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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 understandsWith his feelin's well as ears.Tell of the old log house, – aboutThe 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-doorTel 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 drumsAnd the old Red White and Blue!Blow and blow tel the sound draps lowAs the moan of the whipperwill,And wake up Mother, and Ruth and Jo,All sleepin' at Bethel Hill:Blow and call tel the faces allShine out in the back-log's blaze,And the shadders dance on the old hewed wallAs they did in the airly days."MYLO JONES'S WIFE"
"Mylo Jones's wife" was allI heerd, mighty near, last Fall —Visitun relations downT'other side of Morgantown!Mylo Jones's wife she doesThis 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 'lowsShe'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, nerAct, I s'pose, so much like her!Yit the wimmern-folks tells youShe's perfection. – Yes they do!Mylo's wife she says she's foundHome hain't home with men-folks roundWhen they's work like hern to do —Picklin' pears and butchern, too,And a-rendern lard, and thenCookin' fer a pack of menTo come trackin' up the floreShe's scrubbed tel she'll scrub no more! —Yit she'd keep things clean ef theyMade her scrub tel Jedgmunt Day!Mylo Jones's wife she sewsCarpet-rags and patches clothesJest year in and out! – and yitWhare's the livin' use of it?She asts Mylo that. – And heGits back whare he'd ruther be,With his team; – jest plows– and don'tNever 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 excuseFer his pore relations toHang 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 seeSich a womern rulin' me! —Ruther take and turn in andRaise 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 roughTimber. – He's a grate old John! —"Rough?" – don't swaller no sich stuff!Moved here, sence the war was through,From Ohio – somers nearOld Bucyrus, – loyal, too,As us "Hoosiers" is to here!Git old John stirred up a bitOn 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 stayedAll night with us. – Set and gassedTel plum midnight – 'cause I madeSome remark 'bout "buckeyes" and"What was buckeyes good fer?" – So,Like I 'lowed, he waved his handAnd lit in and let me know: —"'What is Buckeyes good fer?' – What'sPineys and fergitmenots? —Honeysuckles, and sweet peas,And sweet-williamsuz, and theseJohnny-jump-ups ev'rywhare,Growin' round the roots o' treesIn Spring-weather? – what air theyGood fer? – kin you tell me —Hey?'Good to look at?' Well they air!'Specially when Winter's gone,Clean dead-certin! and the wood'sGreen again, and sun feels good'sJune! – and shed your blame boots onThe back porch, and lit out toRoam 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 knitOver and en-nunder it,And wove round it all, I jing!Tel you couldn't hardly stickA 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 cleanSlopin' little hump o' greenDry soft grass, as fine and grandAs a pollor-sofy! – AndJis pile down thare! – and tell meAnywhares you'd ruther be —'Ceptin' right thare, with the wild-Flowrs all round ye, and your eyesSmilin' 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' theyrBeauteous fragrunce on the breeze' —But the sight o' buckeyes jisSweet to me as blossoms is!"I'm Ohio-born– right wharePeople's all called 'Buckeyes' thare—'Cause, I s'pose, our buckeye crap'sBiggest in the world, perhaps! —Ner my head don't stretch my hatToo much on account o' that! —'Cause it's Natchur's ginerus handSows 'em broadcast ore the land,With eye-single fer man's goodAnd 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, tomattusuzWuz considerd pizenusOnc'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 whatOckuppies my lovin' careAnd my most perfoundest thought!… Guess, this minute, what I gotIn my pocket, 'at I've packedPurt'-nigh forty year. – A dry,Slick and shiny, warped and cracked,Wilted, weazened old buckeye!What's it thare fer? What's my hartIn my brest fer? – 'Cause it's partOf 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 onMy blame legs! – And ust to wishI wuz well er dead and gone!Doc give up the case, and shodHis old boss again and stayedOn good roads! —And thare I laid!Pap he tuck some bluegrass sodSteeped in whisky, bilin'-hot,And socked that on! Then I gotSorto' 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 diseaseLike a shavin'-hoss! and sortO' wore it out by slow degrees —Tel my legs wuz straight enughTo poke through my pants againAnd kick all the doctor-stuffIn the fi-er-place! Then turned inAnd tuck Daddy Craig's old cuore —Jis a buckeye– and that's shore. —Hain't no case o' rhumatizKin 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 tracksUpon these earthly shores, and henceArose 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 twoAnd lash him, and he'll go his len'thAnd 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 findHe'll never do a hostile trick.A hoss whose master tends him rightAnd 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 gateAt early dawn, upon your wayUnto the barn, and snorts elate,To git his corn, er oats, er hay.He knows you, as the orphant knowsThe 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 chistAnd big in leg and full in flank,That tries to race, I still insistHe'll have to take the second rank.And I have jest laid back and laughed,And rolled and wallered in the grassAt fairs, to see some heavy-draftLead 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 wroughtUpon my feller-man to bet —And yit, at times, I've often thoughtOf 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 fallDown 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 highIn regards to Ray's arithmetic, and also Algebra:He give good satisfaction, but at his country's callHe 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 regretI went to serve my country at the first of the outset!"He was a good penman, and the lines that he wroteOn that sad occasion was too fine for me to quote, —For I was there and heard it, and I ever will recallIt 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 dayWhen 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 soreIn 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 believeHe 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 saidHe 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 triesHis fool-self, and takes the bittIn his teeth and jest de-fiesAll perpryties! – Lay and swetDoin' nothin'– only jestSorto' speckillatun onWhare old summertimes is gone,And 'bout things that he loved