Chapter XI: How to Read Poetry (3)

So I wint to the highest o’ hills I could find,
An’ rinted a place that commanded a view,
An’ got oursilves sittled so much to our mind,
I soon earned the monies, an’ paid for it, too;
’Twas not so convanyent, but still it was neat,
Tho’ my bones ached at night, as I toiled up the street.

The young uns grew healthy, the air was so good,
An’ Biddy her clothes dried in half o’ the time;
Fur to help me to pay for our vittals an’ food,
The poor girl by washing earned many a dime,
An’ she kept things so tidy, complaicint an’ sweet,
I nivir drudgid climin’ that hill o’ a street.

Thin I wint to the mines for six months it may be,
An’ wid goold in my pockit I hurried me back;
Whin I got to the hill, nary hill could I see;
’Twas gone, an’ some lumber obstructed my track—
I saw in an instant my ruin complete—
Och! faith and Saint Peter, _They’d graded the street_!

DOT GOOD FOR NODINGS DOG

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

You vant to buy my dog? Ah, vell,
Dere vasn’t much of him to sell.
His eye vas broke, his leg vas out,
Und ven you ask his pedigree,
Dot make her laugh come out o’ me—
It vas a madder, I be blamed,
About der vich he vas ashamed.
His breed vasn’t in der Catalogue,
He vas a good for nodings dog.

It vas a day I don’t forgot,
Mit rain und sleet und dings like dot,
Dis homely dog he comed along
Und sing me such a hungry song,
I said: “Come in und take a seat
Und have some scraps und tings to eat!”
I smile mit him, he smile mit me,
Und look like he vas glad to be,
Although not in der Catalogue,
But yust a good for nodings dog.

Each time I come around, you bet
He vag dot tail already yet;
Und show me plain from either end,
He always vant to be my friend.
No madder I say yes! or no!
Where’er I gone he bound to go.
Und ven he lost me, runs around
Und smells me out upon der ground,
Den yumps yust like he vas a frog—
Und not a good for nodings dog.

My Meenie vas a leedle tot,
Yust big enough to be like dot;
Und run about und have some play
Yust mit der dog, until von day
I call her, und she vasn’t dere;
I couldn’t find her anyvere;—
“Dot dog gone off,” my vife, she say,
“Und lead dot leedle girl avay:—
He vas a good for nodings dog,
Und vasn’t vorth der Catalogue!”

My leedle Meenie lost! Mine Got!
I never tink I cry like dot!
But ven I found dot leedle pet,
I cry me more as effer yet:—
Dot’s funny, ven a man feels glad
He cries, yust like ven he feel bad;
Der tears vas yust der same; oh, my,
But vat a difference in der cry!
Dere Meenie sat upon der log
Und pet dot good for nodings dog.

Und ven my senses all got clear,
I ask me: “Vot’s der matter here?”
Und looking vere my Meenie said,
Dere lay a great big vildcat dead!
“Dot dog he killed him,” said my vife,
“Und save dot leedle Meenie’s life!”
I never saw her eyes more vet,
Und vile I hug dot leedle pet
She hug dot good for nodings dog,
Vot vasn’t vorth der Catalogue!

You vant to buy dot dog? Ah, vell,
Nobody’s here who vants to sell.
My vife she say, “You couldn’t buy
Von look of kindness oud his eye!”
Und as for me—dere’s not for sale,
Not e’en der vaggin’ of his tail!
Und Meenie told you plendy quick,
“In all dis vorld you got your pick
Of dose vot’s in der Catalogue,
But not dot good for nodings dog.”

—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

SHE LIKED HIM RALE WEEL

ANONYMOUS

The Spring had brought out the green leaf on the trees,
An’ the flowers were unfolding their sweets tae the bees,
When Jock says tae Jenny, “Come, Jenny, agree,
An’ say the bit word that ye’ll marry me.”
She held doon her heid like a lily sae meek
An’ the blush o’ the rose fled awa’ frae her cheek.
But she said, “Gang awa’, man, your heid’s in a creel.”
She didna let on that she liked him rale weel—
Oh, she liked him rale weel,
Aye, she liked him rale weel,
But she didna let on that she liked him rale weel.

Then Jock says, “Oh, Jenny, for a twalmonth an’ mair,
Ye ha’e kept me just hangin’ twixt hope an’ despair,
But oh, Jenny, last night something whispered tae me
That I’d better lie doon at the dyke-side and dee.”
Tae keep Jock in life, she gave in tae be tied:
An’ soon they were booked, and three times they were cried.
Love danced in Jock’s heart, and hope joined the reel—
He was sure that his Jenny did like him rale weel—
Oh, she liked him rale weel,
Aye, she liked him rale weel,
But she never let on that she liked him rale weel.

When the wedding day cam’ tae the manse they did stap,
An’ there they got welcome frae Mr. Dunlap,
Wha chained them to love’s matrimonial stake,
Syne they took a dram an’ a mouthfu’ o’ cake,
Then the minister said, “Jock, be kind tae your Jenny,
Nae langer she’s tiead to the string o’ her minnie;
Noo, Jenny, will ye aye be couthie an’ leal?”
And she vowed that she would, for she liked him rale weel—
Aye, she liked him rale weel,
Oh, she liked him rale weel,
At last she owned up that she liked him rale weel.

S-H-H-H!

ANONYMOUS

My maw—she’s upstairs in bed,
An IT’S there wif her.
It’s all bundled up and red—
Can’t nobody stir;
Can’t nobody say a word
Since _It_ came to us.
Only thing ’at I have heard,
’Ceptin’ all _It’s_ fuss,
Is S-h-h-h!

That there nurse she shakes her head
When I come upstairs.
“S-h-h-h!” she sez—’at’s all she’s said
To me anywheres.
Doctor—he’s th’ man ’at brung
_It_ to us to stay—
He makes me put out my tongue,
’Nen says “S-h-h-h!”—’at way;
Just “S-h-h-h!”

I goed in to see my maw,
’Nen clumb on the bed.
Was she glad to see me? Pshaw!
“S-h-h-h!”—’at’s what she said.

’Nen _It_ blinked and tried to see—
’Nen I runned away
Out to my old apple tree,
Where no one could say
“S-h-h-h!”

’Nen I layed down on the ground
An’ say ’at I just wish
I wuz big. An’ there’s a sound—
’At old tree says “S-h-h-h!”
’Nen I cry an’ cry an’ cry
Till my paw he hears,
An’ comed there an’ wiped my eye
An’ mop the tears—
’Nen says “S-h-h-h!”

I’m goin’ to tell my maw ’at she
Don’t suit me one bit—
Why do they all say “S-h-h-h!” to me
An’ not say “S-h-h-h!” to IT?

