Afterwhiles Part 9

7 Lay out there and try to see Jes' how lazy you kin be--!

Tumble round and souse yer head In the clover-bloom, er pull Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes And peek through it at the skies, Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead, Maybe, smilin' back at you In betwixt the 'beautiful Clouds o' gold and white and blue--!

Month a man kin railly love June, you know, I'm talkin' of!

8 March ain't never nothin' new--!

Aprile's altogether too Brash fer me! And May-- I jes'

'Bominate its promises--, Little hints o' sunshine and Green around the timber-land-- A few blossoms, and a few Chip-birds, and a sprout er two--, Drap asleep, and it turns in 'Fore daylight and snows ag'in--!

But when June comes-- Clear my th'oat With wild honey--! Rench my hair In the dew! And hold my coat!

Whoop out loud! And th'ow my hat--!

June wants me, and I'm to spare!

Spread them shadders anywhere, I'll git down and waller there, And obleeged to you at that!

_When The Hea.r.s.e Comes Back_

A thing 'at's 'bout as tryin' as a healthy man kin meet Is some poor feller's funeral a-joggin' 'long the street: The slow hea.r.s.e and the hosses-- slow enough, to say at least, Fer to even tax the patience of gentleman deceased!

The low scrunch of the gravel-- and the slow grind of the wheels--, The slow, slow go of ev'ry woe 'at ev'rybody feels!

So I ruther like the contrast when I hear the whip-lash crack A quickstep fer the hosses, When the Hea.r.s.e Comes Back!

Meet it goin' to'rds the cimet'ry, you'll want to drap yer eyes-- But ef the plumes don't fetch you, it'll ketch you otherwise-- You'll haf to see the caskit, though you'd ort to look away And 'conomize and save yer sighs fer any other day!

Yer sympathizin' won't wake up the sleeper from his rest-- Yer tears won't thaw them hands o' his 'at's froze acrost his breast!

And this is why-- when airth and sky's a gittin blurred and black-- I like the flash and hurry When the Hea.r.s.e Comes Back!

It's not 'cause I don't 'preciate it ain't no time fer jokes, Ner 'cause I' got no common human feelin' fer the folks--; I've went to funerals myse'f, and tuk on some, perhaps-- Fer my hearth's 'bout as mal'able as any other chap's--, I've buried father, mother-- But I'll haf to jes' git you To "excuse me," as the feller says--. The p'int I'm drivin' to Is simply when we're plum broke down and all knocked out o' whack, It he'ps to shape us up like, When the Hea.r.s.e Comes Back!

The idy! Wadin round here over shoe-mouth deep in woe, When they's a graded 'pike o' joy and sunshine don't you know!

When evening strikes the pastur', cows'll pull out fer the bars, And skittish-like from out the night'll prance the happy stars.

And so when my time comes to die, and I've got ary friend 'At wants expressed my last request-- I'll mebby, rickommend To drive slow, ef they haf to, goin' 'long the out'ard track, But I'll smile and say, "You speed 'em When the Hea.r.s.e Comes Back!"

_A Canary At the Farm_

Folks has be'n to town, and Sahry Fetched 'er home a pet canary--, And of all the blame', contrary, Aggervatin' things alive!

I love music-- that I love it When it's free-- and plenty of it--; But I kindo' git above it, At a dollar-eighty-five!

Reason's plain as I'm a-sayin'--, Jes' the idy, now, o' layin'

Out yer money, and a-payin'

Fer a willer-cage and bird, When the medder-larks is wingin'

Round you, and the woods is ringin'

With the beautifullest singin'

That a mortal ever heard!

Sahry's sot, tho'--. So I tell her He's a purty little feller, With his wings o' creamy-yeller, And his eyes keen as a cat; And the twitter o' the critter 'Pears to absolutely glitter!

Guess I'll haf to go and git her A high-priceter cage 'n that!

