Pipes O'Pan At Zekesbury Part 13

When old Jack died, we staid from school (they said, At home, we needn't go that day), and none Of us ate any breakfast--only one, And that was Papa--and his eyes were red When he came round where we were, by the shed Where Jack was lying, half way in the sun And half way in the shade. When we begun To cry out loud, Pa turned and dropped his head And went away; and Mamma, she went back Into the kitchen. Then, for a long while, All to ourselves, like, we stood there and cried.

We thought so many good things of Old Jack, And funny things--although we didn't smile--We couldn't only cry when Old Jack died.

II.

When Old Jack died, it seemed a human friend Had suddenly gone from us; that some face That we had loved to fondle and embrace From babyhood, no more would condescend To smile on us forever. We might bend With tearful eyes above him, interlace Our chubby fingers o'er him, romp and race, Plead with him, call and coax--aye, we might send The old halloo up for him, whistle, hist, (If sobs had let us) or, as wildly vain, Snapped thumbs, called "speak," and he had not replied; We might have gone down on our knees and kissed The tousled ears, and yet they must remain Deaf, motionless, we knew--when Old Jack died.

III.

When Old Jack died, it seemed to us, some way, That all the other dogs in town were pained With our bereavement, and some that were chained, Even, unslipped their collars on that day To visit Jack in state, as though to pay A last, sad tribute there, while neighbors craned Their heads above the high board fence, and deigned To sigh "Poor dog!" remembering how they Had cuffed him, when alive, perchance, because, For love of them he leaped to lick their hands-- Now, that he could not, were they satisfied?

We children thought that, as we crossed his paws, And o'er his grave, 'way down the bottom-lands, Wrote "Our First Love Lies Here," when Old Jack died.

DOC SIFERS.

Of all the doctors I could cite you to in this-'ere town Doc Sifers is my favorite, jes' take him up and down!

Count in the Bethel Neighberhood, and Rollins, and Big Bear, And Sifers' standin's jes' as good as ary doctor's there!

There's old Doc Wick, and Glenn, and Hall, and Wurgler, and McVeigh, But I'll buck Sifers 'ginst 'em all and down 'em any day!

Most old Wick ever knowed, I s'pose, was _whisky!_ Wurgler--well, He et morphine--ef actions shows, and facts' reliable!

But Sifers--though he ain't no sot, he's got his faults; and yit When you _git_ Sifers one't, you've got _a doctor_, don't fergit!

He ain't much at his office, er his house, er anywhere You'd natchurly think certain far to ketch the feller there.--

But don't blame Doc: he's got all sorts o' cur'ous notions--as The feller says; his odd-come-shorts, like smart men mostly has.

He'll more'n like be potter'n 'round the Blacksmith Shop; er in Some back lot, spadin' up the ground, er gradin' it agin.

Er at the workbench, planin' things; er buildin' little traps To ketch birds; galvenizin' rings; er graftin' plums, perhaps.

Make anything! good as the best!--a gunstock--er a flute; He whittled out a set o' chesstmen one't o' laurel root,

Durin' the Army--got his trade o' surgeon there--I own To-day a finger-ring Doc made out of a Sesesh bone!

An' glued a fiddle one't far me--jes' all so busted you 'D a throwed the thing away, but he fixed her as good as new!

And take Doc, now, in _ager_, say, er _biles_, er _rheumatiz_, And all afflictions thataway, and he's the best they is!

Er janders--milksick--I don't keer--k-yore anything he tries-- A abscess; getherin' in yer yeer; er granilated eyes!

There was the Widder Daubenspeck they all give up far dead; A blame cowbuncle on her neck, and clean out of her head!

First had this doctor, what's-his-name, from "Puddlesburg," and then This little red-head, "Burnin' Shame" they call him--Dr. Glenn.

And they "consulted" on the case, and claimed she'd haf to die,-- I jes' was joggin' by the place, and heerd her dorter cry, And stops and calls her to the fence; and I-says-I, "Let me Send Sifers--bet you fifteen cents he'll k-yore her!" "Well," says she,

"Light out!" she says: And, lipp-tee-cut! I loped in town, and rid 'Bout two hours more to find him, but I kussed him when I did!

He was down at the Gunsmith Shop a-stuffin' birds! Says he, "My sulky's broke." Says I, "You hop right on and ride with me!"

I got him there.--"Well, Aunty, ten days k-yores you," Sifers said, "But what's yer idy livin' when yer jes' as good as dead?"