bestWhen a youngster! Heerd him saySpringtimes made him thataway —Speshully on Sund'ys– whenSun shines out and in again,And the lonesome old hens theyGit off under the old kern-Bushes, and in deep concernTalk-like to theyrselvs, and scratchKindo' absunt-minded, jestLike theyr thoughts was fur awayIn some neghbor's gyarden-patchFolks has tended keerfullest!Heerd the old man dwell on theseIdys time and time again! —Heerd him claim that orchurd-treesBloomin', put the mischief inHis old hart sometimes that badAnd owdacious that he "hadTo break loose someway," says he,"Ornry as I ust to be!"Heerd him say one time – when IWas a sorto' standin' by,And the air so still and clear,Heerd the bell fer church clean here! —Said: "Ef I could climb and setOn the old three-cornerd railOld home-place, nigh Maryette',Swop my soul off, hide and tale!"And-sir! blame ef tear and laughDidn't ketch him half and half!"Oh!" he says, "to wake and beBare-foot, in the airly dawnIn the pastur'! – thare," says he,"Standin' whare the cow's slep' onThe cold, dewy grass that's gotPrint of her jest steamy hotFer to warm a feller's heelsIn a while! – How good it feels!Sund'y! – Country! – Morning! – HearNothin' but the silunce– seeNothin' but green woods and clearSkies and unwrit poetryBy the acre!.. Oh!" says he,"What's this voice of mine? – to seekTo 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 hazeDancin' 'crost the wheat, – and keepMy pipe goin' laisurely —Puff and whiff as pleases me, —Er I'll leave a trail of smokeThrough 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 baitAnd went fishin'; – pitched hoss-shoes —Whare they couldn't see us fromThe main road. – And I've beat some.I've set round and had my jokeWith the thrashers at the barn —And I've swopped 'em yarn fer yarn! —Er I've he'pped the childern pokeFer hens'-nests – agged on a match'Twixt the boys, to watch 'em scratchAnd paw round and rip and tare,And bust buttons and pull hairTo theyr rompin' harts' content —And me jest a-settin' thareHatchin' out more devilment!"What you s'pose now ort to beDone 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 commonalityOf men that's lived as long as meHas watched the world enugh to learnThey'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 wentOn 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 wetWill overtake the best of men —Some little skift o' clouds'll shetThe sun off now and then. —And mayby, whilse you're wundern whoYou'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 doBefore 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 aboutThe 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 downMay elbow up again! —They hain't no sense, as I can see,Fer mortuls, sich as us, to beA-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 keerFer 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 gitsTo relyin' on theyr wits,Ten to one they git too smartAnd spile it all, right at the start!Feller wants to jest go slowAnd 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 eyesThe glory of Thy face,And setteth throned behind the skiesIn Thy abiding-place:Though I but dimly recko'nizeThy purposes of grace;And though with weak and waveringDeserts, and vexd with fears,I lift the hands I can not wringAll dry of sorrow's tears,Make puore my prayers that daily wingTheyr way unto Thy ears!Oh! with the hand that tames the floodAnd smooths the storm to rest,Make ba'mmy dews of all the bloodThat stormeth in my brest,And so refresh my hart to budAnd bloom the loveliest.Lull all the clammer of my soulTo silunce; bring releaseUnto the brane still in controleOf doubts; bid sin to cease,And let the waves of pashun rollAnd kiss the shores of peace.Make me to love my feller-man —Yea, though his bitternessDoth bite as only adders can —Let me the fault confess,And go to him and clasp his handAnd love him none the less.So keep me, Lord, ferever freeFrom vane concete er whim;And he whose pius eyes can seeMy 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 afeardTo wake up – when, I jing!I seen the sun shine out and heerdThe 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 hartHopped 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 handSings in rapture sweet and grand, —Thou, of all the joyus train,Art bedridden, and in painSich as only them can cherishWho, like flowrs, is first to perish!When the neghbors brought the wordShe was down, the folks inferredIt was jest a cold she'd caught,Dressin' thinner than she'd ortFer the frolicks and the funOf the dancin' that she'd done'Fore the Spring was flush er aryBlossom on the peach er cherry.But, last Sund'y, her requestFer the Church's prayers was jestRail hart-renderin' to hear! —Many was the silunt tearAnd the tremblin' sigh, to showShe was dear to us belowOn this earth – and dearer, even,When we thought of her a-leavin'!Sisters prayed, and coted fromGenesis to Kingdom-comeProvin' of her title clearTo the mansions. – "Even her,"They claimed, "might be saved, someway,Though she'd danced, and played crowkay,And wrought on her folks to git herFancy shoes that never fit her!"Us to pray fer Evagene! —With her hart as puore and cleanAs a rose is after rainWhen 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 beenSence her mother died, and whenShe turned in and done her part —All her cares on that child-hart! —Thought of years she'd slaved – and hadSaved the farm – danced and was glad…Mayby Him who marks the sporryWill 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 believeWhen 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 townWhich 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 goodAs 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 thareYou'll at least ketch a whiff of the breeze and a sniffOf 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 climbUp a tree and rob nests, like they ortent to do,But they'll do anyhow 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 groundWhare the trees wasent all cleared away!And he says to me onc't, whilse a-visitin' usOn 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 threeLittle 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 skyAnd the green of the fields, and the shineOf the sun, with a laugh in yer voice and yer eyeAs harty as Mother's and mine!"Well – long-and-short of it, – he's compermised some—He's moved in the sooburbs. – And nowThey 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 purfumeOf the grove and the old orchurd-ground,And they's room fer the childern out thare, and they's roomFer theyr Gran'pap to waller 'em round!