Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches. Riley James Whitcomb
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Название: Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches

Автор: Riley James Whitcomb

Издательство: Public Domain

Жанр: Поэзия

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СКАЧАТЬ in big pieces fer 'em all,

      Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delight

      As one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls,

      And they holler fer some more, with unquenched appetite.

      Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see 'em eat —

      A slice of wortermelon's like a frenchharp in theyr hands,

      And when they "saw" it through theyr mouth sich music can't be beat —

      'Cause it's music both the sperit and the stummick understands.

      Oh, they's more in wortermelons than the purty-colored meat,

      And the overflowin' sweetness of the worter squshed betwixt

      The up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth,

      And it's the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood mixed.

      Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away

      To the summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn,

      And the fadin' afternoon of the long summer day,

      And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the night a'comin' on.

      And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves and trees,

      And the stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silver mice,

      And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and knees,

      And the new-moon hangin' ore us like a yeller-cored slice.

      Oh! it's wortermelon time is a-comin' round again,

      And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me,

      Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin —

      Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.

      MY PHILOSOFY

      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

      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, СКАЧАТЬ