Can't tell what it is about Old October knock me out—! I sleep well enough at night— And the blamedest appetite Ever mortal man possessed—, Last thing et, it tastes the best—! Warnuts, butternuts, pawpaws, 'Iles and limbers up my jaws Fer raal service, sich as new Pork, spareribs, and sausage, too—. Yit fer all, they's somepin' 'bout Old October knocks me out!

Jim

He was jes a plain ever'-day, all-round kind of a jour., Consumpted-Iookin'— but la! The jokeiest, wittiest, story-tellin', song-singin', laughin'est, jolliest Feller you ever saw! Worked at jes coarse work, but you kin bet he was fine enough in his talk, And his feelin's too! Lordy! Ef he was on'y back on his bench ag'in to-day, a- carryin' on Like he ust to do!

Any shopmate'll tell you there never was, on top o' dirt, A better feller'n Jim! You want a favor, and couldn't git it anywheres else— You could git it o' him! Most free-heartedest man thataway in the world, I guess! Give up ever' nickel he's worth— And ef you'd a-wanted it, and named it to him, and it was his, He'd a-give you the earth!

Allus a reachin' out, Jim was, and a-he'ppin' some Pore feller onto his feet— He'd a-never a-keered how hungry he was hisse'f, So's the feller got somepin' to eat! Didn't make no differ'nce at all to him how he was dressed, He ust to say to me—, "You togg out a tramp purty comfortable in winter-time, a huntin' a job, And he'll git along!" says he.

Jim didn't have, ner never could git ahead, so overly much O' this world's goods at a time—. 'Fore now I've saw him, more'n onc't, lend a dollar, and haf to, more'n likely, Turn round and borry a dime! Mebby laugh and joke about it hisse'f fer awhile— then jerk his coat, And kindo' square his chin, Tie on his apern, and squat hisse'f on his old shoe-bench, And go to peggin' ag'in!

Patientest feller too, I reckon, 'at ever jes natchurly Coughed hisse'f to death! Long enough after his voice was lost he'd laugh in a whisper and say He could git ever'thing but his breath— "You fellers," he'd sorto' twinkle his eyes and say, "Is a-pilin' onto me A mighty big debt fer that-air little weak-chested ghost o' mine to pack Through all Eternity!"

Now there was a man 'at jes 'peared-like, to me, 'At ortn't a-never a-died! "But death hain't a-showin' no favors," the old boss said— "On'y to Jim!" and cried: And Wigger, who puts up the best sewed-work in the shop— Er the whole blame neighborhood—, He says, "When God made Jim, I bet you He didn't do anything else that day But jes set around and feel good!"

To Robert Burns

Sweet Singer that I loe the maist O' ony, sin' wi' eager haste I smacket bairn-lips ower the taste O' hinnied sang, I hail thee, though a blessed ghaist In Heaven lang!

For weel I ken, nae cantie phrase, Nor courtly airs, nor lairdly ways, Could gar me freer blame, or praise, Or proffer hand, Where "Rantin' Robbie" and his lays Thegither stand.

And sae these hamely lines I send, Wi' jinglin' words at ilka end, In echo o' the sangs that wend Frae thee to me Like simmer-brooks, wi mony a bend O' wimplin' glee.

In fancy, as wi' dewy een, I part the clouds aboon the scene Where thou wast born, and peer atween, I see nae spot In a' the Hielands half sae green And unforgot?

I see nae storied castle-hall, Wi' banners flauntin' ower the wall And serf and page in ready call, Sae grand to me As ane puir cotter's hut, wi' all Its poverty.

There where the simple daisy grew Sae bonnie sweet, and modest too, Thy liltin' filled its wee head fu' O' sic a grace, It aye is weepin' tears o' dew Wi' droopit face.

Frae where the heather bluebells fling Their sangs o' fragrance to the Spring, To where the lavrock soars to sing, Still lives thy strain, For' a' the birds are twittering Sangs like thine ain.

And aye, by light o' sun or moon, By banks o' Ayr, or Bonnie Doon, The waters lilt nae tender tune But sweeter seems Because they poured their limpid rune Through a' thy dreams.

Wi' brimmin' lip, and laughin' ee, Thou shookest even Grief wi' glee, Yet had nae niggart sympathy Where Sorrow bowed, But gavest a' thy tears as free As a' thy gowd.