A FEW WORDS FROM WILHELM

BY WALLACE IRWIN

Man vants put leedle hier pelow
Und vants dot leedle Dutch—
Der vishes vich I vish, I know,
Are nicht so fery much:
Choost Europt, Asia, Africa,
Der Vestern Hemishpere
Und a coaling-station in Japan—
Dot vill pe all dis year.

_Hi-lee, hi-lo, der winds dey plow_
_Choost like “Die Wacht am Rhein;”_
_Und vat iss mein pelongs to Me,_
_Und vat iss yours iss mein!_

Jah also, ven I vloat aroundt
Mitin mein royal yacht
I see so much vat iss nicht Dutch
Dot—ach, du lieber Gott!—
It gif me such a shtrange distress
I gannot undershtand
How volks gan lif in happiness
Mitout no Vaderland!

_Hi-lee, hi-lo, der winds dey plow_
_As I sail around apout_
_To gif der Nations good advice_
_Und sausages und kraut._

Each hour I shange mein uniform,
Put I never shange mein mindt,
Und efery day I make ein spooch
To penefit mankindt:
Race Soosancide, der Nation’s Pride,
Divorce and Public Sins—
I talk so much like Rosenfeldt
I dink ve must pe tvins!

_Hi-lee, hi-lo, der vinds dey plow_
_Der maxim Rule or Bust—_
_You gannot wreck our skyndicate_
_Ven Gott is in der Trust!_

Being ein kviet Noodral Power,
I know mein chob, you bet—
I pray for Beace, und hope for War
Und keep mein powder wet;
Put ven I’ve nodings else to do,
Put shtandt around und chat,
Den der Right Divine talks nonsense t’rough
Mein military hat.

_Hi-lee, hi-lo, der vinds dey plow_
_Und softly visper dis:_
_“Der Kaiser he iss more as yet_
_Und all iss right vat Iss!”_

AT GRANDMA’S

ANONYMOUS

I went to visit Grandma
One cold Thanksgiving day;
I shookt and freezed and chattered
All along the way.
Grandma was knitting stockings,
So I tried to knit;
I pulled the string the wrong way,
And unmade every bit.

Next day I tried to tackle
A piggy for a horse,
And tumbled in the pig-pen—
And wasn’t Grandma cross!
I’m sure it wasn’t my fault
That my new dress was white,
If mamma had made it pig-color
It wouldn’t have shown a mite.

My Grandma has a brick room
Filled up with pans of milk.
One day I took in pussy,
She’s just as soft as silk—
She’s a drefful funny pussy—
All along the shelf she ran,
And with her little nosey
Made blue holes in every pan.
My grandma’s dreffully stingy,
She drove us both away,
And said she’d half a mind
To send me home that day.

Sometimes this pussy’s naughty—
One time she catched a mouse;
She teased and scratched and bited it
All up and down the house.
I whipped her with the tater-masher
Every time she made a turn,
And got away poor mousey
And hid him in the churn.

Who ever knew that milk would drown?
I thought ’twas only rivers.
But when Grandma churned,
My mousey was drowned all to shivers.
I saw a tub of milk onct,
We have ours in a dish.
I thought ’twas good for nothing
So I’d try to fish.

I just got settled down there,
My legs were nearly freezed,
When Grandma came in screaming—
“O that girl is in my cheese.”
She jumped me out I tell you
Right on the cold stone floor,
And called my new boots dirty,
And locked the dairy door.

She gave the butter to the pigs,
And put me straight to bed.
And whipped poor pussy dreffully
Right on her little head.
I’s been drefully good to Grandma,
Not made a bit of muss.
But I’s going home to-morrow
Cause, cause Grandma says I must.

A CHILD’S ALMANAC

BY J. W. FOLEY

My mamma says ’at w’en it rains
’Eyre washin’ Heaven’s window-panes,
An’ careless angels ’ist do fill
’Eir pails too full an’ ’atway spill
Some water down on us. ’At’s w’y
It rains some days w’en maybe I
Would like to play. An’ ’en she says
It’s ’ist ’em angels’ carelessness
’At makes ’em raindrops fall ’at way
At picnics an’ on circus day.

My mamma says ’at w’en it snows
’Eyre angels pickin’ geese, she knows,
An’ ’stead o’ usin’ ’em t’ stuff
’Eir pillow-cases, ’ey ’ist puff
An’ blow an’ don’t clear up ’eir muss
Till all ’em feathers fall on us.
An’ she says ’ey ’ist pick ’atway
Cuz ’ey want geese f’ Tristmas day.
An’ ’at’s w’y ’eres e’ mostes’ snow
Right close t’ Tristmas time, you know.

My mamma says w’en e’ wind ’ist roars
An’ blows, ’at’s w’en e’ angel snores,
But w’en it lightnings, she says, w’y
’Eyre scratchin’ matches on the sky,
An’ w’en it rumbles ’bove our heads
’Ey’re movin’ furniture an’ beds
Up ’ere, an’ cleanin’ house, an’ shakes
’Eir moth-balls out an’ ’at’s w’at makes
It hail. An’ weather, she ’ist ’clares
Is ’ist w’at angels does upstairs.

DOT LONG HANDLED DIPPER

BY C. F. ADAMS

Der poet may sing of “Der Oldt Oaken Pooket,”
Und in schweetest langvich its virtues may tell,
Und how, ven a poy, he mit eggsdasy dook it,
Vhen dripping mit coolness it rose from der well:
I don’t take some stock in dot manner of drinking,
It vas too much like hosses and cattle, I dink,
Dher vas more sadisfaction in my way of drinking
Mit dot long-handled dipper that hangs py der sink.

“How schweet vrom der green mossy brim to receive it—”
Dot would sound pooty good, eef it only vas true,
Der water schbills ofer, you petter believe it,
Und run down your schleeve und schlop indo your shoe:
Den down on your nose comes dot oldt iron handle,
Und make your eyes water so quick as a wink!
I dells you dot bookit don’t hold by a candle
To dot long-handled dipper dot hangs py der sink.

How nice it musd be in der cold vinter vedder,
Vhen it settles right down to a cold, freezin’ rain,
To haf dot rope coom oup so light as a feather
Und find dat der bookit vas broke off der chain!
Den down in der well you go off a-fishing,
While into your back comes an oldt fashioned kink!
I bet you mine life all der time you vas vishing
For dot long-handled dipper dot hangs py der sink.

Dhen give oup der bookit at vonce to der horses,
Off mikrobes und tadpoles schust give dem their fill,
Gife me dat pure vater dot all der time courses
Droo dose pipes dot run from der schpring on der hill:
Und eef der goot dings of dis vorld I get rich in,
Und friends all around me dheir glasses schuld clink,
I still vill remember dot old country kitchen
Und dot long-handled dipper dot hangs py der sink.

