Chapter II: Part 2

Sorto', fer to let him be
And not pester him. And then
Word begin to spread 'at he
Had brung in as high as ten
Coon-pelts in one night--and yit
Didn't 'pear to boast of it!

Neghborhood made some complaints
'Bout them plague-gone hounds at night
Howlin' fit to wake the saints,
Clean from dusk tel plum day-light!
But to "Coon-dog Wess" them-thare
Howls was "music in the air"!

Fetched his pelts to Gilson's Store--
Newt he shipped fer him, and said,
Sence _he'd_ cooned thare, he'd shipped more
Than three hunderd pelts!--"By Ned!
Git shet of my _store_," Newt says,
"I'd go in with 'Coon-dog Wess'!"

And the feller 'peared to be
Makin' best and most he could
Of his rale prospairity:--
Bought some household things--and _good_,--
Likewise, wagon-load onc't come
From wharever he'd moved from.

But pore feller's huntin'-days,
'Bout them times, was glidin' past!--
Goes out onc't one night and _stays!_
... Neghbors they turned out, at last,
Headed by his wife and one
Half-starved hound--and search begun.

Boys said, that blame hound, he led
Searchin' party, 'bout a half
Mile ahead, and bellerin', said,
Worse'n ary yearlin' calf!--
Tel, at last, come fur-off sounds
Like the howl of other hounds.

And-sir, shore enugh, them signs
Fetched 'em--in a' hour er two--
Whare the _pack_ was;--and they finds
"Coon-dog Wess" _right thare_;--And you
Would admitted he was right
_Stayin'_, as he had, _all night!_

Facts is, cuttin' down a tree,
The blame thing had sorto' fell
In a twist-like--_mercy me!_
And had ketched him.--Couldn't tell,
Wess said, _how_ he'd managed--yit
He'd got both legs under it!

Fainted and come to, I s'pose,
'Bout a dozen times whilse they
Chopped him out!--And wife she froze
To him!--bresh his hair away
And smile cheerful'--only when
He'd faint.--Cry and kiss him _then_.

Had _his_ nerve!--And nussed him through,--
Neghbors he'pped her--all she'd stand.--
Had a loom, and she could do
Carpet-weavin' railly grand!--
"'Sides," she ust to laugh and say,
"She'd have Wess, now, _night_ and day!"

As fer _him_, he'd say, says-ee,
"I'm resigned to bein' lame:--
They was four coons up that tree,
And hounds got 'em, jest the same!"
'Peared like, one er two legs less
Never worried "Coon-dog Wess"!

LINES TO PERFESSER JOHN CLARK RIDPATH A. M., LL. D. T-Y-TY!

[Cumposed by A Old Friend of the Fambily sence 'way back in the Forties, when they Settled nigh Fillmore, Putnam County, this State, whare John was borned and growed up, you might say, like the wayside flower.]

Your neghbors in the country, whare you come from, hain't fergot!--
We knowed you even better than your own-self, like as not.
We profissied your runnin'-geers 'ud stand a soggy load
And pull her, purty stiddy, up a mighty rocky road:
We been a-watchin' your career sence you could write your name--
But way you writ it _first_, I'll say, was jest a burnin' shame!--
Your "J. C." in the copybook, and "Ridpath"--mercy-sakes!--
Quiled up and tide in dubble bows, lookt like a nest o' snakes!--
But _you_ could read it, I _suppose_, and kindo' gloted on
A-bein' "_J. C. Ridpath_" when _we_ only called you "_John_."

But you'd work 's well as fool, and what you had to do was _done_:
We've watched you at the woodpile--not the _woodshed_--wasent none,--
And snow and sleet, and haulin', too, and lookin' after stock,
And milkin', nights, and feedin' pigs,--then turnin' back the clock,
So's you could set up studyin' your 'Rethmatic, and fool
Your Parents, whilse a-piratin' your way through winter school!
And I've heerd tell--from your own folks--you've set and baked your face
A-readin' Plutark Slives all night by that old fi-er-place.--
Yit, 'bout them times, the blackboard, onc't, had on it, I _de_-clare,
"Yours truly, _J. Clark_ Ridpath."--And the teacher--left it thare!

