Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches. Riley James Whitcomb

      I ain't, ner don't p'tend to be,

      Much posted on philosofy;

      But thare is times, when all alone,

      I work out idees of my own.

      And of these same thare is a few

      I'd like to jest refer to you —

      Pervidin' that you don't object

      To listen clos't and rickollect.

      I allus argy that a man

      Who does about the best he can

      Is plenty good enugh to suit

      This lower mundane institute —

      No matter ef his daily walk

      Is subject fer his neghbor's talk,

      And critic-minds of ev'ry whim

      Jest all git up and go fer him!

      I knowed a feller onc't that had

      The yeller-janders mighty bad, —

      And each and ev'ry friend he'd meet

      Would stop and give him some receet

      Fer cuorin' of 'em. But he'd say

      He kindo' thought they'd go away

      Without no medicin', and boast

      That he'd git well without one doste.

      He kep' a-yellerin' on – and they

      Perdictin' that he'd die some day

      Before he knowed it! Tuck his bed,

      The feller did, and lost his head,

      And wundered in his mind a spell —

      Then rallied, and, at last, got well;

      But ev'ry friend that said he'd die

      Went back on him eternally!

      Its natchurl enugh, I guess,

      When some gits more and some gits less,

      Fer them-uns on the slimmest side

      To claim it ain't a fare divide;

      And I've knowed some to lay and wait,

      And git up soon, and set up late,

      To ketch some feller they could hate

      Fer goin' at a faster gait.

      The signs is bad when folks commence

      A-findin' fault with Providence,

      And balkin' 'cause the earth don't shake

      At ev'ry prancin' step they take.

      No man is grate tel he can see

      How less than little he would be

      Ef stripped to self, and stark and bare

      He hung his sign out anywhare.

      My doctern is to lay aside

      Contensions, and be satisfied:

      Jest do your best, and praise er blame

      That follers that, counts jest the same.

      I've allus noticed grate success

      Is mixed with troubles, more or less,

      And it's the man who does the best

      That gits more kicks than all the rest.

      When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock,

      And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock,

      And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens,

      And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

      O, its then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,

      With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,

      As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock,

      When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

      They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere

      When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here —

      Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,

      And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees;

      But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze

      Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

      Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock —

      When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

      The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,

      And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;

      The stubble in the furries – kindo' lonesome-like, but still

      A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;

      The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;

      The hosses in theyr stalls below – the clover overhead! —

      O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,

      When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

      Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps

      Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;

      And your cider-makin' 's over, and your wimmern-folks is through

      With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!..

      I don't know how to tell it – but ef sich a thing could be

      As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on me—

      I'd want to 'commodate 'em – all the whole-indurin' flock —

      When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

      "Little Haly! Little Haly!" cheeps the robin in the tree;

      "Little Haly!" sighs the clover, "Little Haly!" moans the bee;

      "Little