DE FUST BANJO

BY IRWIN RUSSELL

Go ’way, fiddle! folks is tired o’ hearin’ you a-squawkin’,
Keep silence fur yo’ betters!—don’t you heah de banjo talkin’?
About the ’Possum’s tail she’s qwine to lecter—ladies, listen!—
About de ha’r whut isn’t dar, an’ why de ha’r is missin’:

“Dar’s gwine to be a’ oberflow,” said Noah, lookin’ solemn—
Fur Noah tuk the “Harald,” an’ he read the ribber column—
An’ so he sot his hands to wuk a-cl’arin’ timber-patches,
An’ ’lowed he’s gwine to build a boat to beat the steamah Natchez.

Ol’ Noah kep’ a-nailin’ an’ a-chippin’ an’ a-sawin’;
An’ all de wicked neighbors kep’ a-laughin’ an’ a-pshawin’;
But Noah didn’t min’ ’em, knowin’ whut wuz gwine to happen:
An’ forty days an’ forty nights de rain it kep’ a-drappin’.

Now Noah had done cotched a lot ob ebry sort o’ beas’es—
Ob all de shows a-trabbelin’, it beat ’em all to pieces!
He had a Morgan colt an’ sebral head o’ Jarsey cattle—
An’ druv ’em ’board de Ark as soon’s he heered de thunder rattle.

Den sech anoder fall ob rain! it comes so awful hebby,
De ribber riz immejitly, an’ busted troo de lebbee;
De people all wuz drownded out—’cep’ Noah an’ de critters,
An’ men he’d hired to work de boat—an’ one to mix de bitters.

De Ark she kep’ a-sailin’ an’ a-sailin’ an’ a-sailin’;
De lion got his dander up, an’ like to bruk de palin’;
De sarpints hissed; de painters yelled; till whut wid all de fussin’,
You c’u’dn’t hardly heah de mate a-bossin’ ’roun’ an’ cussin’.

Now Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin’ on de packet,
Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an’ c’u’dn’t stan’ de racket;
An’ so, fur to amuse he-se’f, he steamed some wood an’ bent it,
An’ soon he had a banjo made—de fust dat wuz invented.

He wet der ledder, stretched it on; made bridge an’ screws an’ aprin;
An’ fitted in a proper neck—’twuz berry long an’ tap’rin’;
He tuk some tin, an’ twisted him a thimble fur to ring it;
An’ den de mighty question riz: how wuz he gwine to string it?

De ’possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I’s a-singin’;
De ha’r so long an’ thick an’ strong,—des fit fur banjo-stringin’;
Dat nigger shaved ’em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces;
An’ sorted ob ’em by de size, f’om little E’s to basses.

He strung her, tuned her, struck a jig,—’twas “Nebber min’ de wedder,”
She soun’ like forty-lebben bands a-playin’ all togedder;
Some went to pattin’; some to dancin’; Noah called de figgers;
An’ Ham he sot an’ knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers!

Now, sence dat time—it’s mighty strange—dere’s not de slightes’ showin’
Ob any ha’r at all upon de ’possum’s tail a-growin’;
An’ curious, too, dat nigger’s ways: his people nebber los’ ’em—
Fur whar you finds de nigger—dar’s de banjo an’ de ’possum!

THE MOO-COW-MOO

BY EDMUND VANCE COOKE

My pa held me up to the moo-cow-moo
So clost I could almost touch,
En I fed him a couple of times, or two,
En I wasn’t a ’fraid-cat—MUCH.

But if my papa goes into the house,
En mamma she goes in, too,
I just keep still, like a little mouse,
Fer the moo-cow-moo might Moo!

The moo-cow-moo’s got a tail like a rope
En it’s raveled down where it grows;
En it’s just like feeling a piece of soap
All over the moo-cow’s nose.

En the moo-cow-moo has lots of fun
Just swinging his tail about;
En he opens his mouth and then I run—
’Cause that’s where the moo comes out!

En the moo-cow-moo’s got deers on his head
En his eyes sticks out of their place,
En the nose of the moo-cow-moo is spread
All over the end of his face.

En his feet is nothing but finger-nails
En his mamma don’t keep ’em cut,
En he gives folks milk in water-pails
Ef he don’t keep his handles shut.

’Cause ef you er me pulls the handles, why
The moo-cow-moo says it hurts,
But the hired man he sits down clost by
En squirts en squirts en squirts!

ENCOURAGEMENT

BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

Who dat knockin’ at de do’?
Why, Ike Johnson—yes, fu’ sho’!
Come in, Ike. I’s mighty glad
You come down. I t’ought you’s mad
At me ’bout de othah night,
An’ was stayin’ ’way fu’ spite.
Say, now, was you mad fu’ true
W’en I kin’ o’ laughed at you?
Speak up, Ike, an’ ’spress yo’se’f.

’Tain’t no use a-lookin’ sad,
An’ a-mekin’ out you’s mad;
Ef you’s gwine to be so glum,
Wondah why you evah come.
I don’t lak nobidy ’roun’
Dat jes’ shet dey mouf an’ frown—
Oh, now, man, don’t act a dunce!
Cain’t you talk? I tol’ you once,
Speak up, Ike, an’ ’spress yo’se’f.

Wha’d you come hyeah fu’ to-night?
Body’d t’ink yo’ haid ain’t right.
I’s done all dat I kin do—
Dressed perticler, jes’ fu’ you;
Reckon I’d a’ bettah wo’
My ol’ ragged calico.
Aftah all de pains I’s took,
Cain’t you tell me how I look?
Speak up, Ike, an’ ’spress yo’se’f.

—Copyright by _Dodd, Mead & Co._, and used by arrangement.

WHEN DE CO’N PONE’S HOT

BY PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR

Dey is times in life when Nature
Seems to slip a cog, an’ go
Jes’ a-rattlin’ down creation,
Lak an ocean’s overflow;
When do worl’ jes’ stahts a-spinnin’
Lak a picaninny’s top,
An’ yo’ cup o’ joy is brimmin’
’Twell it seems about to slop,
An’ you feel jes’ lak a racah,
Dat is trainin’ fu’ to trot—
When yo’ mammy says de blessin’
An’ de co’n pone’s hot.

When you set down at de table,
Kin’ o’ weary lak an’ sad,
An’ you’se jes’ a little tiahed
An’ purhaps a little mad;
How yo’ gloom tu’ns into gladness,
How yo’ joy drives out de doubt
When de oven do’ is opened,
An’ de smell comes po’in out;
Why de ’lectric light o’ Heaven
Seems to settle on de spot,
When yo’ mammy says de blessin’
An’ de co’n pone’s hot.