And they was other symptums, too, that pinted, plane as day,
To nothin' short of _College_!--and _one_ was the lovin' way
Your mother had of cheerin' you to efforts brave and strong,
And puttin' more faith in you, as you needed it along:
She'd pat you on the shoulder, er she'd grab you by the hands,
And _laugh_ sometimes, er _cry_ sometimes.--They's few that understands
Jest _what_ theyr mother's drivin' at when they act thataway;--
But I'll say this fer _you_, John-Clark,--you answered, night and day,
To ev'ry trust and hope of hers--and half your College fame
Was battled fer and won fer her and glory of her name.

The likes of _you_ at _College_! But you went thare. How you paid
Your way nobody's astin'--but you _worked_,--you hain't afraid,--
Your _clothes_ was, more'n likely, kindo' out o' style, perhaps,
And not as snug and warm as some 'at hid the other chaps;--
But when it come to _Intullect_--they tell me yourn was dressed
A _leetle_ mite _superber_-like than any of the rest!
And there you _stayed_--and thare you've made your rickord, fare and square--
Tel _now_ its _Fame_ 'at writes your name, approvin', _ev'rywhare_--
Not _jibblets_ of it, nuther,--but all John Clark Ridpath, set
Plum at the dashboard of the whole-endurin' Alfabet!

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 understands
With his feelin's well as ears.
Tell of the old log house,--about
The 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-door
Tel 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 drums
And the old Red White and Blue!

Blow and blow tel the sound draps low
As the moan of the whipperwill,
And wake up Mother, and Ruth and Jo,
All sleepin' at Bethel Hill:
Blow and call tel the faces all
Shine out in the back-log's blaze,
And the shadders dance on the old hewed wall
As they did in the airly days.

"MYLO JONES'S WIFE"

"Mylo Jones's wife" was all
I heerd, mighty near, last Fall--
Visitun relations down
T'other side of Morgantown!
Mylo Jones's wife she does
This 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 'lows
She'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, ner
Act, I s'pose, so much like _her_!
Yit the wimmern-folks tells you
She's _perfection_.--Yes they do!

Mylo's wife she says she's found
Home hain't home with _men-folks_ round
When they's work like _hern_ to do--
Picklin' pears and _butchern_, too,
And a-rendern lard, and then
Cookin' fer a pack of men
To come trackin' up the flore
_She's_ scrubbed _tel_ she'll scrub no _more_!--
Yit she'd keep things clean ef they
Made her scrub tel Jedgmunt Day!

Mylo Jones's wife she sews
Carpet-rags and patches clothes
Jest year _in_ and _out_!--and yit
Whare's the livin' use of it?
She asts Mylo that.--And he
Gits back whare he'd ruther be,
With his team;--jest _plows_--and don't
Never 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 excuse
Fer his pore relations to
Hang 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 see
Sich a womern rulin' _me_!--
Ruther take and turn in and
Raise 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 rough
Timber.--He's a grate old John!--
"Rough?"--don't swaller no sich stuff!
Moved here, sence the war was through,
From Ohio--somers near
Old Bucyrus,--loyal, too,
As us "Hoosiers" is to _here_!
Git old John stirred up a bit
On 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 stayed
All night with us.--Set and gassed
Tel plum midnight--'cause I made
Some remark 'bout "buckeyes" and
"What was buckeyes good fer?"--So,
Like I 'lowed, he waved his hand
And lit in and let me know:--
"'What is Buckeyes good fer?'--What's
_Pineys_ and _fergitmenots_?--
Honeysuckles, and sweet peas,
And sweet-williamsuz, and these
Johnny-jump-ups ev'rywhare,
Growin' round the roots o' trees
In Spring-weather?--what air _they_
Good fer?--kin you tell me--_Hey?_
'Good to look at?' Well they air!
'Specially when _Winter's_ gone,
Clean _dead-certin!_ and the wood's
Green again, and sun feels good's
June!--and shed your blame boots on
The back porch, and lit out to
Roam 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 knit
_Over_ and _en-nunder_ it,
And wove round it all, I jing!
Tel you couldn't hardly stick
A 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 clean
Slopin' little hump o' green
Dry soft grass, as fine and grand
As a pollor-sofy!--And
Jis pile down thare!--and tell _me_
_Anywhares_ you'd ruther be--
'Ceptin' _right thare_, with the wild-
Flowrs all round ye, and your eyes
Smilin' 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' theyr
Beauteous fragrunce on the breeze'--
But the sight o' _buckeyes_ jis
Sweet to me as _blossoms_ is!

