Part 3

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!

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: 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 _some_times-- 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.

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?"

You see, _Marthy Ellen she_ sung it The first time I heerd it; and so, As she was my very first sweethart, It reminds me of her, don't you know;-- How her face ust to look, in the twilight, As I tuck her to Spellin'; and she Kep' a-hummin' that song tel I ast her, Pine-blank, ef she ever missed _me_!

I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it, And hear her low answerin' words; And then the glad chirp of the crickets, As clear as the twitter of birds; And the dust in the road is like velvet, And the ragweed and fennel and grass Is as sweet as the scent of the lillies Of Eden of old, as we pass.

"_Do They Miss Me at Home?_" Sing it lower-- And softer--and sweet as the breeze That powdered our path with the snowy White bloom of the old locus'-trees! Let the whipperwills he'p you to sing it, And the echoes 'way over the hill, Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus Of stars, and our voices is still.

But oh! "They's a chord in the music That's missed when _her_ voice is away!" Though I listen from midnight tel morning, And dawn tel the dusk of the day! And I grope through the dark, lookin' up'ards And on through the heavenly dome, With my longin' soul singin' and sobbin' The words "Do They Miss Me at Home?"

"COON-DOG WESS"

"Coon-dog Wess"--he allus went 'Mongst us here by that-air name. Moved in this-here Settlement From next county--he laid claim,-- Lived down in the bottoms--whare _Ust_ to be some coons in thare!--

In nigh Clayton's, next the crick,-- Mind old Billy ust to say Coons in thare was jest that thick, He'p him corn-plant any day!-- And, in rostneer-time, be then Aggin' him to plant again!

Well,--In Spring o' '67, This-here "Coon-dog Wess" he come-- Fetchin' 'long 'bout forty-'leven Ornriest-lookin' hounds, I gum! Ever mortul-man laid eyes On sence dawn o' Christian skies!

Wife come traipsin' at the rag- Tag-and-bobtail of the crowd, Dogs and childern, with a bag Corn-meal and some side-meat,--_Proud_ And as _independunt_--_My!_-- Yit a mild look in her eye.

Well--this "Coon-dog Wess" he jest Moved in that-air little pen Of a pole-shed, aidgin' west On "The Slues o' Death," called then.-- Otter- and mink-hunters ust To camp thare 'fore game vam-moosd.

Abul-bodied man,--and lots Call fer _choppers_--and fer hands To git _cross-ties_ out.--But what's _Work_ to sich as understands Ways appinted and is hence Under special providence?--

"Coon-dog Wess's" holts was _hounds_ And _coon-huntin'_; and he knowed _His_ own range, and stayed in bounds And left work for them 'at showed _Talents_ fer it--same as his Gifts regardin' coon-dogs is.

Hounds of ev'ry mungerl breed Ever whelped on earth!--Had these _Yeller_ kind, with punkin-seed Marks above theyr eyes--and fleas Both to sell and keep!--Also These-here _lop-yeerd_ hounds, you know.--

Yes-and _brindle_ hounds--and long, Ga'nt hounds, with them eyes they' got So blame _sorry_, it seems wrong, 'Most, to kick 'em as to not! Man, though, wouldn't dast, I guess, Kick a hound fer "Coon-dog Wess"!

'Tended to his own affairs Stric'ly;--made no brags,--and yit You could see 'at them hounds' cares 'Peared like _his_,--and he'd a-fit Fer 'em, same as wife er child!-- Them facts made folks rickonciled,

Sorto', fer to let him be And not pester him. And then Word begin to spread 'at he Had brung in as high as ten Coon-pelts in one night--and yit Didn't 'pear to boast of it!

Neghborhood made some complaints 'Bout them plague-gone hounds at night Howlin' fit to wake the saints, Clean from dusk tel plum day-light! But to "Coon-dog Wess" them-thare Howls was "music in the air"!

Fetched his pelts to Gilson's Store-- Newt he shipped fer him, and said, Sence _he'd_ cooned thare, he'd shipped more Than three hunderd pelts!--"By Ned! Git shet of my _store_," Newt says, "I'd go in with 'Coon-dog Wess'!"

And the feller 'peared to be Makin' best and most he could Of his rale prospairity:-- Bought some household things--and _good_,-- Likewise, wagon-load onc't come From wharever he'd moved from.

But pore feller's huntin'-days, 'Bout them times, was glidin' past!-- Goes out onc't one night and _stays!_ ... Neghbors they turned out, at last, Headed by his wife and one Half-starved hound--and search begun.

Boys said, that blame hound, he led Searchin' party, 'bout a half Mile ahead, and bellerin', said, Worse'n ary yearlin' calf!-- Tel, at last, come fur-off sounds Like the howl of other hounds.

