaky puddin’ rags, an’ give yer fist Jes’ antyskeptick wash an’ air.”

Thet ’s all I said, an’ left ’im at ’is door The mos’ bedraggles’ ’pearin’ cuss, Julluk a houn’ dawg all chawed up an’ sore, ’At looks he ’s licked an’ feels it wuss.

But on the quiet Bill ’e tried thet wash, An’ said nex’ day the pain had eased So much thet reely it felt _good_, buggosh, Like some ol’ wheel thet ’s jes’ be’n greased.

I never seen a man more chipperer; ’T was plain he ’d busted thet thar “risin’”; An’ then, jessif he ’d be’n the minister, He started in a-moralizin’:

“It ’s ruther cu’r’us, aint it, how a fuller Jes’ natchelly falls back on notions Thet long ago he ’d orter t’run down suller; I mean them poltices an’ lotions.

Now I was raised ter b’leeve I ’d gotta take My med’cin, grin an’ bear it, when Dizease or death, misfortune, pain or ache Ketched holt, fer thet ’s the way o’ men;

An’ thet is mos’ly trew; but here in farmin’ I find ye don’t git ha’f so leery ’Bout buckin’ fate, ’f ye’r’ ont’ them funny varmin They call ‘basilly’ or ‘backteery.’

I hev an idee ’t out o’ life we ’d git Much more o’ honey ’n’ less o’ wax, Ef we depended less on native wit An’ more on sientifick fac’s.”

XV

Calamitous Days

It seems ter be the human lot o’ man Onct in a while ter hev a day When ev’rything goes wrong, an’ nary plan Works out at all in enny way.

It’s sure the stranges’ thing how succumstances At times combines ter git yer goat; When grinnin’ Fate jes’ mocks at ye, an’ dances ’Ter jangled fiddlin’ on one note.

Wal, thet’s how ’twas the time Bill hed ’is “risin’;” ’Peared like the farm was on the blink; An’ I kin tell ye ’t wouldn’t be’n supprisin’ Ef even Bill hed took ter drink.

It come right at the bizzy season; Bill Was all laid up an’ couldn’t work; An’ when he wan’t around, ez co’se they will, The help would soljer, loaf an’ shirk.

They’d be’n so slow ’bout gittin’ in the corn On “Thirty-one”—the “Lower bottom”— Thet when ’twas drown’d an’ scorched, I could ’a’ sworn Thet Bill was mad enuff ter shot ’em.

An’ then we found ’t th’ alfalfy ’n’ wheat hed heaved So bad thet most of it would die; With wheat a dollar ninety Bill was peeved, An’ ’taint no job ter figger why.

An’ next the forty west in alsike clover, A field thet’s purty gin’ly dry, A heavy rain hed kivered almos’ over With water two three inches high.

Soon after Lon come in an’ sez ter me: “Yew better tell Paw ’bout the rape; It’s daid or ain’t come up; I reckon he Do’ know it’s in sech awful shape.”

He did tho’, ’n’ when I told ’im, give a grunt, An’ looked it ’stid o’ sayin’ it. Bill’s mity strong on puttin’ up a front; He seldom r’ars an’ champs ’is bit.

The garden truck was et by Willie’s pony; Ol’ Jess got drunk on apple-jack; The poults begun ter droop, an’ acted phony; An’ Barney’s glanders all come back.

I reck’n ’twas Willie ’t throwed them kittens int’ The sistern, so ’t we all took sick. (I seen Bill’s face was like a chunk o’ flint Ez ’e chased Willie down t’ the crick!)

The telephone was crazy—jes’ made clicks; The flies was thicker ’n ’Gypshun plaigs; The kitchen door was off an’ wouldn’t fix, An’ suthin’ sucked all Laury’s aigs.

Then pink-eye ketched the heffers an’ the ca’ves, An’ some the critters lost the’r sight; Fer fear yew’ll think thet things was goin’ by ha’ves, The lightnin’ hit the barn one night

An’ burnt it clean ter blazes, ’long with ten Or twenty ton o’ hay an’ straw, An’ knocked the stuffin’ out o’ “Herford Ben,” Whose peddygree was long ’s the law.