"I'm _Ohio-born_--right whare
People's _all_ called 'Buckeyes' _thare_--
'Cause, I s'pose, our buckeye crap's
Biggest in the world, perhaps!--
Ner my head don't stretch my hat
Too much on account o' _that_!--
'Cause it's Natchur's ginerus hand
Sows 'em broadcast ore the land,
With eye-single fer man's good
And 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, _tomattusuz_
Wuz considerd pizenus
_Onc'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 what
Ockuppies my lovin' care
And my most perfoundest thought!
... Guess, this minute, what I got
In my pocket, 'at I've packed
Purt'-nigh forty year.--A dry,
Slick and shiny, warped and cracked,
Wilted, weazened old _buckeye_!
What's it _thare_ fer? What's my hart
In my _brest_ fer?--'Cause it's part
Of 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 on
My blame legs!--And ust to wish
I wuz well er _dead and gone_!
Doc give up the case, and shod
His old boss again and stayed
On good roads!--_And thare I laid!_
Pap he tuck some bluegrass sod
Steeped in whisky, bilin'-hot,
And socked _that_ on! Then I got
Sorto' 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 disease
Like a shavin'-hoss! and sort
O' wore it out by slow degrees--
Tel my legs wuz straight enugh
To poke through my pants again
And kick all the doctor-stuff
In the fi-er-place! Then turned in
And tuck Daddy Craig's old cuore--
_Jis a buckeye_--and that's _shore_.--
Hain't no case o' rhumatiz
Kin 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 tracks
Upon these earthly shores, and hence
Arose 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 two
And lash him, and he'll go his len'th
And 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 find
He'll never do a hostile trick.

A hoss whose master tends him right
And 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 gate
At early dawn, upon your way
Unto the barn, and snorts elate,
To git his corn, er oats, er hay.

He knows you, as the orphant knows
The 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 chist
And big in leg and full in flank,
That tries to race, I still insist
He'll have to take the second rank.

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

I got to _thinkin'_ of her--both her parunts dead and gone--
And all her sisters married off, and none but her and John
A-livin' all alone thare in that lonesome sorto' way,
And him a blame old bachelor, confirmder ev'ry day!
I'd knowed 'em all, from childern, and theyr daddy from the time
He settled in the neghborhood, and hadn't ary a dime
Er dollar, when he married, fer to start housekeepin' on!--
So I got to _thinkin'_ of her--both her parunts dead and gone!

I got to _thinkin'_ of her; and a-wundern what _she_ done
That all _her sisters_ kep' a-gittin' married, one by one,
And her without _no_ chances--and the best girl of the pack--
A' old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back!
And _Mother_, too, afore she died,--_she_ ust to jest take on,
When none of 'em wuz left, you know, but Evaline and John,
And jest declare to goodness 'at the young men must be bline
To not see what a wife they'd git ef they got Evaline!

I got to _thinkin'_ of her: In my great affliction she
Wuz sich a comfert to us, and so kind and neghborly,--
She'd come, and leave her housework, fer to he'p out little Jane,
And talk of _her own_ mother 'at she'd never see again--
They'd sometimes _cry_ together--though, fer the most part, she
Would have the child so rickonciled and happy-like 'at we
Felt lonesomer'n ever when she'd putt her bonnet on
And say she'd railly _haf_ to be a-gittin' back to John!

I got to _thinkin'_ of her, as I say,--and more and more
I'd think of her dependence, and the burdens 'at she bore,--
Her parunts both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters gone
And married off, and her a-livin' thare alone with John--
You might say jest a-toilin' and a-slavin' out her life
Fer a man 'at hadn't pride enugh to git hisse'f a wife--
'Less some one married _Evaline_ and packed her off some day!--
So I got to _thinkin'_ of her--and--It happened _thataway_.