And-sir, shore enugh, them signs Fetched 'em--in a' hour er two-- Whare the _pack_ was;--and they finds "Coon-dog Wess" _right thare_;--And you Would admitted he was right _Stayin'_, as he had, _all night!_

Facts is, cuttin' down a tree, The blame thing had sorto' fell In a twist-like--_mercy me!_ And had ketched him.--Couldn't tell, Wess said, _how_ he'd managed--yit He'd got both legs under it!

Fainted and come to, I s'pose, 'Bout a dozen times whilse they Chopped him out!--And wife she froze To him!--bresh his hair away And smile cheerful'--only when He'd faint.--Cry and kiss him _then_.

Had _his_ nerve!--And nussed him through,-- Neghbors he'pped her--all she'd stand.-- Had a loom, and she could do Carpet-weavin' railly grand!-- "'Sides," she ust to laugh and say, "She'd have Wess, now, _night_ and day!"

As fer _him_, he'd say, says-ee, "I'm resigned to bein' lame:-- They was four coons up that tree, And hounds got 'em, jest the same!" 'Peared like, one er two legs less Never worried "Coon-dog Wess"!

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

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

Your neghbors in the country, whare you come from, hain't fergot!-- We knowed you even better than your own-self, like as not. We profissied your runnin'-geers 'ud stand a soggy load And pull her, purty stiddy, up a mighty rocky road: We been a-watchin' your career sence you could write your name-- But way you writ it _first_, I'll say, was jest a burnin' shame!-- Your "J. C." in the copybook, and "Ridpath"--mercy-sakes!-- Quiled up and tide in dubble bows, lookt like a nest o' snakes!-- But _you_ could read it, I _suppose_, and kindo' gloted on A-bein' "_J. C. Ridpath_" when _we_ only called you "_John_."

But you'd work 's well as fool, and what you had to do was _done_: We've watched you at the woodpile--not the _woodshed_--wasent none,-- And snow and sleet, and haulin', too, and lookin' after stock, And milkin', nights, and feedin' pigs,--then turnin' back the clock, So's you could set up studyin' your 'Rethmatic, and fool Your Parents, whilse a-piratin' your way through winter school! And I've heerd tell--from your own folks--you've set and baked your face A-readin' Plutark Slives all night by that old fi-er-place.-- Yit, 'bout them times, the blackboard, onc't, had on it, I _de_-clare, "Yours truly, _J. Clark_ Ridpath."--And the teacher--left it thare!

And they was other symptums, too, that pinted, plane as day, To nothin' short of _College_!--and _one_ was the lovin' way Your mother had of cheerin' you to efforts brave and strong, And puttin' more faith in you, as you needed it along: She'd pat you on the shoulder, er she'd grab you by the hands, And _laugh_ sometimes, er _cry_ sometimes.--They's few that understands Jest _what_ theyr mother's drivin' at when they act thataway;-- But I'll say this fer _you_, John-Clark,--you answered, night and day, To ev'ry trust and hope of hers--and half your College fame Was battled fer and won fer her and glory of her name.

The likes of _you_ at _College_! But you went thare. How you paid Your way nobody's astin'--but you _worked_,--you hain't afraid,-- Your _clothes_ was, more'n likely, kindo' out o' style, perhaps, And not as snug and warm as some 'at hid the other chaps;-- But when it come to _Intullect_--they tell me yourn was dressed A _leetle_ mite _superber_-like than any of the rest! And there you _stayed_--and thare you've made your rickord, fare and square-- Tel _now_ its _Fame_ 'at writes your name, approvin', _ev'rywhare_-- Not _jibblets_ of it, nuther,--but all John Clark Ridpath, set Plum at the dashboard of the whole-endurin' Alfabet!

A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS

Oh! tell me a tale of the airly days-- Of the times as they ust to be; "Piller of Fi-er" and "Shakspeare's Plays" Is a' most too deep fer me! I want plane facts, and I want plane words, Of the good old-fashiond ways, When speech run free as the songs of birds 'Way back in the airly days.

Tell me a tale of the timber-lands-- Of the old-time pioneers; Somepin' a pore man understands With his feelin's well as ears. Tell of the old log house,--about The loft, and the puncheon flore-- The old fi-er-place, with the crane swung out, And the latch-string thrugh the door.

Tell of the things jest as they was-- They don't need no excuse!-- Don't tetch 'em up like the poets does, Tel theyr all too fine fer use!-- Say they was 'leven in the fambily-- Two beds, and the chist, below, And the trundle-beds that each helt three, And the clock and the old bureau.