When de cabbage pot is steamin’
An’ de bacon’s good an’ fat,
When de chittlins is a sputter’n’
So’s to show you whah dey’s at;
Tek away yo’ sody biscuit,
Tek away yo’ cake an’ pie,
Fu’ de glory time is comin’,
An’ it’s ’proachin’ mighty nigh,
An’ you want to jump an’ hollah,
Dough you know you’d bettah not,
When yo’ mammy says de blessin’
An’ de co’n pone’s hot.

I have hyeahd o’ lots o’ sermons,
An’ I’ve hyeahd o’ lots o’ prayers,
An’ I’ve listened to some singin’
Dat has tuck me up de stairs
Of de Glory-Lan’ an’ set me
Jes’ below de Mastah’s tr’one,
An’ have lef’ my hea’t a-singin’
In a happy aftah tone;
But dem wu’ds so sweetly murmured
Seem to tech de softes’ spot,
When my mammy says de blessin’,
An’ de co’n pone’s hot.

—Copyright by _Dodd, Mead & Co._, New York, and used by arrangement.

THE COURTIN’

BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

God makes sech nights, all white an’ still
Fur’z you can look or listen.
Moonshine an’ snow on field an’ hill,
All silence an’ all glisten.

Zekle crep’ up quite unbeknown
An’ peeked in thru’ the winder,
An’ there sot Huldy all alone,
’Ith no one nigh to hender.

A fireplace filled the room’s one side
With a half a cord o’ wood in,—
There warn’t no stoves (tel comfort died)
To bake ye to a puddin’.

The wa’nut logs shot sparkles out
Towards the pootiest, bless her!
An’ leetle flames danced all about
The chiny on the dresser.

Agin the chimbley crook-necks hung,
An’ in amongst ’em rusted
The ole queen’s arm thet Gran’ the Young
Fetched back from Concord busted.

The very room, ’cause she was in,
Seemed warm from floor to ceilin’,
An’ she looked full ez rosy agin
Ez the apples she was peelin’.

’Twas kin’ o’ kingdom-come to look
On sech a blessed cretur,
A dog-rose bloomin’ to a brook
Ain’t modester nor sweeter.

He was six foot o’ man, A-1,
Clean grit an’ human natur’;
None couldn’t quicker pitch a ton
Nor dror a furrer straighter.

He’d sparked it with full twenty gals,
He’d squired ’em, danced ’em, druv ’em,
Fust this one, an’ then thet, by spells,—
All is, he couldn’t love ’em.

But long o’ her his veins ’ould run
All crinky like curled maple,
The side she breshed felt full o’ sun
Ez a south slope in Ap’il.

She thought no v’ice had such a swing
Ez hisn in the choir;
My! when he made Ole Hundred ring,
She _knowed_ the Lord was nigher.

An’ she’d blush scarlit, right in prayer,
When her new meetin’-bonnet
Felt somehow thru’ its crown a pair
O’ blue eyes sot upon it.

Thet night, I tell ye, she looked _some_!
She seemed to’ve got a new soul,
For she felt sartin’-sure he’s come,
Down to her very shoe-sole.

She heered a foot, an’ knowed it tu,
A-raspin’ on the scraper,—
All ways to once her feelin’s flew
Like sparks in burnt-up paper.

He kin’ o’ l’itered on the mat,
Some doubtfle o’ the sekle;
His heart kept goin’ pity-pat,
But hern went pity Zekle.

An’ yit she gin her cheer a jerk
Ez though she wished him furder,
An’ on her apples kep’ to work,
Parin’ away like murder.

“You want to see my Pa, I s’pose?”
“Wal ... no ... I come designin’”—
“To see my Ma? She’s sprinklin’ clo’es
Agin to-morrer’s i’nin’.”

To say why gals act so or so,
Or don’t, ’ould be presumin’;
Mebby to mean _yes_ an’ say _no_
Comes nateral to women.

He stood a spell on one foot fust,
Then stood a spell on t’other,
An’ on which one he felt the wust
He couldn’t ha’ told ye nuther.

Says he, “I’d better call agin;”
Says she, “Think likely, Mister”;
Thet last word pricked him like a pin,
An’ ... Wal, he up an’ kist her.

When Ma bimeby upon ’em slips,
Huldy sot pale as ashes,
All kin’ o’ smily roun’ the lips
An’ teary roun’ the lashes.

For she was jes’ the quiet kind
Whose naturs never vary,
Like streams that keep a summer mind
Snowhid in Jenooary.

The blood clost roun’ her heart felt glued
Too tight for all expressin’,
Tell mother see how matters stood,
An’ gin ’em both her blessin’.

Then her red come back like the tide
Down to the Bay o’ Fundy,
An’ all I know is they was cried
In meetin’ come next Sunday.

A RAINY DAY

BY ELLYE HOWELL GLOVER

I simply cannot understand
Why grown-ups always say,
“Don’t spend your money, little boy;
Save for a rainy day.”

Once, when the circus was in town
I asked Bob for a quarter;
He said, “You’re so extravagant,
For shame; I think you’d oughter—

“Save all your pennies; after while
You’ll need them, silly baby;
For if you spend them all, you’ll go
Out to the poorhouse—maybe.”

And so I waited till next time
When it rained cats and dogs;
I took the big umbrella, and
Put on my oldest togs.

And when they stopped me with the words
I knew of course they’d say,
I hollered, “I must spend my dime,
Cause it’s a rainy day.”

SCHOOL’S COMMENCED

BY LEONARD G. NATTKEMPER

Well, I guess I’ll have to go—
For school’s commenced again, you know;
An’ now I’ll have to be polite,
An’ watch my words wif all my might.

I wish the school ’ud blow away,
Or teachers all were sick to-day;
For nen I’d be just what I am,
An’ play all day wif Jake an’ Sam.

I guess us boys ’ud ruther be
The pirates on a stormy sea,
That shoot wif guns an’ cut wif knives,
Than spend in school most all our lives.

I can’t see why Ma thinks ’at school
Is better place than swimmin’ pool;
Or that I’ll learn more in a book
Than from my pal, the flowin’ brook.

It may be so, but I don’t care,
I’d ruther be a-dreamin’ there
How fine it is to be like men,
An’ never go to school again.

My Ma an’ Pa both said that they
Would be so glad when I’m away;
An’ so, I guess I’ll have to go—
For school’s commenced again, you know.

UNDERSTAENDLICH

BY EDMUND VANCE COOKE

(ABRIDGED)

Dhe contrariest t’ing on dhe erd is men,
Aber wimmens arr twice so contrary again,
Andt I am twice so contrary as you,
Andt you arr as worse as dhe worst one too;
Now, ain’d dhat zo?

You like to haf hoonger by dinner, you say,
Aber vhy do you eadt, so dat hoonger go ’vay?
You like to be tired, so you schleep like a top,
Andt you like to go schleep, so dhat tired feeling shtop;
Now, ain’d dhat zo?

