Part 4

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_!

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 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.

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 Willer 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.

"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 gallant and gay, Said "Fare you well, my true love!" and went marching away.

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, Shot 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.

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' _nothin'_--only jest Sorto' speckillatun on Whare old summertimes is gone, And 'bout things that he loved best When a youngster! Heerd him say _Springtimes_ made him thataway-- Speshully on _Sund'ys_--when Sun shines out and in again, And the lonesome old hens they Git off under the old kern- Bushes, and in deep concern _Talk-like to theyrselvs_, and scratch Kindo' absunt-minded, jest Like theyr thoughts was fur away In some neghbor's gyarden-patch Folks has tended keerfullest! Heerd the old man dwell on these Idys time and time again!-- Heerd him claim that orchurd-trees Bloomin', put the mischief in His old hart sometimes that bad And owdacious that he "_had_ To break loose _some_way," says he, "Ornry as I ust to be!"

Heerd him say one time--when I Was a sorto' standin' by, And the air so still and clear, Heerd the bell fer church clean here!-- Said: "Ef I could climb and set On the old three-cornerd rail Old home-place, nigh Maryette', Swop my soul off, hide and tale!" And-sir! blame ef tear and laugh Didn't ketch him half and half! "Oh!" he says, "to wake and be Bare-foot, in the airly dawn In the pastur'!--thare," says he, "Standin' whare the cow's slep' on The cold, dewy grass that's got _Print_ of her jest steamy hot Fer to warm a feller's heels In a while!--How good it feels! Sund'y!--Country!--Morning!--Hear Nothin' but the _silunce_--see Nothin' but green woods and clear Skies and unwrit poetry By the acre!... Oh!" says he, "What's this voice of mine?--to seek To speak out, and yit _can't_ speak!

"_Think!_--the lazyest of days"-- Takin' his contrairyest leap, He went on,--"git up, er sleep-- Er whilse feedin', watch the haze Dancin' 'crost the wheat,--and keep My pipe goin' laisurely-- Puff and whiff as pleases me,-- Er I'll leave a trail of smoke Through _the house_!--no one'll say '_Throw that nasty thing away!_' 'Pear-like nothin' sacerd's broke, Goin' bare-foot ef I chuse!-- I _have fiddled_;--and dug bait And _went fishin'_;--pitched hoss-shoes-- Whare they couldn't see us from The main road.--And I've _beat_ some. I've set round and had my joke With the thrashers at the barn-- And I've swopped 'em yarn fer yarn!-- Er I've he'pped the childern poke Fer hens'-nests--agged on a match 'Twixt the boys, to watch 'em scratch And paw round and rip and tare, And bust buttons and pull hair To theyr rompin' harts' content-- And me jest a-settin' thare Hatchin' out more devilment!

"What you s'pose now ort to be Done with sich a man?" says he-- "Sich a fool-old-man as me!"

WET-WEATHER TALK

It hain't no use to grumble and complane; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.-- When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y, rain's my choice.

Men ginerly, to all intents-- Although they're apt to grumble some-- Puts most theyr trust in Providence, And takes things as they come-- That is, the commonality Of men that's lived as long as me Has watched the world enugh to learn They're not the boss of this concern.

With _some_, of course, it's different-- I've saw _young_ men that knowed it all, And didn't like the way things went On this terrestchul ball;--

But all the same, the rain, some way, Rained jest as hard on picnic day; Er, when they railly _wanted_ it, It mayby wouldn't rain a bit!

In this existunce, dry and wet Will overtake the best of men-- Some little skift o' clouds'll shet The sun off now and then.-- And mayby, whilse you're wundern who You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to, And _want_ it--out'll pop the sun, And you'll be glad you hain't got none!

It aggervates the farmers, too-- They's too much wet, er too much sun, Er work, er waitin' round to do Before the plowin' 's done: And mayby, like as not, the wheat, Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat, Will ketch the storm--and jest about The time the corn's a-jintin' out.