Then blow the horn at the old back-door Tel the echoes all halloo, And the childern gethers home onc't more, Jest as they ust to do: Blow fer Pap tel he hears and comes, With Tomps and Elias, too, A-marchin' home, with the fife and drums And the old Red White and Blue!

Blow and blow tel the sound draps low As the moan of the whipperwill, And wake up Mother, and Ruth and Jo, All sleepin' at Bethel Hill: Blow and call tel the faces all Shine out in the back-log's blaze, And the shadders dance on the old hewed wall As they did in the airly days.

"MYLO JONES'S WIFE"

"Mylo Jones's wife" was all I heerd, mighty near, last Fall-- Visitun relations down T'other side of Morgantown! Mylo Jones's wife she does This and that, and "those" and "thus"!-- Can't 'bide babies in her sight-- Ner no childern, day and night, Whoopin' round the premises-- _Ner no nothin' else_, I guess!

Mylo Jones's wife she 'lows She's the boss of her own house!-- Mylo--consequences is-- Stays whare things seem _some_ like _his_,-- Uses, mostly, with the stock-- Coaxin' "Old Kate" not to balk, Ner kick hoss-flies' branes out, ner Act, I s'pose, so much like _her_! Yit the wimmern-folks tells you She's _perfection_.--Yes they do!

Mylo's wife she says she's found Home hain't home with _men-folks_ round When they's work like _hern_ to do-- Picklin' pears and _butchern_, too, And a-rendern lard, and then Cookin' fer a pack of men To come trackin' up the flore _She's_ scrubbed _tel_ she'll scrub no _more_!-- Yit she'd keep things clean ef they Made her scrub tel Jedgmunt Day!

Mylo Jones's wife she sews Carpet-rags and patches clothes Jest year _in_ and _out_!--and yit Whare's the livin' use of it? She asts Mylo that.--And he Gits back whare he'd ruther be, With his team;--jest _plows_--and don't Never sware--like some folks won't! Think ef _he'd cut loose_, I gum! 'D he'p his heavenly chances some!

Mylo's wife don't see no use, Ner no reason ner excuse Fer his pore relations to Hang round like they allus do! Thare 'bout onc't a year--and _she_-- She jest _ga'nts_ 'em, folks tells me, On spiced pears!--Pass Mylo one, He says "No, he don't chuse none!" Workin' men like Mylo they 'D ort to have _meat_ ev'ry day!

Dad-burn Mylo Jones's wife! Ruther rake a blame caseknife 'Crost my wizzen than to see Sich a womern rulin' _me_!-- Ruther take and turn in and Raise a fool mule-colt by hand! _Mylo_, though--od-rot the man!-- Jest keeps ca'm--like some folks _can_-- And 'lows sich as her, I s'pose, Is _Man's he'pmeet_!--Mercy knows!

ON A SPLENDUD MATCH

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

He was warned against the _womern_-- She was warned aginst the _man_.-- And ef _that_ won't make a weddin', W'y, they's nothin' else that can!

OLD JOHN CLEVENGER ON BUCKEYES

Old John Clevenger lets on, Allus, like he's purty rough Timber.--He's a grate old John!-- "Rough?"--don't swaller no sich stuff! Moved here, sence the war was through, From Ohio--somers near Old Bucyrus,--loyal, too, As us "Hoosiers" is to _here_! Git old John stirred up a bit On his old home stompin'-ground-- Talks same as he lived thare yit, When some subject brings it round-- Like, fer instunce, Sund'y last, Fetched his wife, and et and stayed All night with us.--Set and gassed Tel plum midnight--'cause I made Some remark 'bout "buckeyes" and "What was buckeyes good fer?"--So, Like I 'lowed, he waved his hand And lit in and let me know:-- "'What is Buckeyes good fer?'--What's _Pineys_ and _fergitmenots_?-- Honeysuckles, and sweet peas, And sweet-williamsuz, and these Johnny-jump-ups ev'rywhare, Growin' round the roots o' trees In Spring-weather?--what air _they_ Good fer?--kin you tell me--_Hey?_ 'Good to look at?' Well they air! 'Specially when _Winter's_ gone, Clean _dead-certin!_ and the wood's Green again, and sun feels good's June!--and shed your blame boots on The back porch, and lit out to Roam round like you ust to do, Bare-foot, up and down the crick, Whare the buckeyes growed so thick, And witch-hazel and pop-paws, And hackberries and black-haws-- With wild pizen-vines jis knit _Over_ and _en-nunder_ it, And wove round it all, I jing! Tel you couldn't hardly stick A durn _caseknife_ through the thing! Wriggle round through _that_; and then-- All het-up, and scratched and tanned, And muskeeter-bit and mean- Feelin'--all at onc't again, Come out suddent on a clean Slopin' little hump o' green Dry soft grass, as fine and grand As a pollor-sofy!--And Jis pile down thare!--and tell _me_ _Anywhares_ you'd ruther be-- 'Ceptin' _right thare_, with the wild- Flowrs all round ye, and your eyes Smilin' with 'em at the skies, Happy as a little child! Well!--right here, _I_ want to say, Poets kin talk all they please 'Bout 'wild-flowrs, in colors gay,' And 'sweet blossoms flauntin' theyr Beauteous fragrunce on the breeze'-- But the sight o' _buckeyes_ jis Sweet to me as _blossoms_ is!