A DOS'T O' BLUES

I' got no patience with blues at all!
And I ust to kindo' talk
Aginst 'em, and claim, tel along last Fall,
They wuz none in the fambly stock;
But a nephew of mine, from Eelinoy,
That visitud us last year,
He kindo' convinct me differunt
Whilse he wuz a-stayin' here.

From ev'ry-which-way that blues is from,
They'd pester him _ev'ry_-ways;
They'd come to him in the night, and come
On Sundys, and rainy days;
They'd tackle him in corn-plantin' time,
And in harvest, and airly Fall,--
But a dos't o' blues in the _Winter_time,
He 'lowed, wuz the worst of all!

Said "All diseases that ever _he_ had--
The mumps, er the rhumatiz--
Er ev'ry-other-day-aigger--bad
As ever the blame thing is!--
Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck,
Er a felon on his thumb,--
But you keep _the blues_ away from him,
And all o' the rest could come!"

And he'd moan, "They's nary a leaf below!
Ner a spear o' grass in sight!
And the whole woodpile's clean under snow!
And the days is dark as night!
You can't go out--ner you can't stay in--
Lay down--stand up--ner set!"
And a tetch o' regular tyfoid-blues
Would double him jest clean shet!

I writ his parunts a postal-kyard
He could stay tel Springtime come;
And Aprile--_first_, as I rickollect--
Wuz the day we shipped him home!
Most o' his _relatives_, sence then,
Has eether give up, er quit,
Er jest died off; but I understand
_He's_ the same old color yit!

THE OLD HOME BY THE MILL

This is "The old Home by the Mill"--fer we still call it so,
Although the _old mill_, roof and sill, is all gone long ago.
The old home, though, and the old folks--the old spring, and a few
Old cattails, weeds and hartychokes, is left to welcome you!

Here, Marg'et!--fetch the man a _tin_ to drink out of! Our spring
Keeps kindo'-sorto' cavin' in, but don't "_taste_" anything!
She's kindo' _age_in', Marg'et is--"the _old_ process"--like me,
All ham-stringed up with rhumatiz, and on in seventy-three.

Jest me and Marg'et lives alone here--like in long ago;
The childern all putt off and gone, and married, don't you know?
One's millin' 'way out West somewhare; two other miller-boys
In Minnyopolis they air; and one's in Illinoise.
The _oldest_ gyrl--the first that went--married and died right here;
The next lives in Winn's Settlement--fer purt'-nigh thirty year!
And youngest one--was allus fer the old home here--but no!--
Her man turns in and he packs _her_ 'way off to Idyho!

I don't miss them like _Marg'et_ does--'cause I got _her_, you see;
And when she pines for them--that's 'cause _she's_ only jest got _me_!
I laugh, and joke her 'bout it all.--But talkin' sense, I'll say,
When she was tuk so bad last Fall, I laughed then t'other way!
I hain't so favor'ble impressed 'bout _dyin'_; but ef I
Found I was only second-best when _us two_ come to die,
I'd 'dopt the "new process" in full, ef _Marg'et_ died, you see,--
I'd jest crawl in my grave and pull the green grass over me!

THE WAY IT WUZ

Las' July--and, I persume,
'Bout as hot
As the old Gran'-Jury room
Whare they sot!--
Fight 'twixt Mike and Dock McGreff....
'Pears to me jest like as ef
I'd a-dremp' the whole blame thing--
Allus ha'nts me roun' the gizzard
When they's nightmares on the wing
And a feller's blood's jes' friz!
Seed the row from A to Izzard--
'Cause I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em
As me and you is!

Tell you the way it wuz--
And I don't _want_ to see,
Like _some_ fellers does,
When they's goern to be
Any kind o' fuss--
On'y makes a rumpus wuss
Fer to _interfere_
When theyr dander's riz--
Might as lif to _cheer_!
But I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em
As me and you is!