These-here _cy-clones_ a-foolin' round-- And back'ard crops!--and wind and rain!-- And yit the corn that's wallerd down May elbow up again!-- They hain't no sense, as I can see, Fer mortuls, sich as us, to be A-faultin' Natchur's wise intents, And lockin' horns with Providence!

It hain't no use to grumble and complane; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.-- When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y, rain's my choice.

THOUGHTS ON A PORE JOKE

I like fun--and I like jokes 'Bout as well as most o' folks!-- Like my joke, and like my fun;-- But a joke, I'll state right here, 'S got some p'int--er I don't keer Fer no joke that hain't got none.-- I hain't got no use, I'll say, Fer a _pore_ joke, anyway!

F'rinstunce, now, when _some_ folks gits To relyin' on theyr wits, Ten to one they git too smart And _spile_ it all, right at the start! Feller wants to jest go slow And do his _thinkin'_ first, you know. 'F I can't think up somepin' good, I set still and chaw my cood! 'F you _think_ nothin'--jest keep on, But don't _say_ it--er you're gone!

A MORTUL PRAYER

Oh! Thou that vaileth from all eyes The glory of Thy face, And setteth throned behind the skies In Thy abiding-place: Though I but dimly recko'nize Thy purposes of grace; And though with weak and wavering Deserts, and vexd with fears, I lift the hands I can not wring All dry of sorrow's tears, Make puore my prayers that daily wing Theyr way unto Thy ears!

Oh! with the hand that tames the flood And smooths the storm to rest, Make ba'mmy dews of all the blood That stormeth in my brest, And so refresh my hart to bud And bloom the loveliest. Lull all the clammer of my soul To silunce; bring release Unto the brane still in controle Of doubts; bid sin to cease, And let the waves of pashun roll And kiss the shores of peace.

Make me to love my feller-man-- Yea, though his bitterness Doth bite as only adders can-- Let _me_ the fault confess, And go to him and clasp his hand And love him none the less. So keep me, Lord, ferever free From vane concete er whim; And he whose pius eyes can see My faults, however dim,-- Oh! let him pray the least fer me, And me the most fer him.

THE FIRST BLUEBIRD

Jest rain and snow! and rain again! And dribble! drip! and blow! Then snow! and thaw! and slush! and then-- Some more rain and snow!

This morning I was 'most afeard To _wake_ up--when, I jing! I seen the sun shine out and heerd The first bluebird of Spring!-- Mother she'd raised the winder some;-- And in acrost the orchurd come, Soft as a angel's wing, A breezy, treesy, beesy hum, Too sweet fer anything!

The winter's shroud was rent a-part-- The sun bust forth in glee,-- And when that _that bluebird_ sung, my hart Hopped out o' bed with me!

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

Pore afflicted Evagene! Whilse the woods is fresh and green, And the birds on ev'ry hand Sings in rapture sweet and grand,-- Thou, of all the joyus train, Art bedridden, and in pain Sich as only them can cherish Who, like flowrs, is first to perish!

When the neghbors brought the word She was down, the folks inferred It was jest a cold she'd caught, Dressin' thinner than she'd ort Fer the frolicks and the fun Of the dancin' that she'd done 'Fore the Spring was flush er ary Blossom on the peach er cherry.

But, last Sund'y, her request Fer the Church's prayers was jest Rail hart-renderin' to hear!-- Many was the silunt tear And the tremblin' sigh, to show She was dear to us below On this earth--and _dearer_, even, When we thought of her a-leavin'!

Sisters prayed, and coted from Genesis to Kingdom-come Provin' of her title clear To the mansions.--"Even _her_," _They_ claimed, "might be saved, _someway_, Though she'd danced, and played crowkay, And wrought on her folks to git her Fancy shoes that never fit her!"

_Us_ to pray fer _Evagene_!-- With her hart as puore and clean As a rose is after rain When the sun comes out again!-- What's the use to pray for _her_? _She_ don't need no prayin' fer!-- Needed, all her life, more _playin'_ Than she ever needed prayin'!

