A PEN-PICTUR’

Most ontimely old man yit!

‘ Pear-like sometimes he jest tries

His fool-self, and takes the bitt

In his teeth and jest de-fies

All perpryties!— Lay and swet

Doin’ nothin’ — only jest

Sorto’ speckillatun on

Whare old summertimes is gone,

And‘ bout things that he loved best

When a youngster! Heerd him say

Springtimes made him thataway —

Speshully on Sund'ys — when

Sun shines out and in again,

And the lonesome old hens they

Git off under the old kern-

Bushes, and in deep concern

Talk-like to theyrselvs, and scratch

Kindo’ absunt-minded, jest

Like theyr thoughts was fur away

In some neghbor's gyarden-patch

Folks has tended keerfullest!

Heerd the old man dwell on these

Idys time and time again!—

Heerd him claim that orchurd-trees

Bloomin’, put the mischief in

His old hart sometimes that bad

And owdacious that he “had

To break loose someway,” says he,

“Ornry as I ust to be!”

Heerd him say one time — when I

Was a sorto’ standin’ by,

And the air so still and clear,

Heerd the bell fer church clean here!—

Said: “Ef I could climb and set

On the old three-cornerd rail

Old home-place, nigh Maryette’,

Swop my soul off, hide and tale!”

And-sir! blame ef tear and laugh

Did n't ketch him half and half!

“Oh!” he says, “to wake and be

Bare-foot, in the airly dawn

In the pastur’!— thare,” says he,

“Standin’ whare the cow's slep’ on

The cold, dewy grass that's got

Print of her jest steamy hot

Fer to warm a feller's heels

In a while!— How good it feels!

Sund'y!— Country!— Morning!— Hear

Nothin’ but the silunce — see

Nothin’ but green woods and clear

Skies and unwrit poetry

By the acre!... Oh!” says he,

“What's this voice of mine?— to seek

To speak out, and yit can n't speak!

“Think!— the lazyest of days” —

Takin’ his contrairyest leap,

He went on,— “git up, er sleep —

Er whilse feedin’, watch the haze

Dancin’‘ crost the wheat,— and keep

My pipe goin’ laisurely —

Puff and whiff as pleases me,—

Er I'll leave a trail of smoke

Through the house!— no one'll say

‘ Throw that nasty thing away!’

‘ Pear-like nothin’ sacerd's broke,

Goin’ bare-foot ef I chuse!—

I have fiddled;— and dug bait

And went fishin’;— pitched hoss-shoes —

Whare they could n't see us from

The main road.— And I've beat some.

I've set round and had my joke

With the thrashers at the barn —

And I've swopped‘ em yarn fer yarn!—

Er I've he'pped the childern poke

Fer hens’ - nests — agged on a match

‘ Twixt the boys, to watch‘ em scratch

And paw round and rip and tare,

And bust buttons and pull hair

To theyr rompin’ harts’ content —

And me jest a-settin’ thare

Hatchin’ out more devilment!

“What you s'pose now ort to be

Done with sich a man?” says he —

“Sich a fool-old-man as me!”