And sae it is we be thy name To see bleeze up wi' sic a flame, That a' pretentious stars o' fame Maun blink asklent, To see how simple worth may shame Their brightest glent.

A New Year's Time at Willards's

1 The Hired Man Talks

There's old man Willards; an' his wife; An' Marg'et— S'repty's sister—; an' There's me— an' I'm the hired man; An' Tomps McClure, you better yer life!

Well now, old Willards hain't so bad, Considerin' the chance he's had. Of course, he's rich, an' sleeps an' eats Whenever he's a mind to: Takes An' leans back in the Amen-seats An' thanks the Lord fer all he makes—. That's purty much all folks has got Ag'inst the old man, like as not! But there's his woman— jes the turn Of them-air two wild girls o' hern— Marg'et an' S'repty— allus in Fer any cuttin'-up concern— Church festibals, and foolishin' Round Christmas-trees, an' New Year's sprees— Set up to watch the Old Year go An' New Year come— sich things as these; An' turkey-dinners, don't you know! S'repty's younger, an' more gay, An' purtier, an' finer dressed Than Marg'et is— but, lawzy-day! She hain't the independentest! "Take care!" old Willards used to say, "Take care—! Let Marg'et have her way, An' S'repty, you go off an' play On your melodeum—!" But, best Of all, comes Tomps! An' I'll be bound, Ef he hain't jes the beatin'est Young chap in all the country round! Ef you knowed Tomps you'd like him, shore! They hain't no man on top o' ground Walks into my affections more—! An' all the Settlement'll say That Tomps was liked jes thataway By ever'body, till he tuk A shine to S'repty Willards—. Then You'd ort'o see the old man buck An' h'ist hisse'f, an' paw the dirt, An' hint that "common workin'-men That didn't want their feelin's hurt 'Ud better hunt fer 'comp'ny' where The folks was pore an' didn't care—!" The pine-blank facts is—, the old man, Last Christmas was a year ago, Found out some presents Tomps had got Fer S'repty, an' hit made him hot— Set down an' tuk his pen in hand An' writ to Tomps an' told him so On legal cap, in white an' black, An' give him jes to understand "No Christmas-gifts o' 'lily-white' An' bear's-ile could fix matters right," An' wropped 'em up an' sent 'em back! Well, S'repty cried an' snuffled round Consid'able. But Marg'et she Toed out another sock, an' wound Her knittin' up, an' drawed the tea, An' then set on the supper-things, An' went up in the loft an' dressed— An' through it all you'd never guessed What she was up to! An' she brings Her best hat with her an her shawl, An' gloves, an' redicule, an' all, An' injirubbers, an' comes down An' tells 'em she's a-goin' to town To he'p the Christmas goin's-on Her Church got up. An' go she does— The best hosswoman ever was! "An" what'll We do while you're gone?" The old man says, a-tryin' to be Agreeable. "Oh! You?" says she—, "You kin jaw S'repty, like you did, An' slander Tomps!" An' off she rid!

Now, this is all I'm goin' to tell Of this-here story— that is, I Have done my very level best As fur as this, an' here I "dwell," As auctioneers says, winkin' sly: Hit's old man Willards tells the rest.

2 The Old Man Talks

Adzackly jes one year ago, This New Year's day, Tomps comes to me— In my own house, an' whilse the folks Was gittin' dinner—, an' he pokes His nose right in, an' says, says he: "I got yer note— an' read it slow! You don't like me, ner I don't you," He says—, "we're even there, you know! But you've said, furder that no gal Of yourn kin marry me, er shall, An' I'd best shet off comin', too!" An' then he says—, "Well, them's Your views—; But havin' talked with S'repty, we Have both agreed to disagree With your peculiar notions— some; An', that s the reason, I refuse To quit a-comin' here, but come— Not fer to threat, ner raise no skeer An' spile yer turkey-dinner here—, But jes fer S'repty's sake, to sheer Yer New Year's. Shall I take a cheer?"

Well, blame-don! Ef I ever see Sich impidence! I couldn't say Not nary word! But Mother she Sot out a cheer fer Tomps, an' they Shuk hands an' turnt their back on me. Then I riz— mad as mad could be—! But Marg'et says—, "Now, Pap! You set Right where you're settin'—! Don't you fret! An' Tomps— you warm yer feet!" says she, "An throw yer mitts an' comfert on The bed there! Where is S'repty gone! The cabbage is a-scortchin'! Ma, Stop cryin' there an' stir the slaw!" Well—! What was Mother cryin' fer—? I half riz up— but Marg'et's chin Hit squared— an' I set down ag'in— I allus was afeard o' her, I was, by jucks! So there I set, Betwixt a sinkin'-chill an' sweat, An' scuffled with my wrath, an' shet My teeth to mighty tight, you bet! An' yit, fer all that I could do, I eeched to jes git up an' whet The carvin'-knife a rasp er two On Tomps's ribs— an' so would you—! Fer he had riz an' faced around, An' stood there, smilin', as they brung The turkey in, all stuffed an' browned— Too sweet fer nose, er tooth, er tongue! With sniffs o' sage, an' p'r'aps a dash Of old burnt brandy, steamin'-hot Mixed kindo' in with apple-mash An' mince-meat, an' the Lord knows what! Nobody was a-talkin' then, To 'filiate any awk'ardness— No noise o' any kind but jes The rattle o' the dishes when They'd fetch 'em in an' set 'em down, An' fix an' change 'em round an' round, Like women does— till Mother says—, "Vittels is ready; Abner, call Down S'repty— she's up-stairs, I guess—." And Marg'et she says, "Ef you bawl Like that, she'll not come down at all! Besides, we needn't wait till she Gits down! Here Temps, set down by me, An' Pap: say grace...!" Well, there I was—! What could I do! I drapped my head Behind my fists an' groaned; an' said—: "Indulgent Parent! In Thy cause We bow the head an' bend the knee An' break the bread, an' pour the wine, Feelin'—" (The stair-door suddently Went bang! An' S'repty flounced by me—) "Feelin'," I says, "this feast is Thine— This New Year's feast—" an' rap-rap-rap! Went Marg'ets case-knife on her plate— An' next, I heerd a sasser drap—, Then I looked up, an' strange to state, There S'repty set in Tomps lap— An' huggin' him, as shore as fate! An' Mother kissin' him k-slap! An' Marg'et— she chips in to drap The ruther peert remark to me—: "That 'grace' o' yourn," she says, "won't 'gee'— This hain't no 'New Year's feast,'" says she—, "This is a' Infair-Dinner, Pap!"

An' so it was—! Be'n married fer Purt' nigh a week—! 'Twas Marg'et planned The whole thing fer 'em, through an' through. I'm rickonciled; an' understand, I take things jes as they occur—, Ef Marg'et liked Tomps, Tomps 'ud do—! But I-says-I, a-holt his hand—, "I'm glad you didn't marry Her— 'Cause Marg'et's my guardeen— yes-sir—! An' S'repty's good enough fer you!"

The Town Karnteel

The Town Karnteel—! It's who'll reveal Its praises jushtifiable? For who can sing av anything So lovely and reliable? Whin Summer, Spring, or Winter lies From Malin's Head to Tipperary, There's no such town for interprise Bechuxt Youghal and Londonderry!

There's not its likes in Ireland— For twic't the week, be gorries! They're playing jigs upon the band, And joomping there in sacks— and— and— And racing, wid wheelborries!

Kanteel— it's there, like any fair, The purty gurrls is plinty, sure—! And man-alive! At forty-five The leg's av me air twinty, sure! I lave me cares, and hoein' too, Behint me, as is sinsible, And it's Karnteel I'm goin' to, To cilebrate in principle!

For there's the town av all the land! And twic't the week, be-gorries! They're playing jigs upon the band, And joomping there in sacks— and— and— And racing, wid wheelborries!

And whilst I feel for owld Karnteel That I've no phrases glorious, It stands above the need av love That boasts in voice uproarious—! Lave that for Cork, and Dublin too, And Armagh and Killarney thin—, And Karnteel won't be troublin' you Wid any jilous blarney, thin!

For there's the town av all the land Where twic't the week, be-gorries! They're playing jigs upon the band, And joomping there in sacks— and— and— And racing, wid wheelborries!

Regardin' Terry Hut

Sence I tuk holt o' Gibbses' Churn And be'n a-handlin' the concern, I've travelled round the grand old State Of Indiany, lots, o' late—! I've canvassed Crawferdsville and sweat Around the town o' Layfayette; I've saw a many a County-seat I ust to think was hard to beat: At constant dreenage and expense I've worked Greencastle and Vincennes— Drapped out o' Putnam into Clay, Owen, and on down thataway Plum into Knox, on the back-track Fer home ag'in— and glad I'm back—! I've saw these towns, as I say— but They's none 'at beats old Terry Hut!

It's more'n likely you'll insist I claim this 'cause I'm prejudist, Bein' born'd here in ole Vygo In sight o' Terry Hut—; but no, Yer clean dead wrong—! And I maintain They's nary drap in ary vein O' mine but what's as free as air To jest take issue with you there—! 'Cause, boy and man, fer forty year, I've argied ag'inst livin' here, And jawed around and traded lies About our lack o' enterprise, And tuk and turned in and agreed All other towns was in the lead, When— drat my melts—! They couldn't cut No shine a-tall with Terry Hut!

Take even, statesmanship, and wit, And ginerel git-up-and-git, Old Terry Hut is sound clean through—! Turn old Dick Thompson loose, er Dan Vorehees— and where's they any man Kin even hold a candle to Their eloquence—? And where's as clean A fi-nan-seer as Rile' McKeen— Er puorer, in his daily walk, In railroad er in racin' stock! And there's 'Gene Debs— a man 'at stands And jest holds out in his two hands As warm a heart as ever beat Betwixt here and the Jedgement Seat—! All these is reasons why I putt Sich bulk o' faith in Terry Hut.

So I've come back, with eyes 'at sees My faults, at last—, to make my peace With this old place, and truthful' swear— Like Gineral Tom Nelson does—, "They hain't no city anywhere On God's green earth lays over us!" Our city government is grand— "Ner is they better farmin'-land Sun-kissed—" as Tom goes on and says— "Er dower'd with sich advantages!" And I've come back, with welcome tread, From journeyin's vain, as I have said, To settle down in ca'm content, And cuss the towns where I have went, And brag on ourn, and boast and strut Around the streets o' Terry Hut!

Leedle Dutch Baby

Leedle Dutch baby haff come ter town! Jabber und jump till der day gone down— Jabber und sphlutter und sphlit hees jaws— Vot a Dutch baby dees Londsmon vas! I dink dose mout' vas leedle too vide Ober he laugh fon dot altso-side! Haff got blenty off deemple und vrown—? Hey! Leedle Dutchman come ter town!

Leedle Dutch baby, I dink me proud Ober your fader can schquall dot loud Ven he vas leedle Dutch baby like you Und yoost don't gare, like he alvays do—! Guess ven dey vean him on beer, you bet Dot's der because dot he aind veaned yet—! Vot you said off he dringk you down—? Hey! Leedle Dutchman come ter town!

Leedle Dutch baby, yoost schquall avay— Schquall fon preakfast till gisterday! Better you all time gry und shout Dan shmile me vonce fon der coffin out! Vot I gare off you keek my nose Downside-up mit your heels und toes— Downside, oder der oopside-down—? Hey! Leedle Dutchman come ter town!

Down On Wriggle Crick

"Best time to kill a hog's when he's fat." —Old Saw.

Mostly folks is law-abidin' Down on Wriggle Crick—, Seein' they's no Squire residin' In our bailywick; No grand juries, no suppeenies, Ner no vested rights to pick Out yer man, jerk up and jail ef He's outragin' Wriggle Crick!

Wriggle Crick hain't got no lawin', Ner no suits to beat; Ner no court-house gee-and-hawin' Like a County-seat; Hain't no waitin' round fer verdick, Ner non-gittin' witness-fees; Ner no thiefs 'at gits "new heain's," By some lawyer slick as grease!

Wriggle Cricks's leadin' spirit Is old Johnts Culwell—, Keeps post-office, and right near it Owns what's called "The Grand Hotel—" (Warehouse now—) buys wheat and ships it; Gits out ties, and trades in stock, And knows all the high-toned drummers 'Twixt South Bend and Mishawauk'

Last year comes along a feller— Sharper 'an a lance— Stovepipe-hat and silk umbreller, And a boughten all-wool pants—, Tinkerin of clocks and watches: Says a trial's all he wants— And rents out the tavern-office Next to Uncle Johnts.

Well—. He tacked up his k'dentials, And got down to biz—. Captured Johnts by cuttin' stenchils Fer them old wheat-sacks o' his—.

Fixed his clock, in the post-office— Painted fer him, clean and slick, 'Crost his safe, in gold-leaf letters, "J. Culwells's Wriggle Crick."

Any kindo' job you keered to Resk him with, and bring, He'd fix fer you— jest appeared to Turn his hand to anything—! Rings, er earbobs, er umbrellers— Glue a cheer er chany doll—, W'y, of all the beatin' fellers, He Jest beat 'em all!

Made his friends, but wouldn't stop there—, One mistake he learnt, That was, sleepin' in his shop there—. And one Sund'y night it burnt! Come in one o' jest a-sweepin' All the whole town high and dry— And that feller, when they waked him, Suffocatin', mighty nigh!

Johnts he drug him from the buildin', He'pless— 'peared to be—, And the women and the childern Drenchin' him with sympathy! But I noticed Johnts helt on him With a' extry lovin' grip, And the men-folks gethered round him In most warmest pardership!

That's the whole mess, grease-and-dopin'! Johnt's safe was saved—, But the lock was found sprung open, And the inside caved. Was no trial— ner no jury— Ner no jedge ner court-house-click—. Circumstances alters cases Down on Wriggle Crick!

When De Folks Is Gone

What dat scratchin' at de kitchin do'? Done heah'n dat foh an hour er mo'! Tell you Mr. Niggah, das sho's yo' bo'n, Hit's mighty lonesome waitin' when de folks is gone!

Blame my trap! How de wind do blow! An' dis is das de night foh de witches, sho'! Dey's trouble gon' to waste when de old slut whine, An' you heah de cat a-spittin' when de moon don't shine!

Chune my fiddle, an' de bridge go "bang!" An' I lef' 'er right back whah she allus hang, An' de tribble snap short an' de apern split When dey no mortal man wah a-tetchin' hit!

Dah! Now, what? How de ole j'ice cracks! 'Spec' dis house, ef hit tell plain fac's, 'Ud talk about de ha'nts wid dey long tails on What das'n't on'y come when de folks is gone!

What I tuk an' done ef a sho'-nuff ghos' Pop right up by de ole bed-pos'? What dat shinin' fru de front do' crack...? God bress de Lo'd! Hit's de folks got back!

The Little Town O' Tailholt

You kin boast about yer cities, and their stiddy growth and size, And brag about yer County-seats, and business enterprise, And railroads, and factories, and all sich foolery— But the little Town o' Tailholt is big enough fer me!

You kin harp about yer churches, with their steeples in the clouds, And gas about yer graded streets, and blow about yer crowds; You kin talk about yer "theaters," and all you've got to see— But the little Town o' Tailholt is show enough fer me!

They hain't no style in our town— hit's little-like and small— They hain't no "churches," nuther—, jes' the meetin' house is all; They's no sidewalks, to speak of— but the highway's allus free, And the little Town o' Tailholt is wide enough fer me!

Some find it discommodin'-like, I'm willin' to admit, To hev but one post-office, and a womern keepin' hit, And the drug-store, and shoe-shop, and grocery, all three— But the little Town o' Tailholt is handy 'nough fer me!

You kin smile and turn yer nose up, and joke and hev yer fun, And laugh and holler "Tail-holts is better holts'n none! Ef the city suits you better w'y, hit's where you'd ort'o be— But the little Town o' Tailholt's good enough fer me!

Little Orphant Annie

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay, An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away, An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep, An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep; An' all us other childern, when the supper things is done, We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about, An' the Gobble-uns 'at gits you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

Onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers—, An' when he went to bed at night, away up stairs, His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl, An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wasn't there at all! An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press, An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, I guess; But all they found was thist his pants an' roundabout—: An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh and grin, An' make fun of ever'one, an' all her blood an' kin; An' onc't, when they was "company," an' ole folks was there, She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care! An' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide, They was two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side, An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about! An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue, An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo! An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray, An' the lightn'-bugs in dew is all squenched away—, You better mind yer parents, an' yer teachers fond an' dear, An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear, An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you Ef you Don't Watch Out!

THE END