You like to haf sugar on sauer t’ings you eadt
Andt you like to haf sauer mit dhe t’ings vhat arr sweet,
You like to be cold when dhe vetter is hot;
Andt it is cold, ach, how varm you vould got!
Now, aindt dhat zo?

How you shdare at dhe man vhat can valk up dhe street
On his hands, yet you valk twice so goodt on your feet,
Vhat a long mind you haf, if I’m in your debt,
Budt if you arr in mine, O, how quick you forget!
Now, aindt dhat zo?

Are you single? You like to be married, of course.
Are you married? Most likely you like a divorse!
Andt if you vas get unmarried, why dhen
You go righd avay and got married again.
Now, ain’d dhat zo?

It is bedter to laugh; it is foolish to fight
Yoost because I am wrong and because you ain’d right,
It is better to laugh mit dhe vorld, up and down
From dhe sole of our headt to the foot of our crown;
Now, ain’d dhat zo?

Zo, dhen you laugh at me andt dhen I laugh at you,
Andt dhe more dhat you laugh vhy dhe more I laugh, too,
Andt ve laugh till ve cry! Vhen ve cry, aber dhen,
Ve will bot’ feel zo goot ve go laughing again!
Now, ain’d dhat zo?

A THURRU’ REST

ANONYMOUS

Examination’s over ’n’ I don’t care if I passed,
An’ I don’t care if I didn’t fer vacation’s come at last!
I thought ’twould never git here, fer the days dragged by as slow
As Davy Jones’s ma, who calls ’n’ don’t know when to go.
Pop says I ort to go to work, but ma says she knows best,
’N’ what a boy of my age needs is just a thurru’ rest.

So me an’ Dave’ll get up every mornin’ bright ’n’ soon,
An’ pitch ’n’ ketch till breakfast, ’n’ bat up flies till noon.
’Cause after dinner every day the Hustlehards—his nine—
Is goin’ to play a series fer the champeenship with mine:
The one behind at dark has got to say the other’s best.
Gee! ain’t I glad vacation’s here ’n’ I got time to rest.

Then I’m a-goin’ to learn the other fellers how to dive,
An’ rassle Billy Potter, best thirteen in twenty-five!
’N’ after supper Dave ’n’ I are goin’ to have a race,
Ten times around the block, ’n’ if I win he’ll bust my face.
That’s what he says! But he’ll find out which one of us is best;
I’m feeling pretty strong now since I’m havin’ such a rest.

There’s goin’ to be a picnic ’n’ you bet yer life I’m goin’;
I’m entered in the swimmin’ race, ’n’ greasy pole, ’n’ rowin’,
The sack race ’n’ potato race are mine, I bet a dime,
’N’ in “the mile” I simply got to win the prize fer time,
’Cause it’s a ticket to the Gym. I like that prize the best,
Fer a feller needs some exercise as well as just a rest.

I’m goin’ to visit Uncle’s farm. He lets me do the chores
’N’ work just like the farm-hands do, right in the fields out-doors.
I’m goin’ to git a bag to punch, so’s I won’t git too fat:
We’re goin’ to have a six-day race—I got to train fer that.
I want to do so many things, I don’t know which is best;
I bet vacation’s over ’fore I get a thurru’ rest!

NO SHOOTIN’ OFF THIS YEAR

ANONYMOUS

There ain’t no Declaration. Naw
There ain’t no Fourth-July.
There ain’t no “free ’n’ equal” law,
’N’ Washin’ton could lie.
They never dumped no Boston tea;
It’s fakey, all you hear,
Fer pop says there ain’t goin’ to be
No shootin’ off this year.

They talk about pertectin’ us
To keep the Fourth in peace;
But we ain’t makin’ any fuss,
Ner askin’ fer police.
We ain’t afraid of smoke ’n’ noise,
Er little lumps of lead;
’N’ why should they blame livin’ boys
Because some boys is dead?

It ain’t my fault the fuse went out
’N’ Tom went up ’n’ blew;
Besides he’s just as well without
His extry ear er two.
They cut off Oscar’s leg, but he
Don’t seem to miss it much;
He’d beat us hoppin’ yet, if we
’Ud let him use his crutch.

It ain’t my fault that Willie blew
His hand off, like a chump;
I told him what those big ones do;
He needn’t ’a’ took the stump.
It ain’t my fault a rocket flies
’N’ hits some him er her;
Somebody’s got to wear glass eyes;
That’s what glass eyes is fer!

It ain’t my fault the stuff was bad
They made Jim’s pistol of;
Besides the preacher said, “We’re glad
He’s happier up above!”
Bet I’d be happier, anyhow,
Most any place but here,
Where they ain’t goin’ to allow
No shootin’ off this year!

HAUL AWAY, JOE

BY CHARLES KEELER

O Oi wuz a loafin’ lubber but bedad I learned to wurrk
Whin Oi loighted out o’ County Corrk along wid Paddy Burrke.
We stowed abarrd a coaster an’ her skipper wuz a brick;
Begorrah if yez didn’t moind, he’d boost yez wid a kick!
Away, haal away, haal away, Joe!

Th’ pigs wuz lane in County Corrk, th’ men all starrved on taties,
But Oi shipped upon a Yankee barrk, and better, faith, me fate is!
Och Oi hed an Irish darlint, but she ghrew so fat an’ lazy
Thet Oi bounced her fur a Yankee gurrl, an’ surre but she’s a daisy!
Away, haal away, haal away, Joe!

O since Oi lift auld Ireland Oi’ve poaked thro’ miny plaices,
Oi’ve wurrked me way, Oi’ve arrned me pay at haalin’ shates an’ braces;
On farrin’ shorres Oi’ve sot me eye on gurrls iv iv’ry nashin,
Me Yankee gurrl hes ne’er a mate throughhout th’ woid creashin!
Away, haal away, haal away, Joe!

—Copyright by the publisher, _A. M. Robertson_, San Francisco, and used by his kind permission.

BLACK SAILORS’ CHANTY

BY CHARLES KEELER

Yo ho, ma hahties, da’s a hurricane a-brewin’,
Fo’ de cook he hasn’t nuffin fo’ de sailah-men a-stewin’,—
He am skulkin’ in his bunk, am dat niggah of a cook,
An’ his chaowdah ’m in de ocean while de pot am on de hook.
You can chaw a chunk o’ hahd-tack mos’ as tendah as a brick,
But d’ain’t no smokin’ ’possum when de cook am lyin’ sick.

Ah remembah in de cane-fiel’ we hed pone-cakes ebry day;
Slack yo line a bit, ma hahties! pull away! pull away!
An’ Ah ’low Ah’m feelin’ homesick, jes’ t’ mention ob ma honey,—
She’s a libbin’ at de cabin an’ she’s out o’ cloes an’ money.
While we chaw a chunk o’ hahd-tack mos’ as tendah as a brick,
But d’ain’t no smokin’ ’possum while de cook am lyin’ sick.