I wuz kindo' strayin'
Past the blame saloon--
Heerd some fiddler playin'
That old "Hee-cup tune!"
I'd _stopped_-like, you know,
Fer a minit er so,
And wuz jest about
Settin' down, when--_Jeemses-whizz!_--
Whole durn winder-sash fell out!
And thare laid Dock McGreff, and Mike
A-straddlin' him, all bloody-like,
And both a-gittin' down to biz!--
And I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em
As me and you is!

I wuz the on'y man aroun'--
(Durn old-fogey town!
'Peared more like, to me,
_Sund'y_ than _Saturd'y_!)
Dog come 'crost the road
And tuk a smell
And putt right back:
Mishler driv by 'ith a load
O' cantalo'pes he couldn't sell--
Too mad, 'i jack!
To even ast
What wuz up, as he went past!
Weather most outrageous hot!--
Fairly hear it sizz
Roun' Dock and Mike--tel Dock he shot,--
And Mike he slacked that grip o' his
And fell, all spraddled out. Dock riz
'Bout half up, a spittin' red,
And shuck his head....
And I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em
As me and you is!

And Dock he says,
A-whisperin'-like,--
"It hain't no use
A-tryin'!--Mike
He's jest ripped my daylights loose!--
Git that blame-don fiddler to
Let up, and come out here--You
Got some burryin' to do,--
Mike makes _one_, and, I expects,
'Bout ten seconds, I'll make _two_!"
And he drapped back, whare he'd riz,
'Crost Mike's body, black and blue,
Like a great big letter X!--
And I wuz a-standin' as clos't to 'em
As me and you is!

PAP'S OLD SAYIN'

Pap had one old-fashioned sayin'
That I'll never quite fergit--
And they's seven growed-up childern
Of us rickollects it yit!--
Settin' round the dinner-table,
Talkin' 'bout our friends, perhaps,
Er abusin' of our neghbors,
I kin hear them words o' Pap's--
"Shet up, and eat yer vittels!"

Pap he'd never argy with us,
Ner cut any subject short
Whilse we all kep' clear o' gossip,
And wuz actin' as we ort:
But ef we'd git out o' order--
Like sometimes a fambly is,--
Faultin' folks, er one another,
Then we'd hear that voice o' his--
"Shet up, and eat yer vittels!"

Wuz no hand hisse'f at talkin'--
_Never_ hadn't _much_ to say,--
Only, as I said, pervidin'
When we'd rile him thataway:
Then he'd allus lose his temper
Spite o' fate, and jerk his head
And slam down his caseknife vicious'
Whilse he glared around and said--
"Shet up, and eat yer vittels!"

Mind last time 'at Pap was ailin'
With a misery in his side,
And had hobbled in the kitchen--
Jest the day before he died,--
Laury Jane she ups and tells him,
"Pap, you're pale as pale kin be--
Hain't ye 'feard them-air cowcumbers
Hain't good fer ye?" And says he,
"Shet up, and eat yer vittels!"

Well! I've saw a-many a sorrow,--
Forty year', through thick and thin;
I've got best,--and I've got _wors'ted_,
Time and time and time ag'in!--
But I've met a-many a trouble
That I hain't run onto twice,
Haltin'-like and thinkin' over
Them-air words o' Pap's advice:
"Shet up, and eat yer vittels!"

ROMANCIN'

I' b'en a-kindo' "_musin'_," as the feller says, and I'm
About o' the conclusion that they hain't no better time,
When you come to cipher on it, than the times we ust to know
When we swore our first "_dog-gone-it_" sorto' solum-like and low!

You git my idy, do you?--_Little_ tads, you understand--
Jest a-wishin' thue and thue you that you on'y wuz a _man_.--
Yit here I am, this minit, even sixty, to a day,
And fergettin' all that's in it, wishin' jest the other way!

I hain't no hand to lectur' on the times, er _dim_onstrate
Whare the trouble is, er hector and domineer with Fate,--
But when I git so flurried, and so pestered-like and blue,
And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what I do!--

I jest gee-haw the hosses, and onhook the swingle-tree,
Whare the hazel-bushes tosses down theyr shadders over me;
And I draw my plug o' navy, and I climb the fence, and set
Jest a-thinkin' here, i gravy! tel my eyes is wringin'-wet!