I jest thought of all she'd been Sence her _mother_ died, and when She turned in and done _her_ part-- All _her_ cares on that child-hart!-- Thought of years she'd slaved--and had Saved the farm--danced and was glad.... Mayby Him who marks the sporry Will smooth down her wings tomorry!

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

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

TOWN AND COUNTRY

They's a predjudice allus 'twixt country and town Which I wisht in my hart wasent so. You take _city_ people, jest square up and down, And they're mighty good people to know: And whare's better people a-livin', to-day, Than us in the _country_?--Yit good As both of us is, we're divorsed, you might say, And won't compermise when we could!

Now as nigh into town fer yer Pap, ef you please, Is the what's called the sooburbs.--Fer thare You'll at least ketch a whiff of the breeze and a sniff Of the breth of wild-flowrs ev'rywhare. They's room fer the childern to play, and grow, too-- And to roll in the grass, er to climb Up a tree and rob nests, like they _ortent_ to do, But they'll do _any_how ev'ry time!

My Son-in-law said, when he lived in the town, He jest natchurly pined, night and day, Fer a sight of the woods, er a acre of ground Whare the trees wasent all cleared away!

And he says to me onc't, whilse a-visitin' us On the farm, "It's not strange, I declare, That we can't coax you folks, without raisin' a fuss, To come to town, visitin' thare!"

And says I, "Then git back whare you sorto' _belong_-- And _Madaline_, too,--and yer three Little childern," says I, "that don't know a birdsong, Ner a hawk from a chicky-dee-dee! Git back," I-says-I, "to the blue of the sky And the green of the fields, and the shine Of the sun, with a laugh in yer voice and yer eye As harty as Mother's and mine!"

Well--long-and-short of it,--he's compermised _some_-- He's moved in the sooburbs.--And now They don't haf to coax, when they want us to come, 'Cause we turn in and go _anyhow_! Fer thare--well, they's room fer the songs and purfume Of the grove and the old orchurd-ground, And they's room fer the childern out thare, and they's room Fer theyr Gran'pap to waller 'em round!

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

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

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

DECORATION DAY ON THE PLACE

It's lonesome--sorto' lonesome,--it's a _Sund'y-day_, to me, It 'pears-like--more'n any day I nearly ever see!-- Yit, with the Stars and Stripes above, a-flutterin' in the air, On ev'ry Soldier's grave I'd love to lay a lilly thare.

They say, though, Decoration Days is giner'ly observed 'Most _ev'rywhares_--espeshally by soldier-boys that's served.-- But me and Mother's never went--we seldom git away,-- In p'int o' fact, we're _allus_ home on _Decoration Day_.

They say the old boys marches through the streets in colum's grand, A-follerin' the old war-tunes they're playin' on the band-- And citizuns all jinin' in--and little childern, too-- All marchin', under shelter of the old Red White and Blue.--

With roses! roses! roses!--everybody in the town!-- And crowds o' little girls in white, jest fairly loaded down!-- Oh! don't THE BOYS know it, from theyr camp acrost the hill?-- Don't they see theyr com'ards comin' and the old flag wavin' still?

Oh! can't they hear the bugul and the rattle of the drum?-- Ain't they no way under heavens they can rickollect us some? Ain't they no way we can coax 'em, through the roses, jest to say They know that ev'ry day on earth's theyr Decoration Day?

We've tried that--me and Mother,--whare Elias takes his rest, In the orchurd--in his uniform, and hands acrost his brest, And the flag he died fer, smilin' and a-ripplin' in the breeze Above his grave--and over that,--_the robin in the trees_!

And _yit_ it's lonesome--lonesome!--It's a _Sund'y-day_, to _me_, It 'pears-like--more'n any day I nearly ever see!-- Still, with the Stars and Stripes above, a-flutterin' in the air, On ev'ry Soldier's grave I'd love to lay a lilly thare.

THE TREE-TOAD

"'S cur'ous-like," said the tree-toad, "I've twittered fer rain all day; And I got up soon, And hollered tel noon-- But the sun, hit blazed away, Tell I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole, Weary at hart, and sick at soul!