With Sunday come a quiet restin’ spell; We needed it, by Jethro, tew, Fer scorchy weather ’n’ rotten luck is hell On fellers try’n’ ter “see it threw,”

Ez Bill is allers sayin’; them’s ’is words When things is wrong an’ nothin’ ’s right; When Fortune’s milk jes’ turns ter whey an’ curds, An’ spiles yer spir’t-yel appetite.

The fambly ’d went ter church—ter hear ’bout Moses An’ how ’e fit all kinds o’ luck; While me an’ Bill jes’ lolled an’ dug our noses Deep int’ the fresh green grass an’ muck.

I sez, “Bill, yew remind me some o’ Job, Fer yew aint cussed the fates an’ quit, Like lots o’ fellers would on this ’ere globe; I sh’ think yew’d cause enuff fer it.”

He ups an’ sez, not ans’rin’ me direc’ But far away, ’z ’e sometimes done: “Nothin’ ’s wuth while onless ye resk yer neck— Ter shoot a owl by day ’s no fun—

Ter raise a mess o’ beef ’s a reel man’s job— ’T ’s a bully gamble growin’ fodder— Caint git no corn ’ithout ye take the cob— Alfalfy ’ll allers hev its dodder—”

XVI

The Pet Calf

Hey, Whitey, here’s a good fat ear, It’s ’mong the last ye’ll git; Come on now, lemme rub yer nose— Ye’r’ lookin’ tol’ bul fit.

I’m gonna ship ye off terday, Yew be’n here long enuff; I s’pose ’f yew knowed what I’m a-sayin’ Yew’d think ’twas kind o’ ruff

Same’s I dew, ’n’ I’m a-tryin’ hard Ter make ye onderstand; Tho’ p’r’aps it’s jest ez well ye don’t— _Hi-i-i! What ye doin’ t’ my hand!_

I’ve nussed ye sence ye fust was dropped— Ye don’t remember, dew ye? I’ve heerd ye blat a many times An’ come a-runnin’ tew ye.

Yew didn’t hev yer mother long— I went t’ the crick ter fetch ’er— “Four Mile” was up, an’ I’s afraid The flood might prob’ly ketch ’er.

It hed, fer when she’d tried ter cross Ter yew on t’other bank, She got all tangled in the drift, Drownded right thar, an’ sank.

I brung ye up t’ the house, ’n’ the gals They cosseted an’ fed ye, An’ ever sence they’s be’n some one Ter fetch ye slops an’ bed ye.

An’ now look at ye! Ha’f a ton O’ helpless bone an’ beef; A livin’ stack o’ hay an’ grain; A critter boun’ fer grief.

I dassent tell the gals ye’r’ goin’— I couldn’t, gosh a’mity; They’ll miss ye tur’bul—fer a spell— An’ bawl for “little Whitey.”

* * * * *

Thar’s Lon—he’s come ter round ye up. Goo’ by, ol’ chap—O darn! They’s suthin’ ’t I hev clean fergot— I reck’n I’ll gw’int’ the barn.

XVII

Bill on War

(_February, 1917_)

