IN THE WRONG BOX

When Eagle Davis died,

I was sittin’ by his side,

’ Twas in Boston, Massachusetts; and he said to me, “Old boy!

This climate — as you see —

Isn’ t quite the size for me;

Dead or livin’, take me back if you can to Ellanoy!”

So I took him by the hand,

But he’ d just run out his sand,

And his breath was gone for ever — before a word would come;

Then I and other three

Together did agree

In a party for to travel and to funeralise him home.

But Goshen Wheeler said,

As he looked upon the dead,

Weepin’ mildly, “Just remark my observation what I say:

That deceased, now glorious,

Was in life a curious cuss,

And somethin’ unexpectable will happen on the way.

“Frum the time that he was born

Till he doubled round the Horn

Of Death, all his measurements and pleasurements were odd;

And odd his line will be,

As you’ re registered to see,

Till his walnut case is underneath the gravel and the sod.”

It was bitter winter weather

When we all four got together

At the depôt with the coffin in an extra packin’ box;

And a friend with good intent,

A cask of whisky sent,

Just to keep our boats from wrackin’, as they say, upon the rocks.

Then a ticket agent he

Seein’ mournin’, says to me,

“Can I get the cards, or help you in your trouble, Mister Brown?”

So with solemn words I said,

As I pinted to the dead,

“There you’ ll find, I guess, our pilgrimage and shrine is written down.”

Then all night beneath the stars

We sat grimly in the cars,

Sometimes sleepin’, sometimes thinkin’, sometimes drinkin’, till the dawn;

And each man went in his turn

To the baggage-crate to learn

If the box was keepin’ time with us, and how’ twas gettin’ on.

Then all day beneath the sun

Still the train went rushin’ on,

While we still kep’ as silent as grave-stones as we went:

Playing euchre solemnly,

Which we kinder did agree

With the stakes to build for Davis a decent monument.

’ Bout once in every mile

Some mourner took a smile,

But we did no other smilin’ as we travelled day or night;

And once in every hour

Some one went into the bower,

And reported the receptacle of Davis was all right.

But when four days were past,

Which we still were flyin’ fast,

Goshen Wheeler, very solemn, with expression to us cries,

“Where we are it should be freezin’

And our very breaths a-squeezin’,

Whereas the air is hot enough to bake persimmon pies.

“Don’ t you smell a rich perfume

As of summer flowers in bloom?

’ Tis magnolias a-peddled by yon humble coloured boy:

Now, I never yet did know

That the sweet mag-no-li-o

Grew in winter in the latitude of Northern Ellanoy.”

Then said Ebenezer Dotton,

“I behold a field of cotton,

And I wonder how in thunder such a veg’ table got here.

I don’ t know how we’ re fixed,

But the climate’ s getting mixed,

And it’ s spilin’ very rapidly with warmness as I fear.”

Spoke Mister Aaron Bland,

“I perceive on yonder land

That sugar-cane is bloomin’, correctly, all in rows,

And not to make allusions

To Republican delusions,

But the niggers air a-gettin’ all around as thick as crows.”

Still we sat there mighty glum

Till along a fellow come.

And I says, says I, “Conductor, now tell us what it means,

Just inform us where we be?”

“Wall, now, gentlemen,” said he,

“I reckon we air comin’ to the spot called New Or-leéns!”

So we rushed all in a row,

When we got to the depôt,

To the baggage-crate, a-wonderin’ at these transformation scenes;

And we found out unexpected

That the box had been directed

Not unto Ellanoy, but to a man in New Or-leéns!

Without carin’ if I’ d catch it,

I straightway took a hatchet,

And busted off the cover without openin’ my mouth;

And found a grand pianner

Which we’ d followed for our banner

All the way from Massachusetts unto the sunny South!

Then I said, “I rather guess

I can see into this mess,

And explain the startlin’ error which has given you such shocks.

When that Boston fellow, he

Asked the route I’ d take of me,

I pinted, inadvertional, unto another box.”

Now Eagle Davis lies

Beneath the Northern skies,

Where the snow is on the pine-tree while we are with the palm;

But I reckon if his spirit

Should ever come to hear it,

He’ ll be perfectly contented with the story in this psalm.