And there's Dave Banks--jes' back from war without a scratch--one day Got ketched up in a sickle-bar, a reaper runaway.--

His shoulders, arms, and hands and legs jes' sawed in strips! And Jake Dunn starts far Sifers--feller begs to shoot him far G.o.d-sake.

Doc, 'course, was gone, but he had penned the notice, "At Big Bear-- Be back to-morry; Gone to 'tend the Bee Convention there."

But Jake, he tracked him--rid and rode the whole endurin' night!

And 'bout the time the roosters crowed they both hove into sight.

Doc had to ampitate, but 'greed to save Dave's arms, and swore He could a-saved his legs ef he'd ben there the day before.

Like when his wife's own mother died 'fore Sifers could be found, And all the neighbors far and wide a' all jes' chasin' round; Tel finally--I had to laugh--it's jes' like Doc, you know,-- Was learnin' far to telegraph, down at the old deepo.

But all they're faultin' Sifers far, there's none of 'em kin say He's biggoty, er keerless, er not posted anyway; He ain't built on the common plan of doctors now-a-days, He's jes' a great, big, brainy man--that's where the trouble lays!

AT NOON--AND MIDNIGHT.

Far in the night, and yet no rest for him! The pillow next his own The wife's sweet face in slumber pressed--yet he awake--alone!

alone!

In vain he courted sleep;--one thought would ever in his heart arise,-- The harsh words that at noon had brought the teardrops to her eyes.

Slowly on lifted arm he raised and listened. All was still as death; He touched her forehead as he gazed, and listened yet, with bated breath: Still silently, as though he prayed, his lips moved lightly as she slept-- For G.o.d was with him, and he laid his face with hers and wept.

A WILD IRISHMAN.

Not very many years ago the writer was for some months stationed at South Bend, a thriving little city of northern Indiana, its main population on the one side of the St. Joseph river, but quite a respectable fraction thereof taking its industrial way to the opposite sh.o.r.e, and there gaining an audience and a hearing in the rather imposing growth and hurly-burly of its big manufactories, and the consequent rapid appearance of mult.i.tudinous neat cottages, tenement houses and business blocks. A stranger, entering South Bend proper on any ordinary day, will be at some loss to account for its prosperous appearance--its flagged and bowldered streets--its handsome mercantile blocks, banks, and business houses generally. Reasoning from cause to effect, and seeing but a meager sprinkling of people on the streets throughout the day, and these seeming, for the most part, merely idlers, and in no wise accessory to the evident thrift and opulence of their surroundings, the observant stranger will be puzzled at the situation. But when evening comes, and the outlying foundries, sewing-machine, wagon, plow, and other "works," together with the paper-mills and all the nameless industries--when the operations of all these are suspended for the day, and the workmen and workwomen loosed from labor--then, as this vast army suddenly invades and overflows bridge, roadway, street and lane, the startled stranger will fully comprehend the why and wherefore of the city's high prosperity.

And, once acquainted with the people there, the fortunate sojourner will find no ordinary culture and intelligence, and, as certainly, he will meet with a social spirit and a wholesouled heartiness that will make the place a lasting memory. The town, too, is the home of many world-known notables, and a host of local celebrities, the chief of which latter cla.s.s I found, during my stay there, in the person of Tommy Stafford, or "The Wild Irishman" as everybody called him.

"Talk of odd fellows and eccentric characters," said Major Blowney, my employer, one afternoon, "you must see our 'Wild Irishman' here before you say you've yet found the queerest, brightest, cleverest chap in all your travels. What d'ye say, Stockford?" And the Major paused in his work of charging cartridges for his new breech-loading shotgun and turned to await his partner's response.

Stockford, thus addressed, paused above the shield-sign he was lettering, slowly smiling as he dipped and trailed his pencil through the ivory black upon a bit of broken gla.s.s and said, in his deliberate, half-absent-minded way,--"Is it Tommy you're telling him about?" and then, with a gradual broadening of the smile, he went on, "Well, I should say so. Tommy! What's come of the fellow, anyway? I haven't seen him since his last bout with the mayor, on his trial for shakin' up that fast-horse man."

"The fast-horse man got just exactly what he needed, too," said the genial Major, laughing, and mopping his perspiring brow. "The fellow was barkin' up the wrong stump when he tackled Tommy! Got beat in the trade, at his own game, you know, and wound up by an insult that no Irishman would take; and Tommy just naturally wore out the hall carpet of the old hotel with him!"

"And then collared and led him to the mayor's office himself, they say!"

"Oh, he did!" said the Major, with a dash of pride in the confirmation; "that's Tommy all over!"