O ma po’ neglected Liza an’ her piccaninny Jo,
Ah’s ben roamin’ sence Ah left her case Ah wanted fo’ to go!
Ah’s ben hustlin’ roun’ de islands, navigatin’ all de sea,
While ma honey specs a hungry shark done stuff hisself wid me.
While we chaw a chunk o’ hahd-tack mos’ as tendah as a brick,
But d’ain’t no smokin’ ’possum while de cook am lyin’ sick.

—Copyright by the publisher, _A. M. Robertson_, San Francisco; and used by his kind permission.

JOSIAH AND SYMANTHY

BY FRED EMERSON BROOKS

Josiah loved Symanthy
And Symanthy loved Josi’,
Which you couldn’t fail to notice
In the rollin’ of the eye;
But they never told each other,
On account o’ bein’ shy,
’Pears to me!

But they kept right on a-lovin’
Jes like any couple would.
Weren’t no reason why they shouldn’t,
Ner no reason why they should,
’Cause there wa’n’t no p’ints about ’em
Cupid reckoned on as good,
’Pears to me!

Now this love disease is mortal,
’Cause it tackles mortals so,
An’ the oftener you have it
The worse it seems to grow;
More you try to hide the symptoms,
More the symptoms seem to show,
’Pears to me!

Josiah was uneasy
When Symanthy wasn’t near,
An’ he got still more uneasy
Whenever she’d appear.
But sittin’ down beside ’er
Got his joints clean out o’ gear,
’Pears to me!

He put his arm behind ’er,
An’ then he pulled it back
Until Symanthy giggled:
“Guess yer gittin’ on the track
By the way yer flusticatin’;
Kind a-lookin’ fer a smack,
’Pears to me!”

Then Josiah stopped a minute,
Jes consid’rin’ how ’twould be
An’ how best to go about it,
’Cause he hadn’t much idee;
But he knew ’twas waitin’ fer him,
By Symanthy’s shy _te-he_!
’Pears to me!

Then Symanthy got pretending,
She was bitin’ off her thumb,
But she wasn’t—she was waitin’
For whatever chose to come;
While Josiah’s tongue kept rollin’
In his cheek, like chewin’-gum,
’Pears to me!

When Josiah was persuaded
That Symanthy wouldn’t shout,
Wa’n’t a-jokin’, ner a-foolin’,
Ner a-fixin’ to back out,—
Then he buckled up his courage:
Kissed her cheek or thereabout,
’Pears to me!

Then he asked ’er if she’d have him,
An’ she answered: “What d’ ye guess?”
Said he wa’n’t no good at guessin’;
So she smiled an’ snickered: “Yes!
Since I git ye all fer nothin’
I couldn’t do no less,
’Pears to me!”

When the Squire asked ’em the questions—
On the weddin’-day they set—
Which some people answer quickly
An’ about as soon forget,—
Symanthy said: “I reckin!”
An’ Josiah said: “You bet!”
’Pears to me!

When they took their weddin’ journey
Up an’ down the city street,
Josiah told Symanthy
That he guessed they’d have a treat:
So they went an’ got some oysters—
What they never yet had eat,
’Pears to me!

Then Josiah, sort o’ thinkin’,
Said: “I thought they had a shell;
What the slipp’ry things resemble
I’ll be switched if I can tell;
An’ they look so pale an’ sickly
Kind o’ reckon they ain’t well,
’Pears to me!”

“I wonder how they eat ’em?”
Said Symanthy, “How’d I know?
I’ve eat everythin’ that you have
Ever since you’ve been my beau!
But I’ll bet a cent ye dasn’t
Put one in an’ let ’er go!
’Pears to me!”

While Symanthy eat the crackers
Josiah let one slip;
Said it didn’t taste like nothin’;
Wasn’t ripe; then closed his lip;
Vowed he wouldn’t eat another,
Fear ’twould spile his weddin’ trip,
’Pears to me!

When the tip-expectin’ beggar
Bowed, an’ smilin’ meekly, said:
“Colonel hasn’t feed the waitah!”
Then Josiah jerked his head—
“You can feed on them ’ere oysters
If the pesky things ain’t dead,
’Pears to me!”

—Copyright by _Forbes & Co._, Chicago, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

CHARLIE JONES’S BAD LUCK

BY A. J. WATERHOUSE

(_As discussed by little Willie_)

I don’t care if Charlie Jones
Is better ’an I be;
An’ I don’t care if teacher says
He’s smart ’long side er me;
An’ I don’t care, w’en vis’tors come,
If she on him does call;
He ain’t got measles, like I have—
He don’t have luck at all.

He never had the whoopin’ cough,
Ner mos’ cut off his thumb,
Ner ever fell an’ broke his leg
An’ had a doctor come.
He hardly ever stubs his toe,
An’ if he does, he’ll bawl!
There’s nothin’ special comes to him—
He don’t have luck at all.

An’ I don’t care if he can say
More tex’s an’ things ’an I;
He never burnt both hands to once
’Long ’bout the Fo’th July.
He never had the chicken-pox,
Ner p’isen oak—las’ Fall!
He can’t be proud o’ nothin’ much—
He don’t have luck at all.

—From “Lays for Little Chaps.”

KISSING’S NO SIN

ANONYMOUS

Some say that kissing’s a sin;
But I think it’s nane ava,
For kissing has wonn’d in this warld
Since ever that there was twa.

O, if it wasna lawfu’,
Lawyers wadna allow it;
If it wasna holy,
Ministers wadna do it.

If it wasna modest,
Maidens wadna take it;
If it wasna plenty,
Puir folks wadna get it.

IF I DARST

BY EUGENE FIELD

I’d like to be a cowboy, an’ ride a firey hoss
Way out into the big and boundless West;
I’d kill the bears an’ catamounts an’ wolves I come across,
An’ I’d pluck the bal’ head eagle from his nest!

With my pistol at my side,
I would roam the prarers wide,
An’ to scalp the savage Injun in his wigwam would I ride—
If I darst; but I darsen’t.

I’d like to go to Afriky an’ hunt the lions there,
An’ the biggest ollyfunts you ever saw!
I would track the fierce gorilla to his equatorial lair,
An’ beard the cannybull that eats folks raw.

I’d chase the pizen snakes
An’ the pottimus that makes
His nest down at the bottom of unfathomable lakes—
If I darst; but I darsen’t.

I would I were a pirut to sail the ocean blue,
With a big black flag a-flyin’ overhead;
I would scour the billowy main with my gallant pirut crew,
An’ dye the sea a gouty, gory red.

With my cutlass in my hand
On the quarterdeck I’d stand
And to deeds of heroism I’d incite my pirut band—
If I darst; but I darsen’t.