"Dozed away fer an hour, And I tackled the thing agin: And I sung, and sung, Tel I knowed my lung Was jest about give in; And _then_, thinks I, ef hit don't rain _now_, They's nothin' in singin', anyhow!

"Onc't in a while some farmer Would come a-drivin' past; And he'd hear my cry, And stop and sigh-- Tel I jest laid back, at last, And I hollered rain tel I thought my th'oat Would bust wide open at ever' note!

"But I _fetched_ her!--O _I fetched_ her!-- 'Cause a little while ago, As I kindo' set, With one eye shet, And a-singin' soft and low, A voice drapped down on my fevered brain, A-sayin',--'_Ef you'll jest hush I'll rain!_'"

THE ROSSVILLE LECTUR' COURSE

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

Folks up here at Rossville got up a Lectur' Course:-- All the leadin' citizens they wuz out in force; Met and talked at Williamses', and 'greed to meet ag'in; And helt another corkus when the next reports wuz in: Met ag'in at Samuelses'; and met ag'in at Moore's, And Johnts putt the shutters up and jest barr'd the door!-- And yit, I'll jest be dagg-don'd! ef't didn't take a week 'Fore we'd settled whare to write to git a man to speak!

Found out whare the "_Bureau_" wuz; and then and thare agreed To strike whilse the iron's hot and foller up the lead.-- Simp wuz Secatary; so he tuk his pen in hand, And ast 'em what they'd tax us fer the one on "Holy Land"--

"One of Colonel J. De-Koombs's Abelust and Best Lectur's," the circ'lar stated, "Give East er West!" Wanted fifty dollars and his kyar-fare to and from, And Simp wuz hence instructed fer to write him not to come.

Then we talked and jawed around another week er so, And writ the "_Bureau_" 'bout the town a-bein' sorto' slow-- Old-fogey-like, and pore as dirt, and lackin' interprise, And ignornter'n any other, 'cordin' to its size: Tel finully the "_Bureau_" said they'd send a cheaper man Fer forty dollars, who would give "A Talk About Japan"-- "A reg'lar Japanee hise'f," the pamphlet claimed; and so, Nobody knowed his languige, and of course we let him go!

Kindo' then let up a spell--but rallied onc't ag'in, And writ to price a feller on what's called the "violin"-- A Swede, er Pole, er somepin'--but no matter what he wuz, Doc Cooper said he'd heerd him, and he wuzn't wuth a kuss! And then we ast fer _Swingse's_ terms; and _Cook_, and _Ingersoll_-- And blame! ef forty dollars looked like anything at all! And then _Burdette_, we tried fer _him_; and Bob he writ to say He wuz busy writin' ortographts and couldn't git away.

At last--along in Aprile--we signed to take this-here Bill Nye of Californy, 'at wuz posted to appear "The Comicalest Funny Man 'at Ever Jammed a Hall!" So we made big preperations, and swep' out the church and all! And night he wuz to lectur', and the neghbors all wuz thare, And strangers packed along the aisles 'at come from ev'rywhare, Committee got a telegrapht the preacher read, 'at run-- "Got off at Rossville, _Indiany_, 'stid of Michigun."

WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES

In Spring, when the green gits back in the trees, And the sun comes out and _stays_, And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze, And you think of yer bare-foot days; When you _ort_ to work and you want to _not_, And you and yer wife agrees It's time to spade up the garden-lot, When the green gits back in the trees-- Well! work is the least o' _my_ idees When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!

When the green gits back in the trees, and bees Is a-buzzin' aroun' ag'in In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please Old gait they bum roun' in; When the groun's all bald whare the hay-rick stood, And the crick's riz, and the breeze Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood, And the green gits back in the trees,-- I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these, The time when the green gits back in the trees!

When the whole tail-fethers o' Wintertime Is all pulled out and gone! And the sap it thaws and begins to climb, And the swet it starts out on A feller's forred, a-gittin' down At the old spring on his knees-- I kindo' like jest a-loaferin' roun' When the green gits back in the trees-- Jest a-potterin' roun' as I--durn--please-- When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!

HOW IT HAPPENED