My Land, ’twas cold thet night I set with Bill Around the iron stove het up red hot An’ Bill a-stokin’ on’t with all ’is mite. He calls the room ’is “offis;” three four cheers, A bench, farm jurnels layin’ on a stand, Some books on cattle-feedin’—Bill’s he’s up Ter date on all thet stuff, tho’ he aint hed No the’ry trainin’ in them farmin’ schools— A book on “Soils”—the same ez siles, I s’pose— A walnut seckertry, some plants o’ Laury’s, A lot o’ calendars—with smartish women In droopy longish gowns a-ridin’ proud High-sperr’ted colts along a river whar A chap is ketchin’ traouts ez fast ez he Kin sling a worm, or mebbe it’s a fly— An’ Bill’s ol’ double bar’l behind the door. I’ve offen gassed with Bill in thet thar room O’ his when fokes was all a-bed ’n’ asleep. The frost was thicker’n cream on all the winders; Occazh’nully they’d be a pane ’thout none, Or kivered only ha’f, an’ ’f I looked out, Ez onct or twict I done, I seen a sight Thet made me clean fergit how cold it was: A sea o’ white ’way down ter “Thirty-One,” With waves o’ drifts piled ev’ry here an’ thar; An’ _still_—Jerushy! Still’s a mounting top Up thar amongst them craters on the moon. The only noise we heerd inside, ’cept co’se The fire, was snappin’ clabboards on the house, Like pistol shots thet kind o’ made us jump. “It’s twenty-six below,” sez Bill, ez he Throwed on another mess o’ coal; “I reck’n We’ll need them extry quilts ternight. I’m glad It’s be’n a-snowin’ some on thet ’ar field O’ wheat this week; they wouldn’t be no crop This spring if ’t hedn’t. Caint remember when It’s ever be’n so cold afore here’bouts. Reck’n Laury’s plants ’ll hev ter be brung up A leetle closter ter the stove; thet thar Jerainyum looks jessif ’twas fros’ bit now. Yew look like yew was tew,” he sez, an’ grinned. “I be,” I sez, “behind, but barbecued In front.” An’ then I mentioned cazhool like The war a-hangin’ ov’r us. Bill kep’ still At first, ’n’ I let ’im; then bimeby, julluk He’s talkin’ tew ’isself, he sez reel grave, “Ef’t comes, ’twill be the genooinest war Our fokes hez ever saw; an’ we’re about Ez ready for’t ’z a fat prize Berksheer barrer Would be ter fight a bunch o’ timber wolves. O’ co’se this here U. S. hez got back-bone, But ’pears ter me it’s—what’s thet word? I seen It t’other day an’ looked it up—O yes, It’s _atrofide_.... We gotta train ri’ down Ter razor-backs afore we’re enny good .... We’re all tew pussy ’n’ prizey ’n’ prosp’rus like Ter tech a wil’cat even with a fork.... ’F a hoss hez won blue ribbons to a fair, He prob’ly caint kick ha’f so _long_ ’z a scrub Thet’s hard ez nails an’ workin’ ev’ry day.... An’ then agin I think we’re like “Ol’ Ben”; Yew ’member him—ez gentle ez a kitten, An’ big an’ fat, good-natured, easy goin’, Tho’ onct ’n a while they’s fire in ’is eye. They want no doubt thet he could lick ’is weight Twict over, but he never knowed it till— Yew prob’ly don’t recall the time thet young An’ fi’ry furrin bull o’ Otto’s bust Clean threw three fences jes’ ter hev a crack At Ben. I didn’t git thar till ’twas over, But heerd consid’bul ’bout it from the naybers. They said the younger critter kind o’ toyed With Ben a spell, an’ Ben was sort o’ dazed, But kep’ a-goin’ not scassly knowin’ what ’Twas all about; then later he got sore, ’Is dander an’ ’is blood come up, an’ say— The way he whaled thet hateful little cuss.... It took ’im all day tew, an’ not a soul Dast git up clost ter watch ’em fight it out.... Ol’ Ben was stannin’ kind o’ groggy when I come ter git ’im, ’n’ ev’ry little while He’d stop an’ paw an’ beller ’n’ lick ’is flank Like he’d be’n hit right smart; but he was all _Right thar_, ’n’ I hed ter laff.... They brung a pair O’ hosses up an’ hauled the other beast Somew’eres.... We never hed no better bull Then Ben was after thet; he wouldn’t look Fer trubble, an’ somehow ’r ’nother trubble seemed Ter not be look’n’ fer him. It done ’im good, We thought, an’ thet’s my idee ’bout this war.” “But how ’bout Lon,” I sez, “ef war should come?” Thet ketched ’im hard, an’ I was sorry ’t I Hed ast ’im sich a techy question, ’cos I knowed thet Lon was all they was ter go, Bill’s bigges’ boy—the rest was either gals Or els tew young—an’ Bill was allers jellus O’ Lon, like heffers be with their firs’ ca’f. I changed the subjec’, said how cold it was, An’ stomped aroun,’ an’ ’lowed I’d go ter bed. I said “good-night” an’ got ha’f way up stairs, When Bill he give a little cough behind An’ blowed ’is nose, ’n’ ’is words was drowndy like: “_I’d see ’t he went._” An’ then a gust o’ wind Put out my light, ’n’ I thought how lucky ’twas, Altho’ I never would ’a’ looked at Bill When he was that ’a’ way.

XVIII

Treed

’Twas a Sunday in March ez we set on a log In a break in the woods, whar the crick makes a jog, An’ hez et int’ the bank an’ up under the mill, Thet the story herewith was related by Bill.