And, if I darst, I’d lick my pa for the times that he’s licked me,
I’d lick my brother an’ my teacher, too,
I’d lick the fellers that call round on sister after tea,
An’ I’d keep on lickin’ folks till I got through.

You bet. I’d run away
From my lessons to my play,
An’ I’d shoo the hens, and tease the cat, an’ kiss the girls all day—
If I darst; but I darsen’t.

DERNDEST GAL I EVER KNOWED

BY HERBERT BASHFORD

Derndest gal I ever knowed,
Neatest gal I ever seen,
Lived down in the Red Ravine
Jest below the county road,
Guess she wuz about sixteen—
Sophy wuz her name, an’ she
Wuz ez cute ez cute kin be.

When I’d go t’ town I brung
Her the biggest lot o’ stuff,
Pop-corn, likrish, ’n’ enough
Candy fer t’ fill a room.
Once she hit me with a broom
Cuz I kissed her on the cheek,
An’ the midget wouldn’t speak
T’ me fer, perhaps, a week.

When I’d raise my eyes to hern
Jeminny! my cheeks ’ud burn
An’ git redder ’n’ a beet.
Oh, she looked jest powerful sweet!
When I’d try to call her dear,
Why, I’d feel so doggoned queer
That I’d lean ag’in’ th’ fence
’Zif I didn’ hev no sense,
Twist th’ buttons on my vest,
Ast her who she liked th’ best,
Ast her if it wuzn’t Bill,
Er old Jones thet run th’ mill,
Keep a-hintin’ ’round, yuh see,
Till she’d up an’ say ’twuz me.

I wuz jellus o’ Jim Pike,
Jellus ez th’ very deuce
Though there didn’t seem much use,
Fer his freckles wuz so thick,
An’ his hair wuz so like brick
Thet a feller one day said
Yuh could toast a hunk o’ bread
Ef yuh’d hold it nigh his head.
He wuz awkarder’n sin,
Never fished along the crick
But he’d hev t’ tumble in.

Sophy ’peared t’ pity Jim,
While I thought if I wuz him
I’d go off ’n’ hide somewhere,
Else put plaster on my hair.
But this homely, lantern-jawed
Lookin’ cuss stood ’round ’n’ chawed
On a plug o’ terbacker
Half his time ’n’ talked t’ her
Of his love, till I jest told
Him t’ mosey, an’ he rolled
Up his sleeves ’n’ landed me
Plumb betwixt th’ eyes, then he
Went to Sophy, an’, sir, she
Married him! The pesky mule!
Wuzn’t she a reg’ler fool?
I wuz jest tetotally blowed—
Derndest gal I ever knowed!

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

ON NEWBRASKY’S FERTILE SHORE

BY HERBERT BASHFORD

Oh, I am so orful humsick! An’ I feel so wretched queer!
Ephrum, he has gone a-ridin’ on a wild eclectric keer,
Rhody—that’s my only darter—she has gone an’ left me, tew,
Both a trapesin’ ’round like ijits—wonder what’s th’ next they’ll do?
They don’t seem to think they’re darin’ Providence right in th’ face,
Ridin’ without hoss er engine ’n’ goin’ at a break-neck pace:
Course I needn’t stand here waitin’, both insisted I should come,
But I vow I’ll not be reckless when I am so fer from hum:
Clear out here by th’ Pacific, jist as fur as we kin git,
An’ if we stay here much longer I declare I’ll hev a fit.
It’s th’ most deceivin’ kentry as ever’ one’ll say
Ever’ drap o’ water salty in th’ hull o’ Frisco bay.
Oh, I’ve tramped these pesky sidewalks till my feet is lame an’ sore,
An’ a-yearnin’ ever’ minute fur Newbrasky’s fertile shore!

Then they brag about their scenery! Californy! Humph! O dear!
Scenery! Well, jest speaking plainly, I don’t see no scenery here:
Nothin’ but the mount’in ranges rarin’ up so ’tarnal high
Thet a buddy kint look nowheres ’cept the middle o’ th’ sky.
Mount’ins, everlastin’ mount’ins, hills ’n’ woods ’n’ rocks ’n’ snow,
Where th’ scenery is they’re braggin’ on I’m th’ one as wants t’ know.
Let ’em stand in Lincoln county jest aback our cowyard fence,
An’ if they don’t say there’s scenery they hain’t got a mite o’ sense;
Why yuh kin look fur miles around yuh an’ see nothin’ but th’ flat
Level prairie in th’ sunshine kivered in its grassy mat.
That is scenery—yuh kin look there jest as fur as yuh kin see
With no hills a-interposin’, er no rocks, er airy tree.
Oh, I’ve told my husband, Ephrum, that I’d gallavant no more
When ag’in I’d sot my foot on old Newbrasky’s fertile shore.

Then I’m worried so ’bout Rhody, fur she’s missin’ ever’ day
All her lessons on th’ melojun that paw bought fur her last May,
An’ she could perform amazin’; she could play “Old Hundred” nice
An’ another song beginnin’ “Happy Day that Fixed My Ch’ice.”
Yes, th’ singin’ teacher told me as we parted at th’ keers,
He was shore she’d play th’ organ in th’ church ’fore many years.
Now her notion’s highkerflutin’, a pianner she wants now,
An’ her paw sez he will get it soon as he kin sell a cow,
Sez he kin dispose o’ Muly—I jest told him no sir-e-e
Not fur no new-fangled nonsense—Muly’s my cow, an’ you see
He’s jest got a spite ag’in her ’cause she’s got a lengthy tail
An’ in fightin’ skeeters sometimes whicks it in th’ milkin’ pail.
Oh, I’ll be the gladdest mortal when I reach th’ kitchen door
Of that dear old farmhouse standin’ on Newbrasky’s fertile shore!

No, I don’t enjoy th’ city where the wimmen folks is dressed
Monday an’ clean through till Saturday all in their Sunday best.
I jest like to ketch my wrapper up ’n’ pin it ’round my waist,
Carin’ not a single copper if my shoe-string comes unlaced,
Then go out an’ milk old Muly an’ turn out th’ spotted calf
While th’ chickens giggle ’round me an’ the speckled roosters laff,
Then go in th’ summer kitchen, set me down an’ churn a spell,
Till time comes t’ put th’ victuals on an’ ring th’ dinner bell.
Yes, I love th’ peaceful quiet o’ th’ farm where it’s so still,
Nothin’ but th’ ducks a-quackin’ ’n’ pigs a-squealin’ fur their swill,
Nothin’ but th’ geese a-clackin’ ’n’ the bawlin’ o’ th’ cows,
An’ th’ nickerin’ o’ th’ hosses as they’re comin’ t’ th’ house;
Oh, I want t’ leave th’ city with its racket an’ its roar
An’ git back there t’ the silence o’ Newbrasky’s fertile shore!