"I'm _Ohio-born_--right whare People's _all_ called 'Buckeyes' _thare_-- 'Cause, I s'pose, our buckeye crap's Biggest in the world, perhaps!-- Ner my head don't stretch my hat Too much on account o' _that_!-- 'Cause it's Natchur's ginerus hand Sows 'em broadcast ore the land, With eye-single fer man's good And the gineral neghborhood! So _buckeyes_ jis natchurly 'Pears like _kith-and-kin_ to _me_! 'Slike the good old sayin' wuz, 'Purty _is_ as purty _does_!'-- We can't eat 'em, cookd er raw-- Yit, I mind, _tomattusuz_ Wuz considerd pizenus _Onc't_--and dasent eat 'em!--_Pshaw_-- 'Twouldn't take _me_ by supprise, Someday, ef we et _buckeyes_! That, though, 's nuther here ner thare!-- _Jis the Buckeye_ whare we air, In the present times, is what Ockuppies my lovin' care And my most perfoundest thought! ... Guess, this minute, what I got In my pocket, 'at I've packed Purt'-nigh forty year.--A dry, Slick and shiny, warped and cracked, Wilted, weazened old _buckeye_! What's it _thare_ fer? What's my hart In my _brest_ fer?--'Cause it's part Of my _life_--and 'tends to biz-- Like this _buckeye's_ bound to act-- 'Cause _it_ 'tends to _Rhumatiz_!

"... Ketched more _rhumatiz_ than _fish_, Seinen', onc't--and pants froze on My blame legs!--And ust to wish I wuz well er _dead and gone_! Doc give up the case, and shod His old boss again and stayed On good roads!--_And thare I laid!_ Pap he tuck some bluegrass sod Steeped in whisky, bilin'-hot, And socked _that_ on! Then I got Sorto' holt o' him, _somehow_-- Kindo' crazy-like, they say-- And I'd _killed_ him, like as not, Ef I hadn't swooned away! _Smell my scortcht pelt purt'-nigh now!_ Well--to make a long tale short-- I hung on the blame disease Like a shavin'-hoss! and sort O' wore it out by slow degrees-- Tel my legs wuz straight enugh To poke through my pants again And kick all the doctor-stuff In the fi-er-place! Then turned in And tuck Daddy Craig's old cuore-- _Jis a buckeye_--and that's _shore_.-- Hain't no case o' rhumatiz Kin subsist whare buckeyes is!"

THE HOSS

The hoss he is a splendud beast; He is man's friend, as heaven desined, And, search the world from west to east, No honester you'll ever find!

Some calls the hoss "a pore dumb brute," And yit, like Him who died fer you, I say, as I theyr charge refute, "'Fergive; they know not what they do!'"

No wiser animal makes tracks Upon these earthly shores, and hence Arose the axium, true as facts, Extoled by all, as "Good hoss-sense!"

The hoss is strong, and knows his stren'th,-- You hitch him up a time er two And lash him, and he'll go his len'th And kick the dashboard out fer you!

But, treat him allus good and kind, And never strike him with a stick, Ner aggervate him, and you'll find He'll never do a hostile trick.

A hoss whose master tends him right And worters him with daily care, Will do your biddin' with delight, And act as docile as _you_ air.

He'll paw and prance to hear your praise, Because he's learn't to love you well; And, though you can't tell what he says, He'll nicker all he wants to tell.

He knows you when you slam the gate At early dawn, upon your way Unto the barn, and snorts elate, To git his corn, er oats, er hay.

He knows you, as the orphant knows The folks that loves her like theyr own, And raises her and "finds" her clothes, And "schools" her tel a womern-grown!

I claim no hoss will harm a man, Ner kick, ner run away, cavort, Stump-suck, er balk, er "catamaran," Ef you'll jest treat him as you ort.

But when I see the beast abused, And clubbed around as I've saw some, I want to see his owner noosed, And jest yanked up like Absolum!

Of course they's differunce in stock,-- A hoss that has a little yeer, And slender build, and shaller hock, Can beat his shadder, mighty near!

Whilse one that's thick in neck and chist And big in leg and full in flank, That tries to race, I still insist He'll have to take the second rank.