_A Liz Town Humorist_

Settin' round the stove, last night, Down at Wess's store, was me And Mart Strimples, Tunk, and White, And Doc Bills, and two er three Fellers o' the Mudsock tribe No use tryin' to describe!

And says Doc, he says, says he--, "Talkin' 'bout good things to eat, Ripe mushmillon's hard to beat!"

I chawed on. And Mart he 'lowed Wortermillon beat the mush--.

"Red," he says, "and juicy-- Hush--!

I'll jes' leave it to the crowd!"

Then a Mudsock chap, says he--, "Punkin's good enough fer me-- Punkin pies, I mean," he says--, Them beats millons--! What say, Wess?

I chawed on. And Wess says--, "Well, You jes' fetch that wife of mine All yer wortermillon-rine--, And she'll bile it down a spell-- In with sorghum, I suppose, And what else, Lord only knows--!

But I'm here to tell all hands Them p'serves meets my demands!"

I chawed on. And White he says--, "Well, I'll jes' stand, in with Wess-- I'm no hog!" And Tunk says--, "I Guess I'll pastur' out on pie With the Mudsock boys!" says he; "Now what's yourn?" he says to me: I chawed on-- fer-- quite a spell Then I speaks up, slow and dry--, Jes' tobacker!" I-says-I--.

And you'd ort o' heerd 'em yell!

_Kingry's Mill_

On old Brandywine-- about Where White's Lots is now laid out, And the old crick narries down To the ditch that splits the town--, Kingry's Mill stood. Hardly see Where the old dam ust to be; Shallor, long, dry trought o' gra.s.s Where the old race ust to pa.s.s!

That's be'n forty years ago-- Forty years o' frost and snow-- Forty years o' shade and shine Sence them boyhood-days o' mine--!

All the old landmarks o' town.

Changed about, er rotted down!

Where's the Tanyard? Where's the Still?

Tell me where's old Kingry's Mill?

Don't seem furder back, to me, I'll be dogg'd! Than yisterd'y, Since us fellers, in bare feet And straw hats, went through the wheat, Cuttin' 'crost the shortest shoot Fer that-air old ellum root Jest above the mill-dam-- where The blame' cars now crosses there!

Through the willers down the crick We could see the old mill stick Its red gable up, as if It jest knowed we'd stol'd the skiff!

See the winders in the sun Blink like they wuz wonderun'

What the miller ort to do With sich boys as me and you!

But old Kingry--! Who could fear That old chap, with all his cheer--?

Leanin' at the window-sill, Er the half-door o' the mill, Swoppin' lies, and pokin' fun, 'N jigglin' like his hoppers done-- Laughin' grists o' gold and red Right out o' the wagon-bed!

What did he keer where we went--?

"Jest keep out o' devilment, And don't fool around the belts, Bolts, ner burrs, ner nothin' else 'Bout the blame machinery, And that's all I ast!" says-ee.

Then we'd climb the stairs, and play In the bran-bins half the day!

Rickollect the dusty wall, And the spider-webs, and all!

Rickollect the trimblin' spout Where the meal come josslln' out-- Stand and comb yer fingers through The fool-truck an hour er two-- Felt so sorto' warm-like and Soothin' to a feller's hand!

Climb, high up above the stream, And "c.o.o.n" out the wobbly beam And peek down from out the lof'

Where the weather-boards was off-- Gee-mun-nee! w'y, it takes grit Even jest to think of it--!

Lookin' 'way down there below On the worter roarin' so!

Rickollect the flume, and wheel, And the worter slosh and reel And jest ravel out in froth Flossier'n satin cloth!

Rickollect them paddles jest Knock the bubbles galley-west, And plunge under, and come up Drippin' like a worter-pup!

And to see them old things gone That I onc't was bettin' on, In rale p'int o' fact, I feel kindo' like that worter-wheel--, Sorto' drippy-like and wet Round the eyes-- but paddlin' yet, And in mem'ry, loafin' still Down around old Kingry's Mill!

_Joney_