—Copyright by _Harr Wagner Co._, San Francisco, and used by kind permission of author and publisher.

“FUZZY-WUZZY”

BY RUDYARD KIPLING

We’ve fought with many men acrost the seas,
An’ some of ’em was brave an’ some was not:
The paythan an’ the Zulu an’ Burmese;
But the Fuzzy was the finest o’ the lot.
We never got a ha’porth’s change of ’im:
’E squatted in the scrub an’ ’ocked our ’orses,
’E cut our sentries up at Suakim,
An’ ’e played the cat an’ banjo with our forces.
So ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in the Sowdan;
You’re a poor benighted ’eathen but a first-class fightin’ man;
We give you your certifikit, and if you want it signed
We’ll come an’ have a romp with you whenever you’re inclined.

We took our chanst among the Kyber hills,
The Boers knocked us silly at a mile,
The Burman guv us Irriwaddy chills,
An’ a Zulu impi dished us up in style;
But all we ever got from such as they
Was pop to what the Fuzzy made us swaller;
We ’eld our bloomin’ own, the papers say,
But man for man the Fuzzy knocked us ’oller.
Then ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ the missis and the kid;
Our orders was to break you, an’ of course we went and did.
We sloshed you with Martinis, an’ it wasn’t ’ardly fair;
But for all the odds agin you, Fuzzy-Wuz, you bruk the square.

’E ’asn’t got no papers of ’is own,
’E ’asn’t got no medals nor rewards
So we must certify the skill ’e’s shown
In usin’ of ’is long two-handled swords;
When ’e’s ’oppin’ in an’ out among the bush
With ’is coffin-’eaded shield an’ shovel-spear,
A ’appy day with Fuzzy on the rush
Will last a ’ealthy Tommy for a year.
So ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, an’ your friends which is no more,
If we ’adn’t lost some mess-mates we would help you to deplore;
But give an’ take’s the gospel, an’ we’ll call the bargain fair,
For if you ’ave lost more than us, you crumbled up the square!

’E rushes at the smoke when we let drive,
An’, before we know, ’e’s ’ackin’ at our ’ead;
’E’s all ’ot sand an’ ginger when alive,
An’ ’e’s generally shammin’ when ’e’s dead.
’E’s a daisy, ’e’s a duck, ’e’s a lamb!
’E’s a injia-rubber idiot on the spree,
’E’s the on’y thing that doesn’t care a damn
For the Regiment o’ British Infantree.
So ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, at your ’ome in the Sowdan;
You’re a pore benighted ’eathen but a first-class fightin’ man;
An’ ’ere’s to you, Fuzzy-Wuzzy, with your ’ayrick ’ead of ’air—
You big black boundin’ beggar—for you bruk a British square.

THOUGHTS FROM BUB

BY LEONARD G. NATTKEMPER

My name is Bub, ’cuz papa sed
He’d ruther call me so than Ned.
But mamma calls me ’ist her beau—
W’en I am good, I mean, you know.

So, I ’ist hardly knows my name
I guess—I bet ’ist all the same,
I’m papa’s boy an’ mamma’s dear,
An’ I be glad ’ist ’cuz I’m here.

It’s hard to make a name, I s’pose,
W’en they have used ’bout all o’ those
That they have heard or that they’ve read—
O’ course, there’s more w’en people’s dead.

An’ now I wonder if that I
Will leave my name w’en I must die.
I guess it’s so, ’cuz we ’ist call
Angel’s last name for them all.

I’m glad I’m not an angel yet,
Whose names are less than mine, I bet,
Still it must be nice to see
All the folks that used to be.

Oh, my, I don’t know what to say
About my names, ’cuz every day
My mamma finds a new one, too—
I’m ’fraid she’s left no names for you.

The bestest thing in all this worl’
Is, I’m a boy an’ not a girl,
Girls are good as they can be,
But boys are best you must agree.

I guess I’ve tol’ you all I know
From where names come to where they go;
But ’member now ’ist what I sed,
My name is Bub instead o’ Ned.

THE VEGETABLE MAN

BY LEONARD G. NATTKEMPER

A Chinaman comes to our house each day
Wif horses that’s colored both red an’ gray,
An’ wagon ’ist full of things to eat—
An’ up I climbs on his big high seat.

This Chinaman’s name I cannot tell—
But “veg’table man” will do as well;
For corn an’ beans and cabbage, too,
He grows in the fields for me an’ you.

An’ w’en it’s time to drive to town
He brings his wagon ’ist loaded down
With veg’t’ble things an’ peaches too—
He’ll peel _you_ one if I ask him to.

Gee, but I love this Chinaman;
He stops an’ plays, an’ one day ran
Aroun’ his wagon clear out of sight—
But I found him there an’ held on tight.

Then up he lifts me way up high,
An’ laughs again wif his funny eye—
I forgot to tell that he can see
’Ist half so well as you an’ me.

’Cause one day w’en he’s ’ist a boy
An’ playin’ wif a home-made toy,
It flew aroun’ an’ hit his face,
An’ left that funny open place.

But I don’t care if he is queer,
He sees enough to know I’m here,
An’ finds the time to stop an’ play
W’en I am lonesome through the day.

But ma an’ dad are not so kind
As veg’t’ble man whose eye is blind.
I guess I love them all I can,
But most I love my Chinaman.

IMMIGRATION

BY WALLACE IRWIN

Ezekiel, the Puritan,
Thus lifts his protestation:
“By ginger, I’m American,
And don’t like immigration.
Naow I jest guess I got here fust
And know what I’m abaout,
When I declar’ we’ll all go bust
Or keep them aliens out.”

Max Heidelburg, the German, says:
“Jah also. Right, mein frendt.
If ve dot foreign trash admit
Our woes will nefer endt.
I am Americans as you
Und villing to ge-shout
‘Hurray mit red und vite und plue,
Und kiip dose aliens oudt!’”

Ike Diamondstein, the Jew, exclaims:
“Ah, Izzy, ain’t dat grandt!
Ve Yangees haf such nople aims
Und vill togeder standt,
Ve’ve got der goods, ve’re nach’ralized—
Vat hinters us from shouten
‘Americavich is civilzized,
So keep dose aliens outen!’”

Pietro Garibaldi says:
“Here ever-r-ry man is king.
I catch-a da fun, I mak-a da mon,
I like-a da ever-r-yt’ing.
American he gent-a-man—
Watch-a da Dago shout,
‘Sell-a da fruit, shin-a da boot,
Keep-a da alien out!’”

The Irishman vociferates:
“Sure, Mike, it’s sahft as jelly.
I’ll take the shtick and crack the pates
Of ivery foreign Kelly.
If it’s the call o’ polyticks,
Then I’m the la’ad to shout,
‘Down wid th’ Da-agos an’ th’ Micks,
An’ keep th’ aliens out!’”