WASH LOWRY'S REMINISCENCE

And you're the poet of this concern?

I've seed your name in print

A dozen times, but I'll be dern

I'd‘ a’ never‘ a’ took the hint

O’ the size you are — fer I'd pictured you

A kind of a tallish man —

Dark-complected and sallor too,

And on the consumpted plan.

‘ Stid o’ that you're little and small,

With a milk-and-water face —

‘ Thout no snap in your eyes at all,

Er nothin’ to suit the case!

Kind o'look like a — I do n't know —

One o’ these fair-ground chaps

That runs a thingamajig to blow,

Er a candy-stand perhaps.

‘ Ll I've allus thought that poetry

Was a sort of a — some disease —

Fer I knowed a poet once, and he

Was techy and hard to please,

And moody-like, and kindo’ sad

And did n't seem to mix

With other folks — like his health was bad,

Er his liver out o’ fix.

Used to teach fer a livelihood —

There's folks in Pipe Crick yit

Remembers him — and he was good

At cipherin’ I'll admit —

And posted up in G'ography

But when it comes to tact,

And gittin’ along with the school, you see,

He fizzled, and that's a fact!

Boarded with us fer fourteen months

And in all that time I'll say

We never catched him a-sleepin’ once

Er idle a single day.

But shucks! It made him worse and worