Class £S^5£^ 
 Book-IiBE^-— ■ 
 Copyrigtit}^»_i9il2 — 
 
 COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 
 
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A man would do well to carry a pencil in his 
 pocket, and write down the thoughts of the moment. 
 Those that come unsought for are commonly the most 
 valuable, and should be secured, because they seldom 
 return. — Bacon. 
 
 Copyrighted by J. Morris Widdows, 
 
 May I, 1902. 
 
 I*. 
 
Other S^oems by the Same Jluthor 
 Dlot Snciuded Merein. 
 
 THE CENTURY. 
 
 STORM SWEPT GALVESTON. 
 
 REMEMBERANCE OF OTHER DAYS. 
 
 GOD PITY ALL, 
 
 LIFE'S CENTER. 
 
 IN TEN YEARS MORE. 
 
 NEW YEARS EVE. 
 
 THE CLOSING SCENE. 
 
 GOD ONLY KNOWS. 
 
 THE GRAY DAWN OF MORNING. 
 
 THE ORCHARD BY MOONLIGHT. 
 
 A WRITTEN STATEMENT. 
 
 MAN'S PECULIARTY. 
 
 O, MOTHER'S BOY. 
 
 IN SOLICITUDE. 
 
 "THERE ARE TIMES." 
 
 STARS;OF THEiNIGHT, and Others. 
 
 1^ ■ ^M^ ■ ♦•♦■■^•♦•■■^•^■ ■ ■♦l 
 
 Sn 3 
 
 rose. 
 
 NOTES FROM NELLIE'S DAIRY. 
 A PAGE FROM REAL LIFE, and Others. 
 
 
RAINY DAY POEMS 
 
 FROM 
 
 THE FARM. 
 
 (Miscellaneous.) 
 
 J. MORRIS W^IDDOW^S. 
 
 ^ 
 
 Times-News Co., 
 connersville. indiana. 
 
 1902. 
 
Y OfI 
 
 :CEiv50 I 
 
 IE LIBRARY 
 CONGRESS 
 Two Copiaei Rece' 
 
 MAY. n 1902 
 
 I COPVRlQHT ENTRY 
 
 CLASS CUXXa No 
 COPY B. 
 
 J 
 
 
 o'z^ 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 The New York Evening Post recently printed an editorial 
 , in defense of minor poets. There has been of late some sneer- 
 ' '''^ ing at these more or less humble workers, and it is, therefore, 
 'Cfi-weli that a word should be spoken in their behalf. Most poets 
 0''' X are minor poets after all. And above this we must admit that 
 OQ the minor poets sometimes find a freer entrance to the world's 
 heart than do their more majestic brethren. For so it is that 
 once in a while a simple ballad — great, indeed, but still not per- 
 haps great as poetry — brings tears to the eyes or cheer to the 
 souls of millions of people. 
 
 The poems contained herein are written in a plain, unassum- 
 ing spirit, with no thought of making for ourseif a name or 
 pecuniary gain — indeed, writing is not our occupation, but rather 
 a side issue for our own amusement and entertainment's sake. 
 We generally carry pencil arid note book, and as we follow in 
 the "furrow," whenever a thought or sentence presents itself, 
 we clinch it "right there and then." In this manner the greater 
 part of these verses have been composed. 
 
 Little did we think of ever placing them before the public in 
 this form, but, having been urged to do so, we have somewhat 
 relunctantly consented. As for criticisms— we doubt not there'll 
 be an abundance, but, after all, what does it matter? for who or 
 what is it that is not criticized? 
 
 We sincerely hope the reader will derive SOME pleasure in 
 the perusal of "Rainy Day Poems From the Farm." 
 
 J. M. W. 
 Connersville, InrJ., Feb., 1902. 
 
> 
 
Oh the good old rainy day! 
 In the house you have to stay^ 
 After plowiri' in the lot, 
 Where the sun was bilin^ hot. 
 
 Then yer hosses chomps their hay^ 
 
 Kind o' drowsily away, 
 
 As it patters on the roof, 
 
 They jest rest from head to hoof. 
 
 Then the cattle chews their cud, 
 Actin* like iVs awful good; 
 Winkin*, blinkin^ in the rain; 
 Keep on grindin' jest the same. 
 
 And you potter round and let 
 Your old hide get sokin' wet. 
 Jest a actin^ like, I-jing! 
 That it was the proper thing. 
 
 And you tramp all through the house 
 In yer dirty drippin^ blouse; 
 Leave yer shoe tracks on the floor; 
 Find yer paper by the door; 
 
 Set and read an* strike at flies 
 Till yer drowsy an* yer eyes 
 Get so dim that you canH see, 
 And you want to be let be. 
 
 Set an' doze and nod yer head 
 Just as if somebody said 
 Sompin* to you on the sly, 
 Or to some one goin* by. 
 
 Oh the blessed rainy day, 
 Drippin* wet in ev^ry way, * 
 Hoss and man jest restin' through 
 Cause there^s nothin' else to do. 
 
THE FARMER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 When the evening- twilight gethers, 
 
 And the night is coming oo, 
 Then they gether 'round their fire sides, 
 
 For another week is gone. 
 
 And the lamps will then be lighted, 
 Then the hearth flash all aglow. 
 
 'Tis autumnal's chilly weather 
 And there's signs of coming snow. 
 
 When the household all are settled, 
 Each one in his favor'd nook, 
 
 Some will scan the daily papers. 
 And another read his book. 
 
 There's the father and the mother, 
 
 Weary from their daily care. 
 Sits in quiet exultation, 
 
 Each one in their old arm chair. 
 
 And perchance there's one that's absent, 
 'Way in other lands may roam. 
 
 And the mother thinking sadly. 
 Softly sings of "Home, Sweet Home." 
 
 Thus unheeded goes the hour, 
 When the younger cies for bed, 
 
 And the father then undresses 
 His own dear young sleepy head. 
 
 8 
 
THE FABMEK'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 
 
 Then, with mother, see him kneeling 
 
 By his little trundle bed. 
 And she tucks him in with kisses 
 
 After good night prayer's been said. 
 
 Tlien, with games, or perhaps music. 
 
 Slips another hour away, 
 When the father takes the bible. 
 
 Reads aloud, then says, "Let's Pray." 
 
 They all kneel in pure devotion 
 To the God whom they adore, 
 
 And the father prays to heaven 
 As he prayed so oft before. 
 
 Prayers are over with the family. 
 And "good nights" have all been said, 
 
 Lights are out and each retiring 
 Quietly unto their bed. 
 
 Sights like these are not uncommon 
 
 In the quiet country way. 
 In the homes of Christian farmers 
 
 Is where joy and peace will stay. 
 
TO A TINY BLOOMING POT PLANT. 
 
 Jest the tenderest little thing 
 
 That I ever saw; 
 Bloomin' when the atmosphere 
 
 Was often cold and raw. 
 But then old geraniums 
 
 Just stood a gawkin^ out 
 The window all winter through, 
 
 With rairy bloom about. 
 An' they's always makin' a fuss 
 
 'Bout water, er they'd die. 
 Never seed the time yet 
 
 But what they's always dry. 
 But this little baby plant, 
 
 Jest bloomed all the time, I-jing. 
 Never seed its match, I know, 
 
 'Twas the goodest little thing. 
 An' whenever I'se feeling' blue 
 
 Er sick, er kind 'o sad, 
 I'd jest git down right clost to it 
 
 An' look until I'se glad. 
 
 10 
 
THE BOY OF BRENTON BAY. 
 
 (Story told to the writer while in the mountains of Arkansas.) 
 
 My friend, I would to God that life was life. 
 
 To me, it is a load of sin and woe. 
 This life I live and see — this life of strife — 
 
 Brings such deep pain that no one else can know. 
 
 My only brother left long years ago. 
 
 His only home he left and went away. 
 I, in the meantime, a man had grown, you know ; 
 
 Contented with my wife, lived I at Brenton Bay. 
 
 He was a sailor on the Pacific sea, 
 Wrote he to me, in just one brief line; 
 
 And that was all, for twelve long years, you see, 
 I ever heard from him — just one brief line. 
 
 I thought him dead and at the bottom of the sea. 
 Until one calm, delightful moonlight night, 
 
 A stranger called to see if he could be 
 A guest of mine awhile — ju^t over night. 
 
 There, with the moonlight full upon his face, 
 I plainly saw his long, unkempt, tangled hair. 
 
 And in his looks I plainly, there, could trace 
 His lack of all we prize as debonair. 
 
 He eyed me strangely, while thus he stood 
 
 Apart awhile, then drawing near. 
 Respectfully, he asked me tor some food, 
 
 And with bis gaunt, gnarled hand, wiped out a tear. 
 
 11 
 
THE BOY OF BRENTON BAY. 
 
 "You vile imposter, wretch and thief!" cried I, 
 And then I struck hiui — struck him like a brute. 
 
 "Your tears won't count with me," cried I. 
 I struck him again — he lay there dum and mute. 
 
 Then rose he slowly up, up to his feet; 
 
 And, in a solemn voice, he said to me: 
 "Jack, I am your brother! will you no greet 
 
 Me back, back to my native home and thee?" 
 
 You call me Jack, 'tis true that is my name; 
 
 That trick was worked here not long ago. 
 To know my name and steal my money is your game. 
 
 And call me brother! I'll shoot you down if you 
 don't go. 
 
 Then, Jack, farewell, and out and on he went: 
 On, on, he went — out through the garden gate; 
 
 Down, down the long, long dusty road he went; 
 And I stood watching, and the hour was late. 
 
 I heard a pistol shot; where could it be? 
 
 I hastened down the long, long dusty way. 
 I found my brother — God pity me — 
 
 My brother, long years ago the boy of Brenton Bay. 
 
 The tale is told. I had not known my brother; 
 
 And when at last the light of day did gflow, 
 I saw and knew in death my only brother. 
 
 And then my eyes with grief and tears did o'erflow. 
 
 Long years have flown, but cruel memory recalls 
 The sin, the shame, that night upon me fell. 
 
 I see my brother's pleading looks; to me he calls: 
 "Jack! I AM your brother," before he fell. 
 
 12 
 
THE BOY OF BRENTON BAY. 
 
 I've fallen now, I've lost my wife and home 
 Among the hills, toward the setting sun, 
 
 She calmly sleeps, while I still onward roam. 
 She calmly sleeps; her work on earth is done. 
 
 Upon the ocean beech, there have I stood 
 And watched wild waves in their tempestuous glee. 
 
 I'd fling this wretched heartache, if I could, 
 And let it sink down to the bottomi of the sea. 
 
 If I but dared, this weary form would sink 
 Down in the deepest caverns of the deep, 
 
 While every wave would bear me to eternity. 
 Nor call me forth from that deep ocean sleep. 
 
 My friend, I would to God that life was life. 
 
 To me, it is a load of sin and woe. 
 This life I live and see, this life of strife, 
 
 Brings such deep pain, that no one else can know. 
 
 13 
 
A HOE'N IN THE CORN. 
 
 I very well remember when, 
 
 A Summer day in June 
 While hoe'n in the corn patch, 
 
 One sunny afternoon; 
 Long while ago, when I wuz young, 
 
 Jes' in life's dewy morn ; 
 I in the bilein' sun, an 
 
 A hoe'n in the corn. 
 
 I never seed a hotter day, 
 
 Than that afore er since. 
 I jes felt like layin round, 
 
 Er sitin on the fence. 
 The shaded woods wuz near to hand. 
 
 With lisp'in leaves an trees. 
 But not a breath uv air did stur, 
 
 Or er'e the slightest breeze. 
 
 I flung my hoe with reckless haste. 
 
 An to the shade I went. 
 The great tall shadders uv the woods. 
 
 In silent blessens bent, 
 Up on the grass, 'neath bendin boughs. 
 
 Beside a rippling stream, 
 That afternoon, I hoed the corn, 
 
 In lulls uv dimlit dream. 
 
 The red sun glared straight in the west, 
 The shadders longer grew. 
 
 14 
 
A hoe'n in the corn. 
 
 Until I thought I'd hoed enough, 
 
 An homeward I pursue. 
 The eve'nen breeze begun to stur, 
 
 The sun slipped o'er the hill, 
 Sweet peace and quiet reigned o'er all, 
 
 An' everything wuz still. 
 
 That night at hum a lie wuz told ; 
 
 That night a lie wuz born. 
 Uv how I in the biiein' sun 
 
 Wuz hoe'n in the corn. 
 I think uv all the years that's past, 
 
 How in life's dewey morn, 
 I wuz out in the biiein' sun. 
 
 An' a hoe'n in the corn. 
 
 An' yesterday I chanc'd to stan' 
 
 Upon the samie ole spot. 
 The years hev cum an' gone an' they. 
 
 Air sumthings I've furgot. 
 But lookin' back as I do now, 
 
 When in life's hazy morn, 
 I'll near furgit the biiein' sun 
 
 When hoe'n in the corn. 
 
 16 
 
'LONG 'BOUT THE MONTH OF JUNE. 
 
 Talk about your picnics, an' 'bout Niagara Fall, 
 
 An' some are goin' to the park to see 'em play base-ball, 
 
 But the best time I ever seed, 'long 'bout the month of 
 
 June, 
 Was when I woller'd on the grass, through the whole 
 
 long afternoon. 
 
 After digin' hard the live long week, 'bout fourteen 
 
 hours a day, 
 I kind o' feel wore-out an' tired, an' haint very gay, 
 But when ole Saturday afternoon comes 'round, as shore 
 
 'twill do, 
 I like to tumble on the grass, an' jes rest through and 
 
 through. 
 
 It does my very soul good, to stretch out on the grass, 
 An' peep up through the tree-top, or watch the people 
 
 pass 
 'Long on the dusty pike, in the bilin' afternoon, 
 When the sun comes down so orful hot, 'long in the 
 
 month of June. 
 
 To stretch myself out at full length, take all the room 
 
 I can, 
 My coat for a piller, my old straw hat for a fan. 
 An' listen to the cricket's chirp in the fadin' afternoon; 
 Oh! I don't want nothin' better, 'long 'bout the month 
 
 of June. 
 
 16 
 
'long 'bout the month of JUNE. 
 
 You needn't bring a hammock, or anything like that, 
 'Cause I jes want to tumble 'roun', or maybe lay out flat, 
 An' if the notion striftjk me, I'de hum some good old 
 
 tune, 
 While wollerin' on the soft, green grass, long 'bout the 
 
 month of June. 
 
 The joy a feller feels at heart, while lyin' in the shade, 
 After scratchin' hard through all the week, an' thinkin' 
 
 what he's made. 
 The time he's restin' on the grass, all comes an' goes too 
 
 soon. 
 Oh ! this is solid comfort, shore, 'long 'bout the month of 
 
 June. 
 
 17 
 
IF YOU KNEW. 
 
 If you knew that to-morrow 
 Your life-blood would fail, 
 You into death's slumber 
 Would lie cold and pale, 
 Would pass from this earth 
 To yon shadowy vale. 
 
 What would you do? 
 
 If you knew that to-morrow 
 Some loved-one would die, 
 Would pass from your sight 
 To that still by and by, 
 And leave you in anguish 
 To mourn out and cry, 
 
 What could you do? 
 
 Yet to-morrow, O soul, some 
 To-morrow, you know, 
 There's a stream you must cross 
 Where the dark waters flow, 
 And the barque that awaits you 
 Will rock to and fro. 
 
 What will you do? 
 
 18 
 
WHEN A THUNDER SHOWER'S FALLIN'. 
 
 When a thunder shower's faliin'on the early tater patch, 
 And the hens and turkeys comin' in, from where 
 they've been to scratch, 
 And the baby chicks a cheepin' under-neath the cluckin' 
 hen, 
 And the ducks and geese a splashin' make more fuss 
 than boys and men. 
 
 Oh ! I like to see a nice warm shower, it does me lots of 
 good; 
 And it hain't me that's goin' to stop it, for I wouldn't 
 if I could. 
 Why you can jes see the grass a growin' and the leaves 
 that's on the trees, 
 And the truck that's in the garden, — and I purt nigh 
 said the breeze. 
 
 And when you start out real early in the dewy breath 
 of morn 
 To plow, and you feel it sprinkle, then you don't wait 
 for any horn 
 To blow to come to dinner, but you jes gallop to the 
 barn, 
 'Cause if you get your hide jes soakin' wet, it might do 
 you lots of harm. 
 
 Oh ! its then folks in the country will go a visitin' sure. 
 And talk about the latest news and 'bout the latest 
 cure. 
 
 19 
 
WHEN A THUNDER SHOWER'S FALLIN'. 
 
 To tell the truth it's the only time they have to lift your 
 latch, 
 When a thunder shower's fallin' on the early tater 
 patch. 
 
 And when the rain is blowin' with its green of drippin' 
 wet, 
 And the picture that's before you, is the best of any 
 yet. 
 Oh ! its then I think no artist has got colors to match, 
 When a thunder shower's fallin' on the early tater 
 patch. 
 
 20 
 
A DRY WEATHER POEM. 
 
 Talk about dry weather, well I really think it is, 
 An' 'bout the 8un a bilein' down jest hot enough to siz. 
 An' the sky a gettin' brassier purt nigh every day, 
 I concede that everything will burn up right away. 
 
 But I'll admit that it's no use to grumble or complain, 
 Unless we some way prime the heat it will surely never 
 
 rain. 
 An atmospheric change take place that somehow or 
 
 some way 
 Will cool things down to livin' heat — it's a hundred now 
 
 to-day. 
 
 But I don't know jest how 'twill be; there's a tree frog 
 
 hollerin' rain 
 Upon our old peach tree, and he won't never move a 
 
 grain. 
 He's been there now almost three weeks; might say 
 
 night an' day, 
 He's bound not to give it up; it must rain anyway. 
 
 I thought I'd help him some one night, for I seen he's 
 
 'bout give out, 
 An' I slipped out very quietly 'fore he knowed what I'se 
 
 about. 
 I listened for his squeaky voice — "you rascal, here you 
 
 air, 
 An' then I says, "O rain, please rain," jest as soft as any 
 
 prayer. 
 
 21 " . 
 
A DRY WEATHER POEM. 
 
 An' then he laid back, shut his eyes, he fairly yelled 
 
 and sung- 
 Until I thouirht if he keeps on he'll surely burst a lung. 
 But dogged my cats, it thundered then, way back in the 
 
 west. 
 An' the tree frog he jest tumbled down to take a needed 
 
 rest. 
 
 We purt nigh fetched her but she slipped round 
 
 way off to the South, 
 An' the tree frog mounted the tree again, but I told him 
 
 to shut his mouth 
 An' wait awhile an' see if it wouldn't, jest one time now, 
 
 give in, 
 But if it didn't rain in a day or two we'd tackle the 
 
 thing agin. 
 
 22 
 
THE BLOOM WAS ON THE LILAC. 
 
 I opened up my window to the balmy air of spring, 
 The bloom was on the lilac and the swallow on the wing, 
 The dewy grass like diamonds was sparkling in the sun, 
 And in a world of ecstasy a spring day had begun. 
 
 I stood and gazed with tranquil bliss upon a scene so 
 
 fair. 
 How plainly it did speak to me that God is everywhere. 
 I heard the red bird's piping voice and the robins 
 
 sweetly sing. 
 And the bloom was on the lilac and the swallow on the 
 
 wing. 
 
 And as I stood in pensive mood, and looked upon the 
 scene, 
 
 I thought of loved ones gone before into that land un- 
 seen, 
 
 How some beneath the sod were laid to rest in early 
 spring, 
 
 When the bloom was on the lilac and the swallow on the 
 wing. 
 
 Oh! we miss thena ever, always, and the years have 
 
 grown so long 
 Since they left us here so lonely, since they joined us in 
 
 our song. 
 But when earth is smiling gladly. Oh ! we miss them in 
 
 the spring, 
 When the bloom is on the lilac and the swallow on the 
 
 wing. 
 
 23 
 
THE BLOOM WAS ON THE LILAC. 
 
 Ah! how I've seen the years go by, how soon the golden 
 
 hours 
 Have passed into eternity, but still w© have the flowers. 
 And now upon this lovely morn, I stand in early spring, 
 The bloom is on the lilac and the swallow on the wing. 
 
 I know not when the hour's at hand that I am called 
 
 to go, 
 How many seasons I will see, nor do I care to know, 
 But only this, I hope 'twill be some time in early spring. 
 When the bloom is on the lilac and the swallow on the 
 
 wing. 
 
 24 
 
'WAY IN THE NIGHT. 
 
 'Way in the night, when no slumber comes nigh, 
 And every emotion will bring forth a sigh, 
 Oat into the stillness and quiet of night, 
 Your longing will cease, your care take its flight. 
 
 'Way in the night, when the world's all asleep, 
 Floats no song on the air, nor no storm on the deep; 
 Like a silk sable curtain, all starred with gold. 
 Are the stars as they shine in one shimmering fold. 
 
 'Way in the night, Oh, what rich moments are thine, 
 When thoughts that come o'er thee are almost devine. 
 
 For the cares that have fettered and vexed through 
 the day. 
 
 In the etiU, silent night will have all flown away. 
 
 'Way in the night, you commune with your God — 
 Commune with yourself o'er the paths you have trod. 
 That part which is sinful is all cast aside, 
 And in you the good and the pure will abide. 
 
 'Way in the night, all this deep human pain, 
 In gioom will not deepen in one yearning main. 
 But under the canopy of heaven's blue. 
 Thoughts too deep for utterance will come to you. 
 
 25 
 
THE BOUND OF LIFE. 
 
 A bright little boy climbed my knee, 
 And then looked up inquiringly: 
 
 "What did you do, one time," says he, 
 "When you was little, just like me." 
 
 Ah, little man, you set aglow 
 
 A sad, dear strain that's sweet and low. 
 And in my heart fond memories flow 
 
 Back to my home of long ago. 
 
 When I would climb my uncle's knee. 
 
 And, looking up inquiringly. 
 Would beg him tell of what did he. 
 
 When he was little, just like me. 
 
 26 
 
THE TRAMP. 
 
 Hard by the wood stands an old rick of straw, 
 On a knoll where the wind blows cold and raw. 
 
 Where the snow and the rain beats unmercifully down 
 On the tumbled down stack in the meadowland brown. 
 
 And I happened one night, at an untimely hour, 
 To pass by the way of this decaying straw tower. 
 
 And on peeping through the hedges, that ran 
 By the side of the rick, I espied a man. 
 
 Being not apprehended, I quietly stood, 
 And took at a glance all in that I could. 
 
 He seemed to be busy in making a bed 
 
 Out of cold, damp straw, with no roof o'er head. 
 
 Just a tramp! that's 9II, in this lonely place; 
 I could tell when the moonlight fell on his face. 
 
 But what is he doing in that attitude, 
 As he kneels on the straw in his solitude? 
 
 Then, out on the air, in deep muffled tones, 
 
 I heard between sobs and I heard between gr®ans — 
 
 The prayer of my childhood, now I lay down to sleep, 
 And prayed to his Father his soul he might keep. 
 
 If dying e'er morning his soul he might take 
 All this he was asking for dear Jesus sake. 
 
 27 
 
THE TRAMP. 
 
 In silence I pondered, like one with the dead, 
 As the tramp withdrew to his cold, damp bed, 
 
 And quietly then to my own warm fold 
 I went, and I noticed the wind blew cold. 
 
 I thought of the man in the cold, dark weather — 
 How his body and soul could stay together. 
 
 Of my bed with warm blankets, from cold winds raw, 
 He out in the night on his bed of straw. 
 
 And I in the morning would call 'round on him — 
 Would brush off the straw and get him in trim. 
 
 For a good square meal for a tramp, I said, 
 
 Who would kneel down and pray e'er he goes to bed, 
 
 Must have better treatment; who knows his past? 
 He may be trying to reach home at last, 
 
 Without friends or money, or no one who cares 
 If he falls by the wayside nor how he fares. 
 
 Cold, cold, was the morning; there were no signs of 
 
 breath. 
 As I stood by the side of the man froze to death ; 
 
 And I heard a gong sounding a sad requiem o'er 
 The poor tramp's dead body — 'twas the clock striking 
 four. 
 
 I suddenly awoke, so real it did seem, 
 I scarce couid believe it was all a dream. 
 
 28 
 
THE DEPARTED. 
 
 [Inscribed to the memory of those who have left us. | 
 
 Beyond tlie hills, far from earth's habitations, 
 Out yonder in the homeland of the soul, 
 
 Among green fields and with heavenly relations. 
 Dwells our loved ones where the years eternal roll. 
 
 And through the dim vista of separation 
 That lies along the dark and stormy past. 
 
 We often wonder, in our lonely meditation, 
 If we shall gain their heavenly home at last. 
 
 In time grown long and sad in desolation, 
 In days of hopeless anguish and affright. 
 
 To know and feel their heavenly visitation 
 In the dead and silent watches of the night. 
 
 How they often come and take complete possession 
 When this sleeping world is lost in slumberland, 
 
 And with heavenly angel ceaseless intercession, 
 Point upward, with a blessed angel hand. 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear the night winds 'round you sighing, 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear a lullaby of love; 
 Yet sweeter still, a loved one's voice replying 
 
 In dreams, to you, commissioned from above. 
 
 Do we dream they stand there in the darkness, 
 Stand plainly out in view before our sight? 
 
 With a face that's all aglow with heavenly calmness. 
 If we do, ah then, I know we dream aright. 
 
 29 
 
THE DEPARTED. 
 
 Ah ! if a dream, let not the sad awakening 
 Cast uncertain shadows 'round and o'er our life. 
 
 Our famished soul doth joy in partaking, 
 As it droops along in darkness and in strife. 
 
 Do not our loved ones visit in afflictions 
 
 Those that they leave in this sad world here below? 
 
 And with joy and eternal benedictions 
 Control our lives, and sweet peace on us bestow? 
 
 We may be severed, yet the bond's unbroken; 
 
 And over yonder from the eternal years 
 They come to us, so silent, so unspoken, 
 
 But we see them only through our blinding tears. 
 
 Yet they are blest in that heavenly mansion. 
 But hover near to guide our wandering feet 
 
 From earth ties to that celestial expansion. 
 Where life is fuller and more complete. 
 
 Oh, ye who cannot give the definition 
 
 Of the little shoes now worn no more. 
 'Tis an emblem of this life of transition, 
 
 For the little forni you loved has gone before. 
 
 And the picture on the wall — oh, what emotions — 
 How you've prayed and wept such awful, blinding 
 tears. 
 
 But turn again to God in your devotions. 
 And take up again the weight of coming years. 
 
 Oh ! the empty chair, and the folded garment; 
 
 The familiar voice that we now hear no more. 
 We cannot tell why, in our weak discernment. 
 
 It doth please God, yet we know they've gone before. 
 
 30 
 
THE DEPARTED. 
 
 Oh, it may be hard, but with admonition 
 How He gently ever leads us by the hand; 
 
 Yet just beyond, in loving recognition, 
 We'll clasp each other in the morning-land. 
 
 There by life's springing fount that flows eternal, 
 Where strange, sweet music fills the heavenly air. 
 
 Among earth's redeemed, in that land supernal, 
 We'll know our loved ones, when we meet them there. 
 
 31 
 
TO A HOP TOAD. 
 
 [The lowliest of His creatures.] 
 
 Well, you little rusty hop-toad, just hop right along, 
 And tell me all about it now, where you've been so long. 
 Where was you all last winter, when I was going 
 
 'round 
 With overcoat aid mittens on and the snow upon the 
 ground? 
 
 This is the first I've met you this season, I believe. 
 But you're the same old fellow, little grayer I perceive. 
 Not many bards or poets would sing to such as you, 
 But when I saw you hop along, I's glad plumb through 
 and through. 
 
 I think, when last I saw you, your coat was fine as siik. 
 You'd hobble down our cellar way into a pan of milk. 
 Your nose above high water mark, your body out of 
 
 sight, 
 And you was just a paddling 'r'-und with a'l your lit- 
 tle might. 
 
 I helped you out and set you free out in the world once 
 
 more, 
 You said good-bye and, hopping down the walk on by 
 my door. 
 You looked just like a rubber ball a bouncing o'er 
 
 rock, 
 But your course was true and steady as the ticking of 
 a clock. 
 
 32 
 
TO A HOP TOAD. 
 
 No, I am sure there's no mistake ; you'r the very same 
 
 old S'uy; 
 The reason that I know it's so, you's blind in your right 
 eye; 
 I'm older, now, and so are you, come hop right along, 
 And if the world smiles, let it smile, I've sung to you 
 my song. 
 
 88 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 Chilly morn and frosty air, 
 Now the woods are almost bare, 
 Smokey, hazy, everywhere, 
 Gray skies now prevailing. 
 All the landscapes faded brown, 
 Footprints of the summer's frown, 
 Over country, over town. 
 See the wild fowl sailing. 
 
 Fallen leaves go drifting by, 
 Down the current's breast to die, 
 Where they will forever lie 
 Evermore unheeded. 
 Fields where stubble stands in rows 
 Once alive, now nothing grows; 
 Hear the cawking of the crows. 
 By the hawk preceded. 
 
 Mottled decked the woody dell, 
 Where the hunters love to dwell. 
 Quail or rabbit, they can tell. 
 Game that's worth the shooting. 
 For they come from out the town. 
 Scouring fields that are bare and brown, 
 Linger 'till the sun goes down 
 And the owls are hooting. 
 
 From the north there comes a blast, 
 Which has wrecked the roses past, 
 Bringing death to all at last. 
 
 34 
 
AUTUMN. 
 
 Causing nature's weeping. 
 And the rasping corn blades say 
 It is thus no longer May, 
 Autumn's come, but will not stay, 
 Winter's only sleeping. 
 
 Muffled voices, soft and low, 
 In the thicket's under grow; 
 Hear the truants, for they know 
 Where the nuts are falling. 
 And they linger on and stay 
 'Till the closing of the day. 
 Someone's coming now that way, 
 Boys through brushes crawling. 
 
 Red as blood the sunset glows 
 Down the west, and overthrows 
 Flakey flames, — the twilight grows, 
 Hear the night winds wailing. 
 Morn again and frosty air. 
 Now the woods are almost bare, 
 Smoky, hazy, everywhere. 
 Gray skies now prevailing. 
 
 35 
 
LONGFELLOW. 
 
 Longfellow has written about the moon 
 
 And the bridge by the darkened city, 
 And to-night it seems I can hear the tune 
 
 Of the song to his lovely ditty. 
 
 Just now I saw the full moon rise, 
 
 And its glorious orb is shining. 
 Like a stray world out of paradise, 
 
 Wrapt round with a silver lining. 
 
 And I think of a grave where the moon-beams fall; 
 
 Of a voice that in life's endeavor 
 Has gone in the hush beyond recall 
 
 But whose deeds live on forever. 
 
 36 
 
A PEN PICTURE OF THE GRIP. 
 
 (Written while in the clutches of the monster.) 
 
 Heard an ole man say, tother day, 
 He had the grip 'way ']ong in May. 
 When all the other folks wuz well 
 He jes laid 'round fer quit a spell. 
 
 "An' didn't git much strength," says he, 
 "Jes felt as ornry as could be, — 
 'Til 'way long the last of June, 
 'Fore I begin to git in tune." 
 
 Says he: "I hurt from head to heel," 
 And that is jes 'bout the way I feel. 
 
 Heard him say jes not long ago 
 In fepeakin' 'bout it, "I know — 
 
 The grip is the dol-blamest thing — 
 The way I took it, I-jing, 
 
 Wuz right twixt my shoulders — gee- 
 Whiz! but it hurt; ole bumble bee 
 Poppin' it to me couldn't be wus; 
 An' 'bout that time I made a fuss 
 
 'Bout my ole legs ; so stiff, couldn't kneel," 
 An' that is jes 'bout the way I feel. 
 
 Said it kep' movin' round — got in his eyes — 
 Then his ole pate got full of hoss flies. 
 
 Eyes kept leakin', and his nose, I gum; 
 'Spect run a gallon, and then some. 
 
 Folks had him dead, and come to see 
 'Bout funeral 'rangements — when it would be. 
 Said he kept livin' and suflerin' on. 
 An' tell you a fact, didn't give a dogon 
 
 If he'd been dead as a cold piece of steel, 
 An' that is jes 'bout the way I feel. 
 
 37 
 
MY DEAR OLD HOME. 
 
 Oh, my dear old home! in the days gone by, 
 And the scenes of youth 'neath a bright, clear sky. 
 The wild, glad ways, that once used to be. 
 Are the things that will never come back to me. 
 
 And I sit and muse in the twilight hour. 
 As a flood of thoughts, with mighty power, 
 
 Is pouring in on my burdened soul, 
 
 As the days and years eternal roll. 
 
 Could I utter my thoughts as they come to me, 
 
 Could I tell of a time that can never be, 
 Could I for one moment be back at home 
 In the days of my youth no more to roam. 
 
 To the home of my childhood, ah! young once more, 
 
 Just like it was in the days of yore. 
 If heaven's on earth, ah! it would be there, 
 I, back in the dear old home, young and fair. 
 
 It's not for the grandeur of buildings or fame, 
 Ah, no! It's not that, it's the dear old name; 
 It's the home of my youth, of days gone by, 
 They have passed away, and I weep and sigh. 
 
 It's there in childhood, in long, summer days, 
 I frolicked and rambled in childish ways. 
 
 It's there I first sinned, it's there I flrnt prayed ; 
 
 From there I first saw a fresh, new grave made. 
 
 And kindred I loved who grew up with me, 
 Have long years ago gone out on the sea, 
 
 38 
 
MY DEAR OLD HOME. 
 
 And have not come back, though we plead and call, 
 And left us so lone — ah! time rules us all. 
 
 Oh, my dear old home! I sigh and I know. 
 There's nothing so sweet as the long ago. 
 
 There's nothing so sad ; to see it depart. 
 
 Is like being left with a broken heart. 
 
 The old home has changed and I have changed too, 
 Scenes of my childhood have passed and the new 
 Lies out before me. I still battle on 
 Until death shall call, then I will be gone. 
 
 Then good-bye to my home — I love the old spot; 
 
 It's dear to my heart, 'twill not be forgot 
 I love it because — may God hear my vow — 
 I was nearer to heaven then than I am now. 
 
 39 
 
WHEN DER FROST IS ON DER DURNIP8. 
 
 When der frost is on der durnips und der cabbage mit 
 
 der hedt, 
 Und it feels so pooty goot like mit more kiver on der 
 bedt, 
 Und der wedder's kinder hazey, shust pefore a wet, 
 
 cold rain, 
 Den you pet mine life I'd drudder wisht dot sphring 
 would c»om again. 
 
 O, der boet sings so shweetly 'bond der "fodder mit der 
 
 shock," 
 ''When der frost is on der bunkin," — but I guess I dakes 
 no shtock 
 In enyding like dot, you pet, it's too mooch as I have 
 
 sedt, 
 Like der frost is on der durnips und der cabbage mit 
 der hedt. 
 
 For der mornin's are so shilly, dot you shust kaint 
 
 hardly track, 
 Goin' round to do yer feedin' mit a big kink up yer back ; 
 Und yer hands down in yer bockets und yer snoot so 
 
 coldt und redt, 
 Cause der frost is on der durnips und der cabbage mit 
 der hedt. 
 
 But, on course it's den we gedder taders, bop-corn, evry- 
 
 ding 
 Dot we tended in der summer, dot we blanted mit der 
 
 shpring, 
 
 40 
 
WHEN DEE, FROST IS ON DER DURNIPS. 
 
 Und we bick our winter apples, big und leetle, green 
 
 und redt, 
 When der frost is on der durnips und der cabbage mit 
 
 der hedt. 
 
 Und it's den we makes some ciders und some apple but- 
 ter sauce; 
 If we hits him und don't miss it, I shust tells you it was 
 boss. 
 All dish puisness und some udders must be done as I 
 
 have sedt, 
 When der frost is on der durnips und der cabbage mit 
 der hedt. 
 
 Dot's der reason dot I'm waitin' for der shpring to coom 
 
 again, 
 When I see der leetle shickens mit der cluckin' mudder 
 hen, 
 Oo! I shake like mit an egger as I shump cud mit my 
 
 bedt, 
 Wlien der frost is on der durnips und der cabbage mit 
 der hedt. 
 
 41 
 
OH, HAPPY CHRISTMAS TIMES. 
 
 Oh, tho8e dear old Christmas tirneB, in the happy days 
 
 gone by, 
 In the merry bloom of youth, when no care of life was 
 nigh. 
 And ail I held in life was a little world of joy, 
 With my candy, nuts and toys, and a heart without 
 alloy. 
 Oh, I asked for nothing better, and I wanted noth- 
 ing more 
 Back in them old Christmas times, in those happy 
 days of yore. 
 
 How pleasant to remember of those days that's past and 
 
 gone, 
 When the winter's sun was setting and the night was 
 coming on; 
 When I'd jump and skip and whistle, and around my 
 
 fancy weave 
 All the myths I ever knew of, of old Kris on Christ- 
 mas eve. 
 But the time has sadly flown, and the years have 
 
 quickly fled, 
 Many friends of early childhood now are lying with 
 the dead. 
 
 Oh, those dear old Christmas times, how in fancy now I 
 
 roam. 
 Sitting by the old fire place and the folks are all at home. 
 And us children hanging up all our stockings 'round 
 the hearth, 
 
 42 
 
OH, HAPPY CHRISTMAS TIMES. 
 
 Saying Dra'yers with childish glee, for our hearts are 
 full of mirth. 
 Yet to-night in looking back to my home that used 
 
 to be 
 I am sad to know the roof never more will shelter 
 me. 
 
 Oh, those dear old Christmas times, in the happy days 
 
 of yore. 
 I can see the moon beams gleam in the snow outside our 
 door. 
 I can hear the "'Christmas Gift" of a happy long ago, 
 As we all would tumble out, in the morning all aglow- 
 Oh, I don't know to tell it, I was happy as can be, 
 And my angel friends in heaven would look down 
 and smile on me. 
 
 43 
 
WHEN THE LEAVES GET IN THE TKEES. 
 
 When the leaves get in the trees and the sweat begins 
 to roll 
 And the atmosphere is kind of warm and dry, 
 Oh ! 'tis then I get to thinkin' and I'm glad down in my 
 soul, 
 That the winter days have gone, and said good by. 
 
 What placid benedictions, 'round a fellow's pathway 
 glow, 
 As he rises in the early morn of spring, 
 When he gets an introduction to the garden spade and 
 hoe, 
 While the blue birds in the tree tops gaily sing. 
 
 Oh! the spadin' and the plantin' of that blessed onion 
 bed. 
 And the moppin' of the sweat out of your eye, 
 When the wimin saunter out, and with nothin' on their 
 head, 
 Tell you how you ought to do and argify. 
 
 When the leaves get in the trees and the sweat begins 
 to roll, 
 I am always jest as tired as I can be. 
 Oh! I'd ruther go a fishin', with my flshin' hook and 
 pole. 
 With jest nobody 'round to bother me. 
 
 When the leaves get in the trees, then the sweat begins 
 to roll, 
 
 If I naf to, I can stick the onion sets, 
 For old providence is pushin' me, past all my control, 
 
 Ohl I jest git down and dig, to pay my debts. 
 
 44 
 
LEAD HER BUT KINDLY. 
 
 [To our beloved and grief-stricken Mrs. McKinley]. 
 
 Lead her but kindly, she needs thy hand; 
 Thong-h others weep around his bier and softly tread, 
 What's all this world to her? — her hero's dead. 
 Lead her but kindly. 
 
 Lead her but kindly, her eyes are dim; 
 That cruel monster, "Death," a gloom hath spread ; 
 With soul oppressed, sne's longing for her dead. 
 Lead her but kindly. 
 
 Lead her but kindly, with unfaltering trust. 
 Through days of sorrow that may come and go. 
 And e'en with other blessings thou mayest bestow. 
 Lead her but kindly. 
 
 Lead her but kindly, the way is dark. 
 The pent up fountains of a broken heart 
 Are overflowing — O, 'tis so sad to part! 
 Lead her but kindly. 
 
 Lead her but kindly, by the tideless sea, 
 And there may they meet on that golden shore, 
 And the greeting will be — "We'll part no more." 
 Lead her but kindly. 
 
 45 
 
THE FARMER AND HIS FARM. 
 
 The farm, the fsirm, the dear old farm, it is the place 
 
 for me. 
 I'd ruther live and die on it than anywhere I see. 
 Why, jest the name's more dear to me then airy other 
 
 place. 
 I'd tell most any town jake that, an' look 'im in the 
 face. 
 
 I like the early springtime when the leaves eome on the 
 
 trees, 
 When honey bees begin to buzz in the soft mornin' 
 breez, 
 An' you go out in your shirt sleeves around to feed yer 
 
 stock, 
 'Mong the turkeys, ducks an' guinies, an' yer blooded 
 Plymouth rock. 
 
 An' to hear yer bosses nicker as you slam the barnyard 
 
 gate, 
 Askin' fur their morning rashuns, how impaishunly 
 they wait. 
 An' the pigs a squealin' tenor, yonder in the pasture lot, 
 'Though you feed and slop them hearty, keep on 
 squealin', like as not. 
 
 There's a f^elin' kind o' soft like in the mornin' atmos- 
 phere, 
 When the robin in the tree top sweetly warbles, "spring 
 
 is here," 
 
 46 
 
THE FARMER AND HIS FARM. 
 
 An' you think about yer plowin' an' yer work a eom- 
 
 in' on; 
 Peerd you woke up kind o' sudden, an' the winter 
 
 days air gone. 
 
 O, the plowin' an' the reapin' of the long summer days, 
 An' the many occupations on the farm in many ways, 
 But you have yer bread and butter clean an' fresh, an' 
 
 what is best, 
 You can tumble out of mornin's from a night of peace- 
 ful rest. 
 
 At the noon hour after dinner, with yer mind at perfect 
 
 ease, 
 You can woUer in the shadders on the grass beneath the 
 trees, 
 An' in bliss an' sweet contentment with all nature, 
 
 anyhow — 
 You can nap until the wimin wake you up to go to 
 plow. 
 
 Then in autumn, after summer, when the frost is off at 
 
 morn. 
 You can hear the dry blades raspin', as the wind blows 
 through the corn. 
 An' you think 'bout winter comin' — comin' fast, an' 
 
 you begin 
 To put taters in the seller an' yer corn into the bin. 
 
 Kind o' fixin', up for winter, fer the time when you can 
 
 rest, 
 When you sit beside the winder, watch it snow it's level 
 
 best, 
 
 47 
 
THE FAimER AND HIS FARM. 
 
 An' the stock in winter quarters, an' the fodder over 
 
 head, 
 Hogs an' cattle 'round the strawscack, an' the calves 
 
 air in the shed. 
 
 I don't know jest how it is, I've an idy in ray bead 
 That when a farmer's done with life an' we say that he 
 is dead, 
 An' gone onto the shinin' shore, with all his sins fer- 
 
 given. 
 He'll have the softest, nicest seat that they've got up 
 in Heaven. 
 
 48 
 
BENJAMIN HARRISON, 
 
 [The twenty-third President of the United States.] 
 
 Gone to the land of thy forefathers, 
 To stand before that Tribunal Court above, 
 And there with eternal jurisprudence, 
 Thy Judge shall rule — yea, rule with love. 
 
 Our earthly thrones must crumble and decay. 
 But o'er the dark waste of time shall thou ever 
 Dwell in the memory of the great and good. 
 Though dead, thy deeds live on forever. 
 
 And where magistrates, priests and kings, 
 
 And the universal brotherhood of all, 
 
 Meet on one common level — Thou too 
 
 Hast joined that number — to thy Master's call. 
 
 49 
 
A LOVE TALE OF HOOSIERDOM. 
 
 She sat, one summer afternoon, 
 Neath shady boughs of apple June. 
 
 A look of welcome and glad surprise 
 Was beaming strangely from her eyes. 
 
 For down the lane her lover came, 
 Who had just landed off the train. 
 
 And they set and talk, in the soft June weather, 
 As lovers do when once together. 
 
 Until the sun was sinking low, 
 When he arose, prepared to go. 
 
 She watched him down the twilight lane 
 And in the distance heard the train, 
 
 "The time is set, and we shall wed," 
 Was what the gentle maiden said. 
 
 Then letters were written every day, 
 And crossed each other on the way. 
 
 Until the fever laid him low. 
 His written letters did not go. 
 
 But she did write, and write again. 
 And never heard by word or pen. 
 
 50 
 
A LOVE TALE OF HOOSIERDOIM:. 
 
 His older brother, on mischief bent, 
 Wrote a letter and to her sent. 
 
 Stating her lover would be wedded soon 
 On the following day in the afternoon. 
 
 And the wronged brother wondered why 
 She to his letter made no reply. 
 
 So she married a man, it is often told, 
 She did not love, but rich in gold. 
 
 And he a woman, meek and naiid, 
 And loving as a little child. 
 
 They met, one night, where lights burn low, 
 Secure to all who come and go, 
 
 And talked of a sad and bitter past, 
 Of sweet, true love that will ever last, 
 
 And they feel the guilt the world would throw 
 Into their lives if it did know. 
 
 But two, who waited at home that night. 
 Will never know of the wrong or right. 
 
 So they part again to meet no more 
 Until they are free on that other shore. 
 
 Where all the lost will be united. 
 And all the wrongs of life are righted. 
 
 51 
 
"I LAUGHED AND SHE CRIED." 
 
 (As related by a Friend.) 
 
 That's what I did. No use, I'll not deny, 
 
 'Though it wa'n't right, but I did try- 
 Not to. But when my wife's uncle died, 
 I must confes', I laughed when she cried. 
 
 My wife was his favorite an' only heir, 
 
 An' bein' pour an' jest a common pair 
 Of people, it kind o' took us on surprise. 
 When we found ourselves rich, as you may surmise. 
 
 You see, we had been pour so awful long, 
 
 Some way er other it was an ole song; 
 An' livin' 'round on rented farms was a bore. 
 An' every time we'd move, we'd break sompin' shore. 
 
 We jes' kept movin' and rentin' year by year, 
 Until we wa'n't wuth a big fat steer. 
 
 I tell you now, I was gettin' pretty blue; 
 
 Don't see how anyone could blame me; could you? 
 
 But, law's sakes-alive! je?' 'bout that time, my 
 Wife's uncle died. (My! I thought I'd die 
 
 Too) An' left her everything he had. 
 
 Gee! I couldn't cry when feelin' glad. 
 
 Well, could you have cried when by his dyin' 
 Your wife would get all? But I'm not tryin' 
 To brag — er anything like that; but now 
 We aint quite so pour these days, no how. 
 
 62 
 
GONE BY. 
 
 O the years and the days g-one by! 
 
 How I dream of the golden hours. 
 Blue sky, and the brook's merry song^, g^ 
 
 And hill side with blooming flowers. 
 
 Barefooted, and ragged, and tanned. 
 And straw hat half minus of rim, 
 
 Was the boy that I knew years ago, 
 And with fun running over the brim. 
 
 O the years and the days gone by ! 
 
 How those words come home to us all. 
 For don't you remember the time 
 
 E'er you heard the command of life's call? 
 
 'Way back in your barefooted days — 
 Ah ! you knew not what you know now, 
 
 And that's what makes the pleasures so sweet, 
 As now you must follow life's plow. 
 
 Ob the stern cold receptions of life, 
 How ye darken and sadden the eye. 
 
 When we think of those happy times, 
 In the years and the days gone by. 
 
 53 
 
THE DAY I WENT TO MILL. 
 
 [An Old Settler's Story.] 
 
 An old man's story? well I guess it's amusing at any 
 time, 
 
 But it's not often I'm given to tell, especially in rhyme, 
 
 But the story's true as heaven above, and the memory 
 of it brings 
 
 Me bacli again to manhood's prime, with its sad remem- 
 berings. 
 
 When at the age of twenty-two, I took to myself a wife, 
 And settled down on a tract of land to the scenes of 
 
 pioneer life, 
 I labored hard from morn 'till night, with a willing 
 
 heart and hand. 
 To grub and cut the timber off, so I could plow and till 
 
 my land. 
 
 The first year I managed to clear and 'tend some five 
 acres so or more. 
 
 And the next year following after that I deadened fif- 
 teen more, 
 
 And so things went quite smooth along until six years 
 rolled by, 
 
 And I began to look around, for I then could see the sky. 
 
 My good wife labored hard and long a' d helped me all 
 she could. 
 
 She'd pile the brush and clear the ground, and some- 
 times split the wood, 
 
 54 
 
THE DAY I WENT TO MILL. 
 
 Besides her work of 'tendin' house, and sometimes spun 
 
 at night. 
 She bore her burden day by day, be it heavy, hard or 
 
 light. . 
 
 Our blue eyed tot was then 'bout four, with a golden 
 
 sunny hair, 
 And his mother worshiped him, I guess, he was with 
 
 her everywhere; 
 And we used to sit and talk of nights, by the firelights 
 
 burning heap. 
 Her with our baby in her lap, who was safe and sound 
 
 asleep. 
 
 I remember well, one evening thus, while sitting by the 
 
 light 
 Of the burning log heaps all around, which was a 
 
 "purty" sight. 
 And talkiri' of the days to come, she suddenly says, ''Oh 
 
 Will, 
 I've went and plum forgot to tell, to-morrow you must 
 
 go to mill." 
 
 And now comes my story, and I would it were not true, 
 But the future lies out before us, just the same to me 
 
 and you, 
 And when I think back on the time, of that day I went 
 
 to mill, 
 I always then grow sick at heart, and shake as with a 
 
 chill. 
 
 The mill those days was miles away, and the roads they 
 
 weren't plain. 
 And I remember how I dreaded the trip, for the weather 
 
 threatened rain, 
 
 55 
 
THE DAY I WENT TO MILL. 
 
 But I saddled my horse, prepared to start for the mill 
 
 ten miles away, 
 And jokingly said, to my wife and babe, "good-bye, I'll 
 
 be back some day." 
 
 She says all right, and I started out, but I heard her say, 
 "Oh Will, 
 
 You needn't come by the deadening, to-night, as you 
 come back from the mill, 
 
 For baby and I will fetch the cows and have the milk- 
 ing done. 
 
 It will only be a nice, long walk, and I'm sure 'twill 
 be only fun." 
 
 "Just as you like," I says, and then ere long I was ©ut of 
 
 sight. 
 And then I nudged old "Charlie" up, I must be home 
 
 'fore night. 
 But the weather was so awful hot, the roads so awful 
 
 rough. 
 And old "Charlie" panted and poked along like he 
 
 thought it was awful tough. 
 
 But I in due time reached the mill, and resting 'bout an 
 
 hour, 
 I started back for my cabin home on old "Charlie" and 
 
 nay flour. 
 And then I heard it thunder low, way down in the west, 
 But 'fore it rains I must get home, or try my very best. 
 
 A feeling then came over me, I never could explain. 
 It wasn't because I's 80 far from home, or that it was 
 going to rain, 
 
 66 
 
THE DAY I WENT TO MILL. 
 
 But somehow something seemed to say, "youDg man, 
 
 (as I rode along) 
 You'd better be harrying home, to-day," like a sad and 
 
 mournful song. 
 
 But the storm came on, and I was caught when only 
 three miles away, 
 
 And how I ever lived through it all I've never been 
 able to say, 
 
 I dismounted my horse and turned him loose; poor fel- 
 low refused to go, 
 
 Together we stood there, side by side, what would hap- 
 pen we didn't know. 
 
 The limbs were snaping all around, and came crashing 
 
 to the ground. 
 But we stood there 'till a giant oak came down with a 
 
 mighty sound, 
 And there I sought shelter beside its trunk, from the 
 
 storm and lightning wild. 
 And then I prayed to heaven above to spare my wife 
 
 and child. 
 
 I staid there 'bout two hours or more, in agony and pain, 
 But still the storm kept roaring on, with each lightning 
 
 poured the rain. 
 I started out and left my horse, he nickered after me. 
 It's growing dark, I must get home, my wife and child 
 
 to see. 
 
 How I ever reached by cabin door is more than I can 
 
 tell, 
 And as I'se 'bout to enter in I thought I heard a bell. 
 
 57 ■ 
 
THE DAY I WENT TO MILL. 
 
 There was no light, what did it mean? I rushed inside 
 
 the door, 
 And called aloud my wife and babe above the din and 
 
 roar. 
 
 No voice replied, but still again I thought I heard that 
 bell, 
 
 "Oh God! it's our cow bell — mother — Willie, where are 
 you?-' and then I fell. 
 
 ''The deadenin' — caught in the storm — killed" — some- 
 thing seemed to say. 
 
 And then I arose and started out, for the deadenin' a 
 mile away. 
 
 All night long I called and called, and stumbled o'er 
 
 logs and brush. 
 And once in a while the wind would cease, and in the 
 
 silent hush — 
 I thought I could hear their piteous cries, and called 
 
 and called, but no. 
 Oh what a terrible night I spent, there's none but God 
 
 can know. 
 
 But the dawn of the morning came at last, and I found 
 them both at rest, 
 
 In the embrace of death, and side by side, with a large 
 limb 'crossed her breast, 
 
 With his little arm around her neck, together they en- 
 tered heaven, 
 
 Beyond the trials of a pioneer life. He their reward has 
 given. 
 
 58 
 
THEY HAVE GONE ABROAD. 
 
 I will not call them dead — those friends of mine. 
 
 That I have followed to the tomb; 
 The grave is only the dividing line 
 
 Beyond yon life and this of gloom. 
 
 And since they are in that unknown land — 
 Have crossed the trackless, misty sea — 
 
 I long for the touch of their friendly hand, 
 And the old time smile that used to be. 
 
 But they've gone abroad to spend the years, 
 They'll come not back from that healthful clime; 
 
 They have passed the border beyond all tears, 
 And expect our arrival at most any time. 
 
 59 
 
A BACKWARD SPRING. 
 
 Don't this git you — what's comin' next, I'd like to know? 
 I guess it's tried 'bout everything 'cept snow, 
 
 And now it's lit in to doin' that — yes that! 
 
 Blamed ef I ain't a notion to burn up my old straw hat. 
 
 I've been bumfooseled several times this spring. 
 An' so has the robins an' the blue birds, I-jing. 
 Yesterday a north wind blowed its very level best. 
 An' I'll be switched! to-day it's snowin' straight from 
 the west. 
 
 An' day 'fore yesterday it rained an' blustered 'round. 
 
 No use; jes' had to unhitch an' quit my plowin', 
 
 An' that's jes' the way it's been all spring — an' then, 
 Maybe fool-like, the sun come smilin' out again. 
 
 It's hard on the constitootion too — this kind o' weather; 
 
 There's nary two days the hull spring will go together; 
 An' rattled — you don't know what's next — rain er sun. 
 An' work jes' apilin' upon yer that jes' ort to be done. 
 
 Still, it's not a good idy to be findin' too much fault 
 With Providence, er else yer might be ordered to halt. 
 
 But I b'leave I know jes' how this all come about. 
 
 Groun'-hog saw his shadder an' the weather jes' found 
 it out. 
 
 60 
 
THE MOON ECLIPSE. 
 
 The light of day had scarcely faded out of sight, 
 When rose the moon just o'er the Eastern hill; 
 
 And in the gathering shadows of the night, 
 There's not a sound, and all the world is still. 
 
 Save now and then, out on the frosty air, 
 Comes sounds of jingling hells just o'er the hill; 
 
 Save but for this, in the white moonlight fair, 
 The hour draws on and all the air is still. 
 
 A strange, dark shadow creeps across the moon; 
 
 Down to the earth it sends a dismal light 
 Across the snow-white world, then comes too soon, 
 
 A dark and death-like shadow of the night. 
 
 Now grim, gray phantoms seem to rise and stand ; 
 
 Stand solitary in an unshadowed row; 
 Unwelcome guests, from some benighted land. 
 
 Now move like Spectres o'er the frozen snow. 
 
 Yet fainter grows the moonlight on the scene, 
 And all around a stiller silence falls; 
 
 The sparkling stars above, with hues of green. 
 Are looking on the darkness over all. 
 
 In the dark splendor of the ghastly moon, 
 I stand and watch in the chill of the hour; 
 
 And from the frozen forest's deptli and gloom, 
 I see and recognize the "Almighty's power." 
 
 61 
 
BACK AGAIN TO SCHOOL. 
 
 When September's sun swings low, 
 Back again to school they go. 
 Through the Indian summer haze 
 Of autumnal's early days. 
 For the harvest time is past; 
 Frosty nights have come at last, 
 'Long the highway, through the glen, 
 Going back to school again. 
 
 Yes, 
 
 back 
 
 they 
 
 go. 
 
 See them as they skip along, 
 Joyous as a morning song. 
 "Lad and Lassie" hand in hand, 
 Future heroes of our land. 
 Going back again to school. 
 Learning lessons, rule by rule. 
 Destiny of nations lay 
 With their hearts and hands some day. 
 
 Then 
 
 let 
 
 them 
 
 go. 
 
 Happy little maid and man. 
 Make the best of life you can. 
 
 62 
 
BACK AGAIN TO SCHOOr.. 
 
 I would like to go, ah then — 
 Back once more to school again. 
 Learn life's lessons while you may 
 For there comes a fatal day, 
 When your school days will be o'er 
 And you'll see them shut the door, 
 
 Then 
 
 you 
 
 €jan't 
 
 m 
 
"EVERY LITTLE HELPS. ' 
 
 "Here's a poem on cold weather," 
 Says I, the other day, 
 As I stood before an editor 
 Whose hair was turning? gray. 
 
 I thought I'd hit upon a theme 
 That was very sure to take. 
 The gas had flickered almost out, 
 I from the cold did shake. 
 
 He smiled and thanked me for the thing, 
 But Oh! the blasted whelp; 
 He turned and stuck it in the stove, 
 Sayin', "Every little helps." 
 
 64 
 
CORN HUSKING TIME. 
 
 The days are growing shorter, 
 
 The leaves begin to fall, 
 And cool siutumnal weather 
 
 Is spreading over all. 
 
 Out in the morning early, 
 The farmers with their teams, 
 
 Go driving to the cornfields 
 Just as the red light gleams. 
 
 Corn husking time is with them, 
 They now must step around. 
 
 And get the crop all gathered, 
 Soon sn«w'll be on the ground. 
 
 There goes a large ear flying 
 From a busker's hand, who said — 
 
 ''Here goes the first this morning 
 Into the wagon bed." 
 
 Through all the day you'll hear them 
 
 A pulling off the husk. 
 And when the sun is setting 
 
 You'll find them there at dusk. 
 
 Again corn husking's with us. 
 How soon the time comes 'round, 
 
 So many friends of other days 
 Lie in the cold, cold ground. 
 
 65 
 
CORN HUSKING TIME. 
 
 I never see October 
 
 With husking time of corn, 
 But what it doth remind me 
 
 Of times in early morn. 
 
 When in the frosty twilight 
 We'd start out for the day, 
 
 And at the evening sunset 
 Were always light and gay. 
 
 But all the boys are scattered, 
 For some are in the West, 
 
 And each in turn is going 
 To his eternal rest. 
 
 66 
 
HIS RECEIPT. 
 
 Most unostentatious old man, 
 
 I'd like to learn your secret if I can; 
 
 How to live through shine and rain, 
 
 Some fifty years without a pain. 
 Never had a doctor did you say? 
 Well, you ought to be thankful anyway. 
 
 Never had the fever or the chills! 
 
 Never took quinine or any pills? 
 Well, that beats the band, and still you work 
 An' 'tend to biz an' never shirk. 
 
 Got a good appetite an' sleep well, 
 
 Tongue never gets coated, and your smell 
 Is good as common, an' no rhumitiz 
 Creepin' 'round your old jints — that is 
 
 To 8peak of, an' nary blemish 'bout 
 
 Your hide, teeth all sound an' none out? 
 Well, well, an' my old body's full of pain 
 As a thunder cloud is full of rain. 
 
 An' your receipt, I'd like to get it if I can. 
 
 ''Well, HERE IT is— i'm a bachelor instead 
 
 OF A MARRIED MAN." 
 
 67 
 
'^HOT BISCUITh AND TREE MOLASSES." 
 
 (In rough and tumble complex meter.) 
 
 I'd jes' like to take about 
 Two hop-steps an' a jump, 
 An' Ian' back forty years, 
 With a great big thump, 
 An' git rite down to biz, 
 A soppin' tree molasses 
 With hot biscuits an' butter, 
 Which nothin' surpasses. 
 
 But some at wants flap-jacks, 
 Tliat you bake on a griddle. 
 Bah! I never did like 'em, 
 'Lasses won't stay in the middle, 
 But biscuits thats rized up 
 An' air spongy an' light. 
 An' baked in a hot oven. 
 Air 'way out of sight. 
 
 Railly when I git to thinkin' back 
 On them ole sugar camp days, 
 I allers then git young an' spry. 
 An' want ter flop an' crow — becase, 
 I'd like to have a nuther whack 
 At soppin' tree molasses 
 With hot biscuits an' butter, 
 Wliich nothin' surpasses. 
 
 68 
 
"HOT BISCUITS AND TRT^E MOLASSES. 
 
 Say! I'd jes like to take about 
 Two hop-steps an' a jump, 
 An' Ian' back forty years, 
 In a great big lump, 
 An' have a red hot biscuit 
 An' tree molasses at my place, 
 At the ole family table, 
 An' me jes a gaumin' my face. 
 
 69 
 
WEST FORK OF OLD WHITE WATER. 
 
 Under the blue of Hoosier skies 
 In sweet sunshine a valley lies. 
 
 And down through its tangled sycamores, 
 West Fork of old White Water pours. 
 
 Upon whose banks on either side 
 Lie fertile farms both far and wide. 
 
 Dividing brooklets rise and fall 
 And empty in at intervals. 
 
 And in its golden sunset glare 
 
 It's mellow fruits are ripe and rare. 
 
 It's fields are laden with ripened grain 
 That smells the sweetest after rain. 
 
 It's forest and meadows are ever green, 
 It's harvest fields the brightest sheen. 
 
 Oh ! WHO could ask for a better lot 
 Than to dwell in this favor'd garden spot. 
 
 For down this stream, when skies are blue, 
 No artist can paint it's colors true. 
 
 No mocking pencil or pantomime 
 
 Can bring to your view, such scenery fine. 
 
 70 
 
WEST FORK OF OLD WHITE WATER. 
 
 Here, near on it's banks the whippoorwiU 
 Would sing wliere now stands old Connersville. 
 
 And here where the red man roaming by 
 Would hear in the forest the panthers cry. 
 
 Where the Indian maiden, under cover 
 
 Of the wild rose bush, would meet her lover, 
 
 And gather in autumn the wild black haws 
 And the lucious fruit of the ripe paw-paws. 
 
 But the red man's happy hunting grounds 
 Have passed to their dim old burial mounds, 
 
 And the sturdy strokes of the pioneers 
 Hath paved a way for the coming years. 
 
 Until to-day from their happy homes 
 Down by the old stream their children roam. 
 
 Still under the blue of Hoosier skies 
 In sweet sunshine the valley lies. 
 
 Still down through its tangled sycamores 
 West Fork of old White Water pours. 
 
 71 
 
SIGNS OF RAIN. 
 
 Whenever you hear the dovep a callin«? 
 For their mates in a mournful strain. 
 And 'way in the night you hear the bawling 
 
 Of cattle in a sad refrain, 
 When out in the hot sun snakes are crawling 
 
 Over hill top, valley and plane. 
 And anon you hear the rain-crow mauling 
 Out its notes for a beautiful rain. 
 
 Then, of course, it will rain. 
 For the clouds will come together and say 
 (And sometimes in a most furious way) 
 That when everything is 
 Calling, 
 
 Crawling, 
 
 Bawling, 
 
 And mauling in vain, 
 If nothing else will do I'll rain! 
 I'll do as I'm bid ; 
 And rain it did. 
 
 72 
 
THE DUTCHMAN AND HIS BIKE. 
 
 Veil, I tells you 
 How dot vas. 
 
 Der udder day, me und mine 
 Frau, Liza, went to town mit 
 Ourself ; und I sayes: 
 "Ole voman, I am shust goin' 
 To git von of tern veels vot 
 You rite mit." 
 
 Und she sayes: "Now, Yacob, 
 Vot for you talk like dot?'" 
 Und ten she gits mat purty quicks, 
 Und nebber did she sayes a 
 Nudder vord. 
 So ven we gits mit der 
 Town, I goes leettle up streed 
 To dot pycicle man und sayes: 
 "Vot you take for A pycicle, heh?" 
 Und dot man he shmild 
 Leettle, und sayes: 
 "Vot you bay for von? Dot ish 
 A goot von." 
 
 Und den I shust told him 
 Dot I haf shust von forty-five 
 Dollar pil; 
 
 Und den dot pycicle man 
 Shmild agin. Veil, to make 
 A short story long, I boughts him — 
 Und ven der ole voman saw 
 Vat a sleek, shiney ting it 
 
 ■'73 
 
THE DUTCHMAN AND HIS BIKE. 
 
 Vas, she got very goot mit 
 
 Her self agin. 
 
 Veil, after vile, a leettle, vo 
 
 Gits home, und you shuf^t 
 
 Ought der see dot ole voraan 
 
 Laf ven I trys ter rite him. 
 
 You see it vouldn't stan A leettle 
 
 Still. 
 
 Py shiminy! I shust got so 
 
 Sweaty mat mit dot pycicle 
 
 Dot I shust takes him oud 
 
 On der bike, und sayes 
 
 To der ole voman: 
 
 ''Now I rides him er dies in 
 
 Der cooperation. 
 
 So I gits on mit der fence, 
 
 Und I sayes to de ole voman, 
 
 "You bush me leettle up." 
 
 Vot you tink? 
 
 Dot blamet veel shust vent 
 
 Down straightd mit der bike 
 
 As never vas, until he 
 
 Gits skeerd aboud some ding — 
 
 I never vas tell you vot, 
 
 Und throws me aboud ten 
 
 Feet on der right hant'ed 
 
 Side of mine neck. 
 
 Und before der ole voman 
 
 Knowed vot I vas aboud, 
 
 I seen someding dot looks 
 
 Like leettle stars fljin round 
 
 Mine het. 
 
 Und ven I bicks mine self 
 
 Up, dot blamt veel bicks 
 
 74 
 
THE DUTCHMAN AND HIS BIKE. 
 
 Him self up too, 
 
 For dot sprock chain vas fast 
 
 Mit mine pants leg, und 
 
 Dei) I very suddenly reekolected 
 
 Boud dem two leettle pycicle 
 
 Garters dot I vent und forgot 
 
 To wear. Veil, ven I gits 
 
 Eber ding in runin' oberation, 
 
 Und mine leettle garters on, 
 
 I sayes to mine frow, who shust 
 
 Kept lafin all do dime — 
 
 Dot shust velt purty goot 
 
 You can pet your shweet life, 
 
 But dish time I vont you 
 
 To hold me leettle up und 
 
 Bush, for I'se got mine leettle 
 
 Garters on. 
 
 So I brought him mit der 
 
 Vence und climbed on, 
 
 Und der ole voman she bushed, 
 
 Und I shust vas beginin der 
 
 Tink vot goot exerncise it 
 
 Vas, ven mine frow sayes, 
 
 ^'Sthop! Yacok'. sthop! Whoa, Yacob- 
 
 Yacob, I say, sthop!" 
 
 But I sayes, "no ; py shiminy, 
 
 Ole voman, let him go; bush 
 
 Leettle up, bush leettle up/' 
 
 Oh, I tells you vot, I shust vas 
 
 Beginin to fly; 
 
 But vot yer tink, shust 
 
 Boud dot dime, der ole voman 
 
 Fell down mit der bike, 
 
 Wid me und dot pycicle 
 
 75 
 
THE DUTCHMAN AND HIS BIKE. 
 
 On der top side of her, 
 
 Und you shust can pet yer 
 
 Life dot vasn't so party 
 
 Goot. Und poor ole voman — 
 
 All she sayes vas, "Sthop ! 
 
 Yacob, sthop!" und shust 
 
 Laid mit der bike. 
 
 Ven she cum round mit 
 
 Herself, she said she vanted 
 
 Ter go in mit der house, 
 
 Und vot you tink! 
 
 Dot blame sprock chain 
 
 Had wound her dress clear 
 
 In on dot veel. So I had 
 
 Ter take her dress off rite der on 
 
 De bike, und shust boud 
 
 Dot time, a buggie und 
 
 Horse cum long wid a man 
 
 In it, und ven der ole 
 
 Voman saw dot, she started 
 
 For der house mit her dress 
 
 Half off, dragin' dot bran 
 
 New pycicle mit her. 
 
 Dot man shust nebbar sthop 
 
 Lafln, but kept rite on, until 
 
 I gots so mat dot I shook 
 
 Mine fist on him und 
 
 Den he drove a leettle up 
 
 Und vas gone. 
 
 I had von good frent dot I 
 
 Tells all aboud it, 
 
 Und he sayes, "Now Yacob, you 
 
 Shust hitch up und go over 
 
 Mit der town to-morrow, for 
 
 76 
 
THE DUTCHMAN AND HIS BIKE. 
 
 Dot Edertor man dot bublishes 
 
 Dot daily baber onee a week 
 
 Vill get on ter dish ting 
 
 Pefore yer ole voman knows vot 
 
 You ish aboud, und efryboty 
 
 In dot town vill know it 
 
 Pefore you do. So dot ish de reason 
 
 I'm here ter day. Ishuststhop 
 
 Him pefore he commenced, und 
 
 Ter next dime I rite a pycicle 
 
 I vill valk. Yah, de ole voman ish 
 
 Veil ash common. 
 
 77 
 
FAT MAN AND THE JEW. 
 
 (Jew Shipping His Father's Remaias,) 
 
 Did you ever hear the story 
 
 Of the fat man and the Jew? 
 
 If you did, then please don't read this. 
 
 If you didn't, why I'll tell you. 
 
 They were riding on the Central 
 Up in Michigan, I guess; 
 And the little Jew had noticed 
 The big fat man's restlessness. 
 
 He was fanin' and a mopin' 
 And a wheezin' every breath, 
 With the mercury in the ninetys — 
 Scorchin' everything to death. 
 
 And he said, "I'd give a quarter 
 For a little piece of ice. 
 For I'm just a boilin' over; 
 Yes sir, I would give it twice." 
 
 Now they say the Jews are noted 
 In their scheming for the chink ; 
 Whereupon he says, ''Say, mister, 
 I will git some ice I dink." 
 
 He was gone about a minute — 
 Forward to the baggage car. 
 And he came in quite a jifley, 
 Sayin', ''Mister, here you are." 
 
 78 
 
FAT MAN AND THE JEW. 
 
 Then the fat man smiled and thanked him; 
 Paid his quarter for the ice; 
 And he oozed it through his parched lips 
 Smackin', saying, "Oh ! how nice." 
 
 Then he got hisself some water, 
 Put the ice into the cup. 
 And he settled down in comfort — 
 Now and then would take a sup. 
 
 Soon 'twas gone and soon he heated, 
 Just like he had before, 
 And he turned unto the Jew-man 
 Sayin', "Can't you get me more?" 
 
 '•Yah, T dinks I gits him for you." 
 "Then a dime's worth, if you please," 
 And he settled back and wondered 
 Which was worse to burn or freeze. 
 
 After he had used the second 
 Round all up and wanted more, 
 Then the Jew he kindly stated, 
 That he could not spare no more. 
 
 But the fat man he insisted, 
 And the Jew would only smile — 
 Sayin', 'Mister, I would gits him, 
 But the OLD MAN sure might spile." 
 
 79 
 
"THE OLD FOLKS' CHRISTMAS WITH ROBIE." 
 
 Good mornin', old friend an' neighbor, sir, good mornin', 
 
 I'm glad you're here, 
 For I'se feelin' so mighty lonesome now— jes' come in 
 
 an' take a chair. 
 How's all your folks a comin' on, an' the neighbors 
 
 'round about? 
 The winter's been so dreadful cold that I seldom can 
 
 get out. 
 
 So youv'e come over you say to sympathize, well, I'm 
 
 sure that's kind in you, 
 Or else render to me some assistance if there's anything 
 
 to do. 
 Well, you stay with me awhile— my brother's son has 
 
 charge of affairs, 
 His wife is here, and others too, jes* now they are up 
 
 the stairs. 
 
 The blow falls heavy and hard, neighbor, but I guess 
 
 His ways are right. 
 An' I'm not goin' to murmur much if it aint very light. 
 But I'm old, you know, an' left alone, like the last leaf 
 
 on the tree. 
 For death came 'round only yesterday an' took mother 
 
 away from me. 
 
 We've lived together so many years, it was awful hard 
 
 to say 
 Farewell, when she folded her hands across her breast 
 
 and passed away. 
 
 80 
 
"THE OLD folks' CHSISTMAS WITH ROBIE." 
 
 An' to-morrow's Christmas, here on earth, (and I 'spose 
 
 up in Heaven too,) 
 An' mother an' Robie are now together an' livin' as 
 
 angels do. 
 
 I remember how we'd talked it over 'bout which would 
 
 be first to go 
 To join our boy in that far-off land, who for years laid 
 
 under the snow. 
 Our only child that had died in youth an' gone beyond 
 
 recall, 
 An' left us to weep an' mourn our loss in the gloom that 
 
 was over all. 
 
 The day he died, he was seven years old, with a future 
 
 bright and clear 
 As the mornin' sun when it shines on earth or a life 
 
 without a tear. 
 But it seemed to me, God thought it best to take what 
 
 we mostly prized, 
 So He stretched forth His hand an' plucked from earth 
 
 the flower we idolized. 
 
 An' as we stood by his dyin' bed, an' his quick breath 
 
 would come an' go. 
 With my arm 'round mother, waitin' the end, an' her 
 
 face as white as snow. 
 An' I jes' a weepin' a flood of tears, for I knew it would 
 
 soon be o'er. 
 When mother, dear mother, so calm an' low, says, "he's 
 
 gone" an' said no more. 
 
 In two days after the little white hearse backed up to 
 our farm yard gate, 
 
 81 
 
"the old folks' CHRISTMAS WITH ROBIE." 
 
 An' mother had been prayin' all night that we might 
 
 bear up the awful weight. 
 An' they led us into the old spare room, where he lay in 
 
 that sweetest sleep, 
 Then mother knelt down again an' prayed, "Please Lord 
 
 give me tears to weep." 
 
 Y ou ought to have seen her — her eyes were dry, she in 
 
 mute silence stood 
 Like a child who doesn't understand, but would learn if 
 
 it only could, 
 An' when they were bearin' his body out, it would have 
 
 made an angel weep, 
 When she says, "The Lord has given an' taken away, an' 
 
 the Lord will ever keep." 
 
 All this has passed long years ago, an' mother an' I 
 grew old. 
 
 As time rolled on in its ceaseless course, "we knew we 
 were near the fold. 
 
 But each season we'd plant afresh sweet flowers, to 
 cover the precious spot 
 
 Of our only child, long years ago, we laid in the church- 
 yard lot. 
 
 An' each spring and fall we'd take a drive, down by the 
 old mill race. 
 
 An' on by the toll-gate on the hill, an' on past the 
 ''Fletcher" place, 
 
 turn up Then north, a mile or so, an' finally come 'round 
 
 To the little old church on the corner, where is our fam- 
 ily buryin' ground. 
 
 Then we'd drive back home when the sun was low, with- 
 out ever sayin' a word, 
 
 82 
 
"THE OLD FOLKS' CHRISTMAS WITH ROBIE." 
 
 For we each were silent from sorrow an' grief, that we 
 
 neither saw nor heard. 
 An' we'd do up the chores in the twilight hour, as the 
 
 silent night comes on, 
 An' the glittering stars come peepin' out an' the day 
 
 was past and gone. 
 
 An' year after year she'd climb the stairs, even when 
 
 she was old and gray, 
 An' go to a chest by his little bed where his things had 
 
 been put away. 
 An' layin' thfem out jes' one by one, so tenderly in her 
 
 lap, 
 Then sad an' lovin'ly would fold them away with a kiss 
 
 on his little cap. 
 
 8he never forgot him, nor did her grief ever slacken 
 
 through all the years. 
 An' many a time in the deep dark gloom I have kissed 
 
 away her tears. 
 Then she'd brighten a little — take up the cross an' go on 
 
 her daily way. 
 Repeating the "Promise," an' that God was good, for 
 
 they'd meet again some day. 
 
 An' now she is layin' across the hall, in the room where 
 our Robie laid. 
 
 An' over the fields in our buryin' ground there's bein' a 
 new grave made. 
 
 To-morrow, the big "Black Hearse" will come an' back 
 up to our dooryard gate. 
 
 Say neighbor, it's more'n I can stand, I know, to stay be- 
 hind and wait. 
 
 83 
 
"THE OLD FOLKS' CHRISTMAS WITH ROBIE." 
 
 The old man was weeping a stream of tears, he shook 
 
 like an aspen leaf, 
 The pent-up fountain of a broken heart was flowing 
 
 o'er with grief. 
 He bade me lead him across the hall, to the chamber 
 
 where she lay, 
 And as he gazed on the silent dead, all his tears were 
 
 wiped away. 
 
 And he stood like one who stands alone, 'mid the 
 
 shadows of the night, 
 With a far-off look on his ashen face, born of a radiant 
 
 light, 
 And a prayer to Heaven on his parted lips, and — ''Oh 
 
 mother, I come," he said. 
 Then swooning he fell by the winding sheet, and the 
 
 old man I held was dead. 
 
 84 
 
OLD TURKEY CREEK. 
 
 Talk about old Silver Creek er airy other stream, 
 
 I spec' they're mighty grand an' nice as any one could 
 
 dream, 
 But the stream that always struck me most is called 
 
 Old Turkey Creek, 
 'Way down below the county line, where the lime-stone 
 
 is so thick. 
 
 The headin' of it used to start 'way up on our old farm, 
 An' for all I know it starts there yet, but I'spose it aint 
 
 no harm — 
 In startin' out to mention fac's, although its quite a 
 
 trick 
 To tell jps' how the land does lay, 'way down on Turkey 
 
 Creek. 
 
 I've known old Turkey ever since I was a little chap, 
 
 An' every time it would take a spree it would wash out 
 our water gap. 
 
 An' pap an' I would slap her baok, jes' as if we didn't 
 care, 
 
 An' have hardly time to turn 'round an' she'd take an- 
 other tare. 
 
 I had been thinkin' 'bout goin' back sometime to that 
 
 old stream. 
 Pace up an' down its ragged banks an' see its waters 
 
 gleam. 
 
 85 
 
OLD TURKEY CREEK. 
 
 Why its waters ripplin* o'er the rocks would be music 
 
 to my ears, 
 An' see the dead leaves driftin' down like the driftin' of 
 
 the years. 
 
 So one hazy Hunday afternoon, last fall, I took my bike. 
 
 An' started out to take a ride, an' went spinnin' down 
 the pike. 
 
 The air was fine, the roads jes' grand, my wheel in per- 
 fect tune. 
 
 I tell you, now, that afternoon the sun went down too 
 soon. 
 
 I went straight north to the old cross-roads, where an' 
 
 old beech used to grow. 
 An' on by the school house on the hill, where I've 
 
 tramped through mud and snow, 
 Down past the church an' the old grave yard, where I 
 
 hope to lay some day, 
 Then on 'round east to the county line, my wheel jes' 
 
 knowed the way. 
 
 The roads were just a little rough up that 'er old county 
 
 line, 
 But my bike it always understands me an' we made 
 
 the trip jes' fine. 
 One more holler in the road, an' then I'de take my fill 
 Of drinkin' in the landscape of our old farm o'er the hill. 
 
 I soon was cuttin' 'cross the fields with rapid paces 
 
 quick, 
 An' it wasn't very long until I*s way down on Turkey 
 
 Creek, 
 
 86 
 
OLD TURKEY CREEK. 
 
 With its waters rollin' at my feet, an' on the current's 
 
 breast, 
 The autumn leaves a driftin' down to their long, long 
 
 rest. 
 
 Oh, I have had some high old times down this old rocky 
 
 stream. 
 An' when I get to thinkin' back the years seem like a 
 
 dream. 
 There's one thing, sure. I won't forget as long as I can go, 
 But I ain't agoin' to mention names for then I know. 
 
 you'd know. 
 
 But one time we had visitin' us a boy an' girl from town, 
 An' my! what fun we ust to have of jes' a tarein' roun' 
 That boy would try to climb the barn an' walk the pick- 
 et fence, 
 He acted like (come purt nigh sayin') he hadn't any 
 sense. 
 
 We took a stroll 'way down, one day, the creek to go a 
 
 swimmin', 
 Jes' scooted out, an' soon was gone away from girls an' 
 
 wimin'. 
 We dived an' swum, an' splashed an' splashed, an' made 
 
 an' awful fuss, 
 But suddenly we heard the girls, an' they were huntin' 
 
 us. 
 
 The reason that we scooted out, without any of 'em 
 
 knowin', 
 Was because they's all ways follern' roun', no matter 
 
 where we's goin', 
 
 87 
 
OLD TURKEY CREEK. 
 
 But we ducked our heads as quick as wink, was quiet as 
 
 a mouse, 
 I guess they saw us, (took the hint) an' went back to 
 
 the house. 
 
 Such scenes as these an' others came to me that Sunday 
 
 afternoon, 
 As I wandered down Old Turkey Creek, an' the time 
 
 has flown so soon, 
 For five long years have passed an' gone since I stood 
 
 by this old stream. 
 Oh, the years have come and gone so quick, an' it all 
 
 seems like a dream. 
 
 An' the creek will still flow on an' on, down o'er its 
 
 rocky bed. 
 An' other boys will play up an' down its banks when I 
 
 am dead. 
 The home folks all are scattered now, some sleep their 
 
 last, long sleep. 
 I said, "Good by. Old Turkey Creek, I go away to weep." 
 
 88 
 
A FEBRUARY THAW. 
 
 It ought to be against the law 
 To have a February thaw. 
 
 The slush, the mud, the foggy air 
 Is nigh 'bout all that one can bear. 
 
 The only thing that gets release 
 
 Is noisy, squaking, spluttering geese. 
 
 It's then the shoats whose rings are out, 
 Play havoc with their dirty snout — 
 
 And turn up pastures inside out 
 Before you know what they're about. 
 
 And then there'll come a cold, wet rain, 
 A washing ditches down the lane. 
 
 And 'bout that time you'll haul some wood, 
 To keep the fires a going good. 
 
 There's always something sure to do 
 To keep a "feller" in a stew. 
 
 Oh! mud knee deep, oh! wind that's raw, 
 Oh! blessed February thaw — 
 
 Down from the north bring cold and sleet. 
 Or from the south some fire and heat. 
 
 Yes sir, it ought to be against the law 
 To have a February thaw. 
 
 89 
 
SONG TO THE NEW YEAR (1900). 
 
 And now another New Year's greeting 
 
 Once again is borne along, 
 And old friends clasp hands when meeting, 
 
 With a happy New Years' song. 
 
 But the new year h^.s no story, 
 
 Or no song that it may sing, 
 It must wait its crowning glory. 
 
 Or the misery it will bring. 
 
 But to-day a shadow's creeping, 
 O'er the new year black as night, 
 
 And its eyes are red with weeping, 
 Scarce before they see the light. 
 
 Like a sad funeral death march. 
 Moans the wind o'er barren hill, 
 
 Like Beethoven's mighty death march, 
 Will one's soul with horror fill. 
 
 For our own beloved country, 
 Wageing war on a far off shore, 
 
 And our boys in that strange country, 
 Some perhaps will see home more. 
 
 Oh, this war's no idle tell tale, 
 
 Though its on a far off shore, 
 When they leave old home and set sail 
 
 On to heathen lands of gore. 
 
 90 
 
SONG TO THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 War's a demon, and it shatters 
 
 All our bright futurities, 
 And it strikes with death and scatters 
 
 Further all impurities. 
 
 Ob, the orphans' sad condition, 
 
 Crying for their daily bread ; 
 And the widow's pleading mission, 
 
 All her hopes lie with the dead. 
 
 And old England now is fighting, 
 
 Fighting in a bloody war. 
 Hear the world's voice all uniting 
 
 In the tumult and the jar. 
 
 All uniting in a chorus, 
 
 For a quiet and a peace ; 
 And whate'er may come before us, 
 
 Pray this cruel war may cease. 
 
 But here comes the world's peace conference, 
 
 In old Holland at the Hague. 
 We declare that in this conference 
 
 That we'll stop this mighty plague. 
 
 Thirty nations represented 
 In that grand and mighty throng, 
 
 And they met and all assented 
 That this hellish war is wrong. 
 
 Met and called it federation 
 Of the world's great mighty clan, 
 
 Representing every nation, 
 And a parliament of man. 
 
 91 
 
SONG TO THE NEW YEAR. 
 
 Still goes on the world's bombardment, 
 
 And the universal peace: 
 In the din of discontentment, 
 
 Has not caused the war to cease. 
 
 'Tis for this, new years weeping, 
 And its young heart's sick and sore. 
 
 God alone doth have the keeping 
 Of all nations evermore. 
 
 92 
 
THE TRAIN FOR HOME. 
 
 (Suggested by the remarks of an old man.) 
 
 O, glorious sunset of a golden day, 
 Calm, peaceful night with thy silver start 
 In the dim, eternal silence, let me hear 
 The coming of my home train from afar. 
 
 Adown the steep and rugged path of life, 
 I've traveled far, yet cannot find the way, 
 Beyond the utmost of the purple hills 
 And farther on into the dying day. 
 
 Yet the path will end and I shall stand 
 Where dusty travelers no more shall roam, 
 'Way down the graded track, around the curve. 
 There'll flash the head light of my train for home. 
 
 Ah! when I hear the rumbling of its wheels, 
 I pray you'll neither weep for me nor moan, 
 Only a hand clasp and a sweet farewell. 
 When I at last shall take the train for home. 
 
 93 
 
THE OLD ORGAN. 
 
 Don't I remember though, when first we met, 
 
 In the golden sunny days of long ago, 
 Old organ? when yoa and I were young — and yet, 
 
 The time will come when we must part, I know. 
 
 But still, I through the changing scenes of years. 
 Sit dreaming now as one who only sees 
 
 And hears of days gone by. Through calm and fear 
 My fingers wander o'er thy yellow keys. 
 
 Old organ, thy tones are sweeter now to-day, 
 Then ever yet before — and me, ah me! 
 
 How sometimes I have wandered far away, 
 But gladly would I turn and come to thee. 
 
 For other hands, now cross a pulseless breast. 
 Whose skillful fingers, in days gone by. 
 
 Have touched thy magic chords — but now at rest, 
 But yet you are still left, and so am I. 
 
 And when in darker hours sometimes would you 
 
 Pour out a soothing melody to me, 
 And gently lead me on and on and through. 
 
 Until the silver lining I would see. 
 
 Or in joyful moods, when the world was bright. 
 And not a cloud of sorrow dimed my sky. 
 
 Would you respond with touch so quick and light, 
 That I heeded not the moments going by. 
 
 94 
 
THE OLD ORGAN. 
 
 For many years you've stood there — and I know 
 They say you're old and somewhat out of date, 
 
 But your chords to me are just as sweet and low 
 As the crooning dove, a cooing for its little mate. 
 
 Don't I remember though, when first we met 
 In the golden summer days of long ago, 
 
 Old organ? when you and I were young — and yet 
 The time will come when wo must part I know. 
 
 95 
 
TO THE POETS OF INDIANA. 
 
 (Written on reading the poems from Indiana poets.) 
 
 O, ye Indiana poets, 
 Ah, how blithe the songs you sing. 
 Mount you up in flight and onward, 
 Like the sparrow on tlie wing. 
 For your genius hath the power 
 Which the earth can never tame; 
 Earn the glory that awaits you 
 With an everlasting fame. 
 
 Scatter gems among the masses, 
 E'en your diamonds in the rough; 
 Flash your bright, transparent crystals, 
 For all trutli — against rebuff, 
 Let the odors from your censor 
 Drift out on the morning air. 
 And to hearts bowed down in sorrow, 
 It may find a lodgement there. 
 
 Wield your pens like pearls that glisten, 
 'Round the neck of fleeting years. 
 It will sound through all the ages. 
 Like sweet music of the spheres. 
 Wield them for our groves and meadows, 
 Wield them for our native hills. 
 For the sky so blue above us. 
 And the brook with laughing rills. 
 
 Cast your pebbles on life's ocean. 
 Waves impel from shore to shore 
 
 96 
 
TO THE POETS OF INDIANA. 
 
 It with wid'ning circles breaking 
 On some strand forevermore. 
 Paint your speaking pictures plainly, 
 Frame them in with nature's art. 
 From the fountains of emotion 
 Springs such poems from the heart. 
 
 Ah, no golden sun shines ever 
 Fairer o'er this vast estate, 
 Than it does on Indiana — 
 Indiana, thou art great; 
 And, ye poets, I would gladly 
 Swell the chorus with my lays; 
 Here's to you, my sister, brother, 
 Please accept this note of praise. 
 
 97 
 
OLD NUMBER ONE. 
 
 (Respectfully dedicated to the old time pupils.) 
 
 O, the days gone by at Old Number one 
 
 School house still a standin' an' a lookin' at the sun, 
 All the scholars scattered, ah, some are laid to rest, 
 
 A few still are livin' here, an' some are in the west. 
 But us that's left are trampin' t'wards the setin' of the 
 sun. 
 
 That ust to go to school at Old Number One. 
 
 O, the days gone by, at Old Number One, 
 
 Cutin' 'cross the meadow after all the chores are done. 
 Climbin' over fences an' a wadin' through the snow — 
 
 Goin' back to school again, 'cause we had to go. 
 Hear the bell a ringin', then we'd all break an' run — 
 
 For we never must be tardy, at Old Number One. 
 
 O, the days gone by at Old Number One, 
 Comes a risin' up before me like the bright mornin' 
 sun. 
 I see the scholars setin' there with their books an' slate. 
 An' the teacher with his whiskers an' his bald, shiney 
 pate. 
 Had to learn our lessons or you bet there'd be some fun. 
 When we all went to school at Old Number One. 
 
 O, the days gone by at Old Number One, 
 'Twas the best institootion that ever was begun, 
 
 Teachin' all the branches an' a stickin' to the rule. 
 Put out the finest scholars that ever went to school. 
 
 98 
 
OLD NUMBER ONE. 
 
 I have a right to say so, 'cause I'se there when it was 
 done, 
 For I ust to go to school at Old Number One. 
 
 O, the days gone by, at Old Number One. 
 
 Talk of Willie Shakespear or George Washington, 
 The world has sung its praises, of their deeds both great 
 an' small. 
 Yet, with fame in all its glory, they'd be no one at all — 
 If they hadn't got down to business like we did (instead 
 of fun) 
 When we all went to school at Old Number One. 
 
 O, the days gone by, at Old Number One, 
 
 From the risin' in the east, to the setin' of the sun; 
 From the balmy land of flowers, to the artics cold an' 
 drear. 
 There's not another spot on earth to me, that's half so 
 dear. 
 If ever I'm remembered by the works which I have 
 done. 
 They'll point you back with glory to old number 
 
 ONE. 
 
 O, the days gone by, at Old Number One. 
 How the years are passin'! still the scholars go an' 
 come. 
 How I wish in my sorrow, I could tramp through mud 
 an' snow. 
 An' go there to school again, like I ust to go. 
 But won't we have a happy time, when we the race have 
 run, 
 An' we all meet again, from Old Number One. 
 LoFC. 
 
 99 
 
OLD NUMBER ONE. 
 
 O, the days gone by, at Old Number One, 
 School house still a standin' an' a lookin' at the sun. 
 
 All the scholars scattered, ah, some are laid to rest, 
 A few are still a livin' here, an' some are in the west; 
 
 But U9 that's left are trampin' t'wards the setin' of the 
 sun. 
 That ust to go to school at Old Number One. 
 
 100 
 
FINIS. 
 
 Fast falls the gloaming tide on summer eve, 
 As tinted gleams of light die in the west, 
 
 Yon little songster's voice is sweet and low, 
 When all the busy world has sunk to rest. 
 
 The drooping shadows of an old joy returns, 
 Of perfect yesterdays — long years gone by, 
 
 And I hear again the old songs of yore — 
 With moonlight nights, and evening sky. 
 
 Oh ! the rare delights — the old life again. 
 The drift of perfume from the harvest fields, 
 
 And the evening star, and those evening bells, 
 With a mellow chime, sweet music yields. 
 
 The old life again as the twilight falls. 
 Strange memories of the heart within, 
 
 The call of the night-bird in the gloom 
 O'er the wreck and the ruin of what might have 
 been. 
 
 101 
 
FARMER TOMPSON'S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE 
 
 GITY. 
 
 Whoa-haw, here Dan ! That's it now; come 'round 
 kind 'of side ways an' gfit your feet out of the traces. 
 Well, says I, I guess I'm little excited an' hollered at 
 old Dan louder'n common. 
 
 John an' I had been plowin' all day, a real, long, hot 
 day at that, an' this was the last 'round in the evenin'. 
 It was 'long the 'fore part of September an' we had had 
 no rain for nigh two months, that is to speak of. So we 
 had been talkin' the matter over for several days, John 
 an' I, 'bout waitin' for rain 'afore we plowed any more; 
 an' more'n that, John an' Sarah had been coaxin' at 
 mother an' me to take a little recreation an' git away 
 from the work, or in other words, they wanted us to go 
 to the city on a pleasure trip. 
 
 Mother said the weather was too awful hot for her 
 to undertake it, but says she, "I want you to go Dave 
 for you haint been to the city goin' nigh on twenty-five 
 years." Well, I studied over the matter an' concluded 
 to go. So I guess that is the reason old Dan got his feet 
 out of the traces. Now. I am not much of a writer, for 
 it haint in my line of business, but I have this much to 
 say 'It-out the matter, an' that is this: When I have 
 anything to tell, I can tell it, an' when I have anything 
 to write, I can write it; I always did pride myself on 
 that. John says, ''if I could spell as good as I can write 
 I would be right in it," whatever that means. O, well — 
 I always did take to it kind-o natural, an' there's where 
 the success of me tellin' anything lays. So here goes 
 
 102 
 
FARMER TOMPSON'S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 the story 'bout my pleasure trip to the city. — but afore I 
 begin to tell you 'bout this trip, I want to say a word or 
 two in regard to farmers takin' these city visits. You 
 know you often pick up a newspaper an' read an account 
 of some old "hay seed" (as they are most generally 
 called) an' his wife a visitin' in the city, an' how, when 
 at the hotel, they'll pour their coffee out in their saucer, 
 eat with their knife, keep passin' the victuals 'round the 
 table, blow out the gas when they go to bed, an' a thous- 
 and other things that is of no earthly importance what- 
 ever. Well, sir; you sift the thing down an' you'll find 
 out the whole shootiu' match is a con-cocked false mis- 
 representation, gotten up by some soft, mushy, flaxin 
 hair'u reporter, to fill up a blank space for some daily 
 he is workin' on. Now, that's a fact; I tell you what — 
 farmers have got more good, common hoss sense, an' 
 manners, too, furs that's concerned, than one half of the 
 city people. Take f instance — but hold — I'm gitin' way 
 out of the furrie the first round. Let's see; where was 
 I? Oh, yes! I left off where I says, "so here goes the 
 story." Well, the next mornin' found me boardin' the 
 train 'bout seven o'clock, an' I knowed the way the sun 
 felt that she was goin' to be a scorcher that day, but I 
 thought if other people could stan' it to travel I could 
 too. I had on a bran new collar, an' afore the train had 
 got fifteen miles from the station it had collapsed. Now 
 I remember, when I'se a boy, how mother ust to ring 
 my sock in real cold water, when I had the sore throat, 
 an' slap it 'round my neck, which would make the cold 
 chills gallop up an' down my back. So here I am, goin' 
 to the city on a pleasure trip with a wet sock tied 'round 
 my neck. No sir; I couldn't endure it, an' off she comes. 
 Of course I left on my necktie, for I didn't want to jam 
 IT in my pocket too, an' muss it all up, for I had bought 
 
 103 
 
FARMER TOMPSON'S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 that article new also for the occaision; an' besides that, 
 I knowed it wouldn't do to take off everything just be- 
 cause I was gitin' a little hot under the collar. 
 
 The first thing I noticed after 'rivin' at the depot was 
 little cards stuck up all 'round, tellin' you not to spit on 
 the floor. Well, I thought that was all proper an' right, 
 but imagine my surprise when, on getin' outside the big 
 shed, I saw the same notice, ''No spitin' allowd on the 
 sidewalks." Well! I thought, "when you air in Rome 
 you haft to do as Rome does," an' accordingly, I went 
 way out in the middle of the street and throwed away 
 a good chaw of tobaker. I also thought probably it 
 might be against the constitution and by-laws of the 
 blamed town for a feller to get sweaty, so I took off my 
 coat an' carried it on my arm, an act I was glad to per- 
 form. Goin' up street 'bout half a square, I come on to 
 a place where they had a lot of singin' m'chines, an' 
 seein' several people dropin' nickles in the slot, then 
 putin' a rubber tube in their ears, would stan' there 
 laughin' fit to kill. Well, I always was quite fond of 
 music, an' things I, I'll just stay here until I'm full of 
 it, if it cost me two nickles. Getin' out my money an' 
 dropin' her in, I placed the tubes to my ears, an' the 
 first thing I knowed some big mouth rascal was beller- 
 in' in my ears, ''Grandmother Jones' First Ride in a 
 Railway Couch." Well, I thought that was a good sub- 
 ject for a song, but couldn't see for the life of me why 
 they air always pickin' on the old folkes, an' like as any 
 way it will turn out to be some old farmer's wife. But 
 bless your life; it wasn't a song, not a bit of it, but in- 
 stead, it was 'bout old Grandmother Jones goin' to visit 
 her daughter, who lived seventy-five miles away, an' 
 it bein' her first ride on the cars, she had the misfor- 
 tune of bein' on a train wich met with a headend col- 
 
 104 
 
FARMER TOMPSON S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 lision, killin' a half a dozen passengers an' woundin' as 
 many more; but the conductor was spared an' so was 
 Grandmother Jones, an' as he went through the only 
 coach left standin' on the track, he accidentally found 
 the old lady jammed down under one of the seats. He 
 kindly helped her up an' was 'bout to ask her if she was 
 hurt, when she says, "Please, Mr. Conductor, tell me 
 when you air goin' to stop at the next station so as I 
 can kind-o brace my feet a little" — an' he just went on 
 till I just finally left the blasted m'chine with its big, 
 loud mouth fool still tellin' all 'bout Grandmother 
 Jones' first trip on a railway train, wich I knowed the 
 whole thing, from A to Izzard, was a genuine invented 
 lie. Yes, sir; I got right out of there, you bet, for I'se 
 afraid the next m'chine I tackled would tell 'bout some 
 old farmer visitin' in the city. 
 
 Well, as I went on up the street, carryin' my coat on 
 my arm, I met a feller that stoped me an' wanted to 
 know '*how all the folkes was;"' an' I told him theys 
 well as common when I left home, but says I, you'r 
 ahead of me; an' says he, "don't get crankey, now, old 
 man, I didn't mean any harm by askin'. On a visit, I 
 spose?" Well, yes, says I; sort'^^r. "Goin' to be in town 
 over night?" That's the kakalation. "Well," says he, 
 "you're jest the feller I'm lookin' for. I'm a stranger 
 here myself, an' if you've no objection, we'll take in the 
 town togf ther." I told him I'd consider the matter an' 
 would see him later. Then I walked on up street; but 
 he hollered at me to "hold on! an'," says he, "where will 
 you meet me at?" An', says I, O, most any place, an' 
 jest kept goin' on. Wei], I may look like a tarnation 
 green country Jake, but I'm not to be taken in for a 
 sucker on no such a little game as that. 
 
 The next move for mo was to hunt up a room, or I 
 
 105 
 
FARMER TOMPSON's PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 might say, a bed. Seein' a cop standin' on the corner, I 
 went up and shook hands with him, an' told him who I 
 was, an' that I wasn't no bum, for I owned a quarter sec- 
 tion of as fine a land as there was in our county, an' had 
 it all paid for to boot, an' says he, "You don't say!" 
 Then says I, I want a little infermation from you, an' 
 asked him if he could site me to a good boardin' house, 
 or hotel, where I could get a night's lodgin', and he 
 pointed crost the street an' told me I would be 'coma- 
 dated if I'd go over and state my case, wich I accordinly 
 did. Weil, I made a trade with the landlord, and after 
 writein' my name in a big book and where I'se from, he 
 asked me if he should show me my room. I told him I 
 would just as leave look at it as not, an' see how it 
 would suit me. He got the key an' told me to foller. 
 We kept agoin' until we was up in the fourth story; 
 then we went 'long a hall until we come to room Num- 
 ber 15, wich was the one consigned to me. Bein' kindo 
 fergitful,! got out my day book an' wrote down the 
 number of my room, for I didn't want to git in any 
 trouble by tryin' my key on somebody else's apartments 
 (of course through a mistake) wich I possibly might 
 have done. As for my quarters, everything looked very 
 home like, 'cept the gas jet an' coal grate, an' a few 
 other things too tedious to mention. It lacked only an 
 hour of noon, so I thought I'd set down an' cool off till 
 dinner time, an' kindo map out my route for the after- 
 noon, but one thing kept worryin' me as I set there, an' 
 that was, I'se 'fraid I'de come in to go to bed, tired an' 
 sleepy, an' would fergit an' blow out the gas. Then a 
 thought struck me, an' I tore a leaf out of my day book 
 an' wrote these words: "Old man, don't fergit yourself 
 an' blow out the gas to-night," then I tied it to the gas 
 jet an' felt much releaved. In lookin' round for a nail 
 
 106 
 
FARMER TOMPSON'S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 to hang up my coat an' hat, I spied a place beside the 
 door that I supposed was for that purpose, an' pickin' 
 up the aboved named articles from off the bed, I pre- 
 ceeded to hang them up. Well, I found it to be a little 
 wooden knob, 'bout two inches in diameter, with a nail 
 drove in the center, but, as I quickly perceived, some 
 devilish roomer had driven the nail so far in that I 
 couldn't have hung my bandana handkerchief on it. I 
 got out my pocket knife an' tryed to draw the nail a 
 little, for it seemed to be loose, but it wasn't any use; I 
 had to give it up. But 'bout that time I caught sight of 
 enough hooks on the right hand side of the door to 
 hang up all the clothes I had on. This I come very 
 near doin', for I was most dreadful hot. Well, time 
 passed on, an' I was just beginin' to think 'bout goin' 
 down stairs an' hunt up a restaurant, for it was just 'bout 
 my grub time, an' that's something I'm always very 
 punctial in. I had just reached up for my hat when 
 there came a loud rap on my door. Well ! thicks I, I'm 
 going to have company, I reckon, an' goin' back by the 
 window and slipin' on my jacket and trousers, I says, 
 come in! The door knob begin to twist an' rattle, an' I 
 thought I heard some one use a cuss word out side in 
 the hall, when I suddenly remembered that I had 
 locked the door, an' I says, hold on out there! wait till I 
 unlock the door 'fore you come in. Then I turned the 
 key an' opened the door, an' there stood a young striplin' 
 with bib an' tucker on, holdin' a great big waiter of 
 things to eat. Course I was surprised an' didn't say 
 any tning at first, but after I recovered, I says, well, what 
 is it, young man? an' says he, "your dinner, please." 
 My dinner! How'd you know I wanted any dinner? 
 ''See here, old man! This is getin' confounded heavy," 
 says he, ''an' if you'll please pull that stan' little this 
 
 107 
 
FABMER TOMPSON S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 way an' releave me of this load, I'll be ever so much 
 oblige to you." Oh! put her down on the floor if you 
 want to, says I — I didn't tell you to bring me any dinner. 
 "The devil you didn't! What did you ring for then?" 
 Ring! What in the thunder would I ring? See here! 
 young man, I think you'r in the wrong pew, but beings 
 you've brought the grub up here, what is it worth? says 
 I. "50 c's for the dinner an' 50 c's for the wine — just 
 even $1.00, please." Now, I know you'r mistaken, says I. 
 What in the fire would I want with wine? I don't 
 drink. "I tell you," says he, "there was five rings from 
 Number 16, fourth floor — two rings for a bottle of wine 
 an' three rings for one square meal. Look up there, old 
 man, above the grate. You see that card?"' I fished in 
 my jacket pocket for my glasses, an' went crost the 
 room, an' this is what I read: One ring — pitcher of 
 water; two rings — one bottle of wine; three rings — one 
 square meal. Yes sir, says I, but where's the bell I was 
 supposed to have rung? an' says he, "right here, before 
 your nose, an' you rung it, too." Says I, lets hear you 
 ring it. "Why, blame it, m.an, where you from, anyway?" 
 says he; "don't you know that is an electric bell? 
 an' is connected by wire to where we take orders, an' 
 this order, setin' here on the floor, is yours, an' you'll 
 oblige me greatly if you'll settle, for I have others that 
 are waitin' on me." Well, says I, I'se a foolin' with 
 that thing while ago, for 1 thought it was a place to 
 hang up my hat an' coat, an' that little button there I 
 thought was a nail driv in, that by some means or other 
 had been driven in too far, so I took my pen knife an' 
 tryed to draw it a little, so as I could hang up my hat 
 an' coat, an' 'bout that time I saw tl em hooks there an* 
 used them, an' thought no more 'bout it. Say! There 
 haint any wire connected with them, are they? "See 
 
 108 
 
FARMER TOMPSON'S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 here, old man!" says he, "as I told you a moment ago, 
 they are other orders waiting to be delivered; pay me 
 for yours, for I'm in a hurry." Well, says I, bein's 
 you've brought it up here, I'll pay you a quarter for it, 
 for you know as well as I do, I can go 'crost the street 
 an' buy all I can eat for 15 cents, an' as for the wine, you 
 can take it back, for I have no use for it. "Not if you 
 was President of United States," say he, "for I have my 
 orders from headquarters an' I think I know the rules 
 of this house 'bout as well as the next one." Well, sir! 
 I'se getin' purty well worked up, an' grabin' my hat, I 
 started for the stairs, but stoped ; an', says I, where is 
 the ram-rod — or, I mean, the landlord of this hotel? 
 ''No use to see him!" says he; but I paid no attention, 
 an' went on down stairs. I found him in his office and 
 explained the whole matter to him, an' all he said was, 
 "Can't help it, old man; the order must be paid for." 
 See here, says I, if you'll pay me back my money, I'll 
 hunt other quarters. "Well," says he, "as for you hunt- 
 in' other quarters, you are at perfect liberty to do so, 
 but as for payin' back your money, I shall keep that for 
 that bill of fare you ordered." All right, says I, the 
 price of that room will never break me up, an' who 
 knows but what that dollar of mine will keep you from 
 goin' to the wall, an' so sayin' I went out on the street, 
 on the hunt of another location. My ! but I was hot. 
 
 Well, I hadn't gone very far until I begin to realize 
 that I had had no dinner yet, so the first place I smelt 
 grub I went in. It was then about half past 12 o'clock, 
 an' I thought to myself, here's the place to get a good 
 square meal reasonable, for says I, so many people 
 wouldn't be here at these tables eatin' if everything 
 wasn't o. k. 
 A young lady standin' on tother side of the counter 
 
 109 
 
FARMER TOMPSON S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 asked me what I wished the minute I stept my foot in- 
 side the door, an' says I, what do you tax a feller here 
 for a good general purpose meal? "Square meal you 
 mean, sir?" an' says I, well yes I s'pose that's 'bout it. 
 "25 cents," says she. Let's have her says I. Then she 
 hollered out loud 'nough for everybody in the house to 
 hear, ''One square meal," an' she told me to go back an^ 
 set down, an' I'de be waited on. 
 
 Well, I took off my hat an' went trampin' down the 
 isle on either side of which was men, wimmen, chairs 
 an' tables, must have been at the least kakalation 30 or 
 40 people, all feedin' themselves, 'bout like you would 
 a threashin machine, an' makin' lust as much noise, but 
 when I got back as far as I could go, I couldn't find no 
 place to be seated, an' I just kind o' stood round waitin* 
 for something or some one to give me little inferma- 
 tion. I thought I heard some one snigger, but 'bout 
 that time a young lady comes 'long and says, "This way 
 sir, please." I turned round, an' I gum, if she didn't set 
 me down at the same table, wher there was a young 
 lady setin', with a great big hat on one side of her head, 
 trimmed up in white feather;s — an' gold glasses, that 
 clamped over her nose — watch an' chain, finger rings, 
 an' — gee wilikers how she smelt of perfumery, an' 
 thinks I to myself, what if Liza should step in now. 
 Then I thought of a song my daughter ust to play an' 
 sing on the organ, sompin' 'bout there bein' a hot time 
 in the old town to-night. 'Bout the time such thoughts 
 as these were runnin' through my old noggin, in came 
 a nother young lady, one that I hadn't seen afore, for it 
 seemed the whole establishment was run by gals, bearin' 
 a big waiter of dinner, an' makin' a bee line for my 
 table, or I might say our table an' begin to arrange the 
 eatables in systematic order. Well, I was glad of it, I 
 
 110 
 
FARMER TOMPSON'S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 tell you, for I was getin' most confounded hungry. 
 Why at home, we always have dinner at 11 o'clock 
 sharp, but it was then one o'clock flat. So I begin to 
 square myself an' fix to do the thing jastis, but I no- 
 ticed the waiter pushed most everything towards the 
 young lady, an' thinks I, thats bf cause she's kind-o 
 stuck up a little, but I'm not carein' much, so's I get the 
 knawin' in my stomach stopped. Havein' everything 
 arranged, but mostly on the young lady's side of the 
 house, she disappeared, and the young lady begun to 
 operate, an' so did I. I took out a piece of bread, but I 
 then discovered I hadn't no knife, fork or plate, why 
 bless your life, I hadn't anything to eat with at all, so I 
 just kind-o remarked to myself, that I guessed the 
 waiter had forgotten a few articles, an' a feller setin' at 
 the next table heard me, an' says, ''old man, if you want 
 the waiter, just rap on the table, an' she'll be right after 
 you." Weil I got out my pocket knife an' begin to ham- 
 mer on the table, an' all the time I saw that the young 
 lady was 'bout to bust, though I didn't know what for. 
 But in come the waiter in a jiffy, an' says I, (an' maybe 
 a little cross too, for I'se getin' hungryer every minute) 
 — you've forgot to give me, (an' here that highfalutin 
 giggly young idiot, if I must say it, snorted right in my 
 face), then says I, how do you expect a feller to eat his 
 dinner without knife, fors, plate or spoon? Then says 
 she, "I don't understan' you, sir." You don't eh? says I. 
 "No sir," says she. Well I want to know, says I, if a 
 portion of this grub don't belong to mt? An' says she, 
 "Oh, no, that's the lady's order, yours will be here in a 
 minute." The dickens it will, says I, why didu't you 
 say so. By that time purt nigh evrybody in the house 
 had their attention attracted by my loud talk an' was 
 snigerin' all around me. Thinks I, will I get out of here, 
 
 111 
 
FARMER TOMPSON S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 or stay? but by the time I could make up my miod, in 
 come my dinner, an' I come very near askin' the 
 blessin' right there I'se so tickled. "Have roast beef or 
 chicken?" says the w.^iter an' this took me so com- 
 pletely on surprise, that afore I knowed it, I says. Good 
 Lord! do I haft to wait till you cook me some meat? 
 ''No sir," says she, "got all ready for you, which will 
 you have?" Well, says I, it's way after my dinner time, 
 an' I'm outrageous hungry so I believe I'll take both if 
 you please. "All right," says she. "Tea or coffee?" was 
 the next question, an' says I, if the flavor haint all biled 
 out of it, an' it is good an' strong, why I'll take coffee. 
 I never could bear weak — but I Jacks she was gone, an' 
 I commenced business at last, not waiting for coffee or 
 meat or nothin' else. The young lady at our table fin- 
 ally got through an' I was real thankful she did, for she 
 just set there an' laughed and laughed, the whole en- 
 durin' time that I was waitin'. My meat and coffee was 
 soon on hand an' by the time I got down to it in real 
 dead earnest, the house was purty well clear'd. Well, 
 sir, if ever a feller got his monoys wuth, it was me, for I 
 think they were fixin to get supper afore I got away 
 that afternoon. It begin to 'pear to me that time was 
 slipin' away faster than I had noticed it was, aa' here I 
 am, — let's see, got here 'bout nine o'clock this mornin' 
 an' now it's a quarter of four, purt nigh seven hours in 
 town, an' haint seen nothin' you might say. Just got 
 my dinner, 'bout a half hour ago, an' haint even got a 
 place to stay all night yet. Seems to me I've been 
 bumpin' 'gainst stumps ever since I landed. I 'spect I 
 DID act little countryfide, back there at that restaurant, 
 'specially when I begin to help myself to that young 
 lady's dinner. Well, I'se honest 'bout it any way, I 
 had waited so long for my dinner that I was getin' little 
 
 112 
 
FARMER TOMPSON'S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 anxious, I guess, an' I couldn't see why they couldn't 
 make the one trip do, as well as to make two, but it 
 don't make any difference; that's all over with now, an' 
 I don't s'pose I'll ever see any of them people any more 
 no how. 
 
 All this I was thinkin' over as I walked along, goin' 
 — well, I didn't know where, for I wasn't payin' no atten- 
 tion — but 'bout this time, a boot black come along an' 
 says, "Shine, mister?" Well my boots did look little 
 tough, for I was in a hurry to catch the mornin' train, 
 an' I didn't have time to shine 'em. "Shine 'em up," 
 says he, "nick-a-shiue! nick-a-shine !" Nick a what? 
 says I. "Nickie a shine," says he. Go at it, says I, an' I 
 set down on the sidewalk an' let my feet hang over the 
 curb-stone. Go at it an' hurry up! "O, ring off, old 
 man! I'm not goin' to get down there in the gutter to 
 shine your boots. Come on here," says he, "I've got a 
 chair right here on the corner." Well, he went at it 
 like he meant busiuess, but my! how he could talk. 
 The first question he asked me was, "Where's your col- 
 lar, mister?" an' I told him it got so hot it all run to- 
 gether. Then says he, "That's a nice tie you got on, but 
 would look nicer yet with a collar." Never mind, 
 sonny, says I, 'bout my tie, you just go ahead there with 
 your job. He had just finished one boot to perfection, 
 an' I had just put up the tother one when he says, "say, 
 mister, why don't you ware a coat?" An' there I jumped 
 'bout ten feet, knockin' over the boy, chair, an' every- 
 thing else, landin' 'way out in the street. I'll be dog- 
 nabed, says I, where did I leave my coat? This is the 
 first I've missed it. Bub, I'm glad you mentioned it, an' 
 tossin' him a nickle, I started down street for that 
 blamed restruant agin. 
 
 Well I made a good deal better time on the return 
 
 113 
 
FARMER TOMPSON'S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 trip, than I did when outward bound. An' 'rivin' all 
 out of breath, I asked the landlady if she had seen any- 
 thing* of a speckled coat with dark grey buttons? She 
 said she hadn't. Well, I've lost one says I. "What 
 color did you say?" says she. Speck— or I mean dark 
 grey, with speckled buttons. "Don't think it's here, but 
 you can go back an' look for yourself." All right says I, 
 an' as I walked down the isle, I seen some of the gals in 
 the other room whisperin' an' then grin. I didn't care 
 though, for I was after my coat then 'bout as hot as I 
 was after grub an hour before. Well, I inquired of all 
 of 'em, an' they said they didnt think I had on any coat 
 when I come in, an' I told 'em I had been carryin' it on 
 my arm an' didn't know where I left it, an' they said 
 they didn't either. There was nothin' else to do but go 
 back to the hotel an' look for it there. This I didn't 
 like to do, but I'se bound to have my coat back again, 
 unless it had gone home an' left me, an' to be right hon- 
 est 'bout it, I wouldn't have cared if it had, an' me a fol- 
 lerin' after it. One thing kind-o worried me though, an' 
 that was this: It was gitin' long towards evenin' now, 
 an' me a bumpin' 'long the streets in my shirt sleeves, 
 with necktie on minus of a collar, an' only one boot 
 blacked. Thinks I, if ever I find that coat of mine I'll 
 settle down some place an' get things in runnm' order 
 'fore I venture out agin. I declare ! I was afraid the po- 
 lice would make a haul on me yet. But here I am 'fore 
 I knowed it. Now 1*11 find out 'bout my coat, for it 
 can't be anywhere else. 
 
 Good evening! says I, as I walked in, for there stood 
 the landlord right before me. I'm the fellow that was 
 here 'bout noon, you remember? "I think I do," says 
 he. Well, I left my coat up in room number 15 and 
 have come back to git it. "All right, sir," says he. "If 
 
 114 
 
FARMER TOMPSON'S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 you left your coat in number 15, 1 suppose it's there yet; 
 an' you are at liberty to go an' get it." Thank you! says 
 I, an' started for the stairs. "Hold on a minute!" says 
 he; ''there's a man an' his wife occupyin' No. 15, but you 
 can go to the door and tell them your mission." Thank 
 you! says I again. I wasn't long in climbin' the stairs, 
 but when I got up there, the light was so dim I couldn't 
 make out one number from tother, but I knowed 'bout 
 the location, an' so I would risk it. After iookin' and 
 strainin' my eyes, I knocked on the door an' waited. 
 Purty soon I heard the key turn; then the door opened, 
 an' there stood a young woman with her hair down all 
 over her shoulders. Excuse me, Mrs., says I, but is your 
 husband at home, or I mean, in the room? ''I have no 
 husband, sir; what is it you wish?' says she. Oh, I 
 thought you had ; well, excuse me, says I, but I left my 
 coat in your room to-day, 'bout noon, an' say! What 
 number is your room, anyu^aj? says I. "I think you'r 
 mistaken, old man," says she. "Sir! my room is num- 
 ber 16!"an' then she shut the door right in my face* 
 Golly! I was thankful Liza wasn't 'round some where a 
 watchin'me. Well, here goes agin, says I. 'Bound to 
 have that coat or bust. Howdydo, says I, as some big 
 fellow stood in the open door. "Well, Sir! What can I 
 do for you, old man?" says he. I left a dark, gray coat — 
 is this number 15? "It is, sir!" said he. Weil, I was 
 iiveiri' here 'bout noon to-day, an' when I moved, I for- 
 got to take my coat along. "Is this yours?" says he, 
 reachin' behind the door an' handin' me my coat. It is 
 for a fact, says I, an' I was so tickled that 'fore I knowed 
 what I was sayin' I asked him what the bill was. 
 "Bill!" says he, "there isn't any bill about it." Well, 
 says I, axcept my sincere thanks for your trouble an' 
 me recover! n' my lost property. I wanted to act or be 
 
 115 
 
FARMER TOMPSON'S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 grateful some way, an' I didn't know what else to say. 
 "That's all right," says he. ''Is there anything else?" I 
 said I guessed not, an' so he bid me good evenin' an' 
 closed the door. Well, maybe you think I didn't crawl 
 into that coat in a hurry. An' there was sompin else I 
 did, too. I buttoned her up clean to my chin an' didn't 
 take it off any more while in town, not even when I 
 went to bed that night, for I'se bound me an' the thing 
 would be one article thereafter. 
 
 Well, I was purty well knocked out, an' if there had 
 been a train goin' my way, I'd a went home that night, 
 but there wasn't. I went down stairs an' told the land- 
 lord I had got back my lost property, an' says he, "It 
 will never git away from you now, or at any rate as long 
 as you keep it buttoned up in that style." An' I told 
 him I didn't kakalate it would. I hated, the worst 
 kind to ask him for a nother room, but, as it was gitin' 
 late, an' I was so awful tired, I thought I would speak 
 'bout it any way an' find out. Well. I kind-o stood there 
 little bit, feelin' little awkward, an' turnin' 'round, I says. 
 Say! I reckon you couldn't let me have a nother room, 
 could you, that is if I would pay you for it? "I have 
 plenty rooms," says he, "an' that's my business." Well, 
 turn that big book 'round here an' I'll subscribe my 
 name agin. "Here's your key," says he, "No. 10, on third 
 floor," an' I planked down a nuther dollar. "Now," says 
 he, "you know the way. When you go to j^our room, 
 don't fool with the bell unless you desire somepiii, for," 
 says he, "if the bell rings from No. 10, third floor, some 
 one, whose duty it is, will immediately answer." All 
 right, says I, an' I then went out an' got a cup of coffee 
 and a sandwich, then burned over town 'bout two hours 
 without gitin' in a bit of trouble. 'Spec it was 9 o'clock 
 when I retired, an' when I went in my room, I didn't 
 
 IK) 
 
FARMER TOMPSON'S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 touch a thing but the bed. I woke next morning, 'bout 
 half past four, wich is my regular gitiu' up time, but I 
 didn't git up right away, for I thought it wasn't any use. 
 As I lay there, I thought of Liza, an' of John an' Sarah, 
 an' how, 'bout this time, they were all crawlin' out — the 
 wimmen folks gitin' breakfast an' John out with his 
 lantern a feedin' the stock, an', thinks I, the Lord willin', 
 by this time to-morrow mornin', I'll be with them, an' 
 as I lay there. I could hear the buzz of the street carsi 
 the crack of the driver's whip an' the clatter of bosses 
 hoofs on the stone streets below. Then I again thought 
 of home with its green fields, an' the old orchard with 
 its limbs just dragin' the ground, loaded with bushels 
 an' bushels of big, white and red apples, an' of my 
 bosses in their stalls an' the cattle in the pasture field, 
 an' I don't know what all I didn't think 'bout, an', says I 
 to myself, I wouldn't give up my quarter section of 
 land net for this whole city, an' I meant it, too. Well, 
 by this time, evrything was ratlety-bang, an' it seemed 
 to me the whole town was up, an' so I crawled out. 
 Thinks I, if I had a light, I'd put on my collar, but no 
 sir, I'm not going to touch a thing in this room. I 
 opened my room door an' there was a dim light hang- 
 in' in the hall. Then I went back in my room an' wash- 
 ed, combed my hair as best I could, (this is the only 
 thing I did touch) tlien stepped out into the hall agin an' 
 put on my collar. There, now, says I, if I had my other 
 boot blacked I'd look respectable 'nough, for all the 
 longer I will be in town. Let's see; my train leaves 
 half past 12, Well, I'm goin' out an' git some breakfast. 
 So sayin' I went down stairs. I poked my head in at 
 the office as I was passin' out, for I felt I ought to thank 
 'em for the accommodations, an' tell 'em if anybody 
 wanted Room No. 10, third floor, why, just let "em have 
 
 117 
 
FARMER TOMPSON'S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 it, for I was done with it. This I done, although the 
 landlord wasn't in, but one of his clerks was, an' I 'spose 
 it was just the same. I got my breakfast at a new res- 
 taurant an' didn't meet with any mishaps whatever. 
 By this time it was broad daylight, an' there was just 
 one place I wanted to see afore I left town, an' then I'se 
 ready to go home so far as I'se concerned, an' that was 
 the market. 
 
 I asked a police wich lane — or I mean wich street — 
 I should start out on to find Market St. He showed an* 
 explained to me so plain I beleaved I could have found 
 the place if I'd a been blind. 
 
 1 thought Ise gitin 'round purty early, but bless 
 your life, when I 'rived on the spot, there was 'bout one 
 whole square of carts, buggies and wagons backed up to 
 the sidewalks, with everything on earth that you con- 
 sume, for sale, an' the people, why I beleave the whole 
 town was there, crowdin', an' jamin', an' carryin' away 
 by the basketf uls. Where it all come from I'll never 
 tell you. No use to try to explain what all I saw. Veg- 
 tables! why they had everything on earth in the vega- 
 table line. Bome of it looked fresh, an' some of it look 
 purty wilty I tell you. 
 
 I sauntered 'long on market all forenoon, for there I 
 could see all the products from the farm, wich was quite 
 interestin' to me. I think it was 'bout 'ieven o'clock 
 that I saw the cops arrestin' a hobo or whatever they 
 call 'em, (we call 'em tramps in the country). He was 
 in the act of stealin' some plumbs that a feller had for 
 sale, (an' they were dandies I tell you), an' I happened 
 'long just 'bout that time an' saw him sneakin up the 
 front part of the wagon between the shafts, so I just in 
 a sly way, called the owner's 'tention to it. He jumped 
 Vound to the fore part of the wagon, just as the tramp 
 
 118 
 
FARMER TOMPSON'S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 started to run, but he fired 'way an' knocked him back- 
 wards clear under the wagon right in a big basket full 
 of 'em, an' there he set just a gobblen them down, nor 
 he didn't try to get out, for he was "right iu it,'' as the 
 sayin' is. This made the owner hotter than ever. He got 
 hold of the fellers leg and tryed to yank him out of the 
 basket, but he held on to the couplein'-poll with one 
 hand and kept stuffin hisself with the other. 'Bout that 
 time Mr. Policeman comes 'long an' got down an' give 
 him a rap on the head with his club, an' I tell you he 
 dumb out of there in a hurry. Just as he crawled out 
 on the sidewalk the cop nabed him an' started off. 
 
 Now the tramp had on a pair of pants, all covered 
 with patches, an' specially on the rear side 'bout where 
 he set down in that basket of plumbs. Well it seems as 
 though one of them big patches was riped opened at the 
 top, just 'bout so big — makein' a regular pocket don't 
 you know, an' when he crawled out from under that 
 wagon — if ever I told the truth in my life — blamed if he 
 didn't have at the least kakalation a quart of big nice 
 plumbs stickin' in that patch. Well, sir, as the cop went 
 marchin him down street, I thought it was the funniest 
 sight I ever saw, an' to make it still funnier yet, two 
 little bootblacks happened to spy 'em and proceeded to 
 go after them. They'd slip up real easy an' pick out a 
 plumb, au' eat it then go after a nother one. The tramp 
 tryed to look 'round to see what was goin' on, but the 
 policeman wouldn't let him. I'se follerin up all the 
 time, cause I thougnt it beat any circus I ever seed in 
 all my life. Finally the pile of plumbs begin to lower 
 a little so's they'd haft to reach in after 'em, an' by this 
 time the tramp was gitin tired of their racket, for he 
 didn't know what w!is goin" on, an' the cop had his 
 hands full to lead him along, an' didn't pay any atten- 
 
 119 
 
FARMER TOMPSON'S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 tion to the boys, for the tramp was pullin back all time 
 au' tryin to git away, but finally one of em went in after 
 a plumb, an' the tramp he just fired 'way and kicked 
 wickeder than any mule, but instead of kickin the boot- 
 blacks, he kicked the policeman right on the shin-bone, 
 wich fairly made him howl. He let go with one hand 
 to git his club, an' just then the tramp tore loose an' 
 went spinin down the street. 
 
 Then the fun commenced in earnest. I think that 
 big patch sprung a leak at the bottom, for every time 
 the tramp's off foot would come down, a plumb would 
 pop out of his pants leg, but 'way he went with two po- 
 lice now after him an' a half dozen newsboys an' boot- 
 blacks a follerin suit, pickin up the plumbs an' me 
 fetchin up the rear. Weil, sir, I thought I would die 
 right in my tracks. I was laughin so, 1 couldn't begin 
 to keep up, so I just grabed hold of a telephone poll an' 
 hooped an' hollerd an' waved my hat, an' just 'bout the 
 time I was tickled the hardest, some one taped me on 
 the shoulder, an' I looked round to see a cop standin' at 
 my side. I says Hello! an' says he ''Let go that poll an' 
 move on, an' be just a little more quiet if you please." 
 Says I, all right, an' then I looked at my watch an' 
 found out I had only fifteen minutes to git to the depot. 
 I started an' then I sloped, an' says I, say Boss, an' says 
 he, "Well, sir, what is it?" Then says I, This must be 
 the Holy City aint it? "Why so," says he. Cause, says 
 I, they don't allow a feller here to chaw terbacker, 
 touch anything, or laugh when he gits tickled, an' then 
 I. moved on. I got to the depot 'bout five minutes 'fore 
 train time, ate a lunch an' drank a cup of coffee. 
 
 'Fore very long I'se pullin out of the old town, an' 
 cutin 'crost the country for home. When the train 
 whistled for my station, I looked at my watch, an' 
 
 120 
 
FARMER TOMPSON S PLEASURE TRIP TO THE CITY. 
 
 noticed that I lacked just two hours of bein gone two 
 days. Course I found the folks all well at home an' 
 amazein glad to see me, 'specially Lfza. John talks of 
 goin next fall, an' if he does I think I can give him a 
 few pointers. 
 
 121 
 
INDEX. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 The Farmer'KS Saturday Night 8 
 
 To a Tiny Blootning Pot Plant 10 
 
 The Boy of Bi'enton Bay U 
 
 A Hoe'n in the Corn 14 
 
 'Long 'Bout the Month of June 16 
 
 If You Knew 18 
 
 When a Thunder Shower's Fallin' 19 
 
 A Dry Weather Poem 21 
 
 The Bloom was on the Lilac 23 
 
 'Way in the M ight 25 
 
 The Round of Life 26 
 
 The Tramp 27 
 
 The Departed 29 
 
 To a Hop-toad 32 
 
 Autumn 34 
 
 Longfellow 36 
 
 A Pen Picture of the Grip 37 
 
 M y Dear Old Home 38 
 
 When der Frost is on der Durnips 40 
 
 Oh, Happy Christmas Times 42 
 
 When the Leaves Get in the Trees 44 
 
 Lead Her but Kindly 45 
 
 The Farmer and His Farm 46 
 
 Benjamin Harrison 49 
 
 A Love Tale of Hoosierdom 50 
 
 "I Laughed and She Cried" 52 
 
 Gone By 53 
 
 The Day I Went to Mill 54 
 
 They Have Gone Abroad . 59 
 
 A Backward Spring 60 
 
 The Moon Eclipse 61 
 
 Back Again to School 62 
 
 Every Little Helps 64 
 
 Corn Husking Time 65 
 
 His Receipt 67 
 
 "Hot Biscuits and Tree Molasses" 68 
 
 West Fork of Old White Water 70 
 
 Signs of Rain 72 
 
INDEX. 
 
 The Dutchman and His Bike 73 
 
 Fat Man and the Jew ' 78 
 
 "The Old Folks Christmas with Robie" 80 
 
 Old Turkey Creek 85 
 
 A February Thaw 89 
 
 Song to the New Year (1900) 90 
 
 The Train for Home 93 
 
 The Old Organ 94 
 
 To the Poets of Indiana 96 
 
 Old Number One 98 
 
 Finis 101 
 
 Farmer Tompson's Pleasure Trip to the City 102 
 
 IBJL '05 
 
Ham Dav Poems. 
 
 J. MORRIS WIDDOWS. 
 
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