OLD JOHN CLEVENGER ON BUCKEYES

Old John Clevenger lets on,

Allus, like he's purty rough

Timber.— He's a grate old John!—

“Rough?” — do n't swaller no sich stuff!

Moved here, sence the war was through,

From Ohio — somers near

Old Bucyrus,— loyal, too,

As us “Hoosiers” is to here!

Git old John stirred up a bit

On his old home stompin’ - ground —

Talks same as he lived thare yit,

When some subject brings it round —

Like, fer instunce, Sund'y last,

Fetched his wife, and et and stayed

All night with us.— Set and gassed

Tel plum midnight —‘ cause I made

Some remark‘ bout “buckeyes” and

“What was buckeyes good fer?” — So,

Like I‘ lowed, he waved his hand

And lit in and let me know:—

“‘ What is Buckeyes good fer?’ — What's

Pineys and fergitmenots?—

Honeysuckles, and sweet peas,

And sweet-williamsuz, and these

Johnny-jump-ups ev'rywhare,

Growin’ round the roots o’ trees

In Spring-weather?— what air they

Good fer?— kin you tell me — Hey?

‘ Good to look at?’ Well they air!

‘ Specially when Winter's gone,

Clean dead-certin! and the wood's

Green again, and sun feels good's

June!— and shed your blame boots on

The back porch, and lit out to

Roam round like you ust to do,

Bare-foot, up and down the crick,

Whare the buckeyes growed so thick,

And witch-hazel and pop-paws,

And hackberries and black-haws —

With wild pizen-vines jis knit

Over and en-nunder it,

And wove round it all, I jing!

Tel you could n't hardly stick

A durn caseknife through the thing!

Wriggle round through that; and then —

All het-up, and scratched and tanned,

And muskeeter-bit and mean-

Feelin’ — all at onc't again,

Come out suddent on a clean

Slopin’ little hump o’ green

Dry soft grass, as fine and grand

As a pollor-sofy!— And

Jis pile down thare!— and tell me

Anywhares you'd ruther be —

‘ Ceptin’ right thare, with the wild-

Flowrs all round ye, and your eyes

Smilin’ with‘ em at the skies,

Happy as a little child!

Well!— right here, I want to say,

Poets kin talk all they please

‘ Bout‘ wild-flowrs, in colors gay,’

And‘ sweet blossoms flauntin’ theyr

Beauteous fragrunce on the breeze’ —

But the sight o’ buckeyes jis

Sweet to me as blossoms is!

“I'm Ohio-born — right whare

People's all called‘ Buckeyes’ thare —

‘ Cause, I s'pose, our buckeye crap's

Biggest in the world, perhaps!—

Ner my head do n't stretch my hat

Too much on account o’ that!—

‘ Cause it's Natchur's ginerus hand

Sows‘ em broadcast ore the land,

With eye-single fer man's good

And the gineral neghborhood!

So buckeyes jis natchurly

‘ Pears like kith-and-kin to me!

‘ Slike the good old sayin’ wuz,

‘ Purty is as purty does!’ —

We can n't eat‘ em, cookd er raw —

Yit, I mind, tomattusuz

Wuz considerd pizenus

Onc't — and dasent eat‘ em!— Pshaw —

‘ Twould n't take me by supprise,

Someday, ef we et buckeyes!

That, though,‘ s nuther here ner thare!—

Jis the Buckeye whare we air,

In the present times, is what

Ockuppies my lovin’ care

And my most perfoundest thought!

... Guess, this minute, what I got

In my pocket,‘ at I've packed

Purt’ - nigh forty year.— A dry,

Slick and shiny, warped and cracked,

Wilted, weazened old buckeye!

What's it thare fer? What's my hart

In my brest fer?—‘ Cause it's part

Of my life — and‘ tends to biz —

Like this buckeye's bound to act —

‘ Cause it‘ tends to Rhumatiz!

“... Ketched more rhumatiz than fish,

Seinen’, onc't — and pants froze on

My blame legs!— And ust to wish

I wuz well er dead and gone!

Doc give up the case, and shod

His old boss again and stayed

On good roads!— And thare I laid!

Pap he tuck some bluegrass sod

Steeped in whisky, bilin’ - hot,

And socked that on! Then I got

Sorto’ holt o’ him, somehow —

Kindo’ crazy-like, they say —

And I'd killed him, like as not,

Ef I had n't swooned away!

Smell my scortcht pelt purt’ - nigh now!

Well — to make a long tale short —

I hung on the blame disease

Like a shavin’ - hoss! and sort

O’ wore it out by slow degrees —

Tel my legs wuz straight enugh

To poke through my pants again

And kick all the doctor-stuff

In the fi-er-place! Then turned in

And tuck Daddy Craig's old cuore —

Jis a buckeye — and that's shore.—

Hai n't no case o’ rhumatiz

Kin subsist whare buckeyes is!”