Tho' I still kin see the trouble o' the _presunt_, I kin see--
Kindo' like my sight wuz double--all the things that _ust_ to be;
And the flutter o' the robin and the teeter o' the wren
Sets the willer-branches bobbin' "howdy-do" thum _Now_ to _Then_!

The deadnin' and the thicket's jest a-bilin' full of June,
Thum the rattle o' the cricket, to the yallar-hammer's tune;
And the catbird in the bottom, and the sapsuck on the snag,
Seems ef they can't--od-rot 'em!--jest do nothin' else but brag!

They's music in the twitter of the bluebird and the jay,
And that sassy little critter jest a-_peckin'_ all the day;
They's music in the "flicker," and they's music in the thrush,
And they's music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in the brush!

They's music _all around_ me!--And I go back, in a dream
Sweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep,--and in the stream
That ust to split the medder whare the dandylions growed,
I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down the road.

Then's when I' b'en a-fishin'!--And they's other fellers, too,
With theyr hick'ry-poles a-swishin' out behind 'em; and a few
Little "shiners" on our stringers, with theyr tails tip-toein' bloom,
As we dance 'em in our fingers all the happy jurney home.

I kin see us, true to Natur', thum the time we started out,
With a biscuit and a 'tater in our little "roundabout"!--
I kin see our lines a-tanglin', and our elbows in a jam,
And our naked legs a-danglin' thum the apern o' the dam.

I kin see the honeysuckle climbin' up around the mill,
And kin hear the worter chuckle, and the wheel a-growlin' still;
And thum the bank below it I kin steal the old canoe,
And jest git in and row it like the miller ust to do.

W'y, I git my fancy focussed on the past so mortul plane
I kin even smell the locus'-blossoms bloomin' in the lane;
And I hear the cow-bells clinkin' sweeter tunes 'n "Money-musk"
Fer the lightnin' bugs a-blinkin' and a-dancin' in the dusk.

And when I've kep' on "musin'," as the feller says, tel I'm
Firm-fixed in the conclusion that they hain't no better time,
When you come to cipher on it, than the _old_ times,--I de-clare
I kin wake and say "dog-gone-it!" jest as soft as any prayer!

AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY

AN OLD SETTLER'S STORY

William Williams his name was--er so he said;--Bill Williams they called him, and them 'at knowed him best called him Bill Bills.

The first I seed o' Bills was about two weeks after he got here. The Settlement wasn't nothin' but a baby in them days, fer I mind 'at old Ezry Sturgiss had jist got his saw and griss-mill a-goin', and Bills had come along and claimed to know all about millin', and got a job with him; and millers in them times was wanted worse'n congerssmen, and I reckon got better wages; fer afore Ezry built, there wasn't a dust o' meal er flour to be had short o' the White Water, better'n sixty mil'd from here, the way we had to fetch it. And they used to come to Ezry's fer their grindin' as fur as that; and one feller I knowed to come from what used to be the old South Fork, over eighty mil'd from here, and in the wettest, rainyest weather; and mud! _Law!_

Well, this-here Bills was a-workin' fer Ezry at the time--part the time a-grindin', and part the time a-lookin' after the sawin', and gittin' out timber and the like. Bills was a queer-lookin' feller, shore! About as tall a build man as Tom Carter--but of course you don't know nothin' o' Tom Carter. A great big hulk of a feller, Tom was; and as fur back as Fifty-eight used to make his brags that he could cut and putt up his seven cord a day.

Well, what give Bills this queer look, as I was a-goin' on to say, was a great big ugly scar a-runnin' from the corner o' one eye clean down his face and neck, and I don't know how fur down his breast--awful lookin'; and he never shaved, and there wasn't a hair a-growin' in that scar, and it looked like a--some kind o' pizen snake er somepin' a-crawlin' in the grass and weeds. I never seed sich a' out-and-out ornry-lookin' chap, and I'll never fergit the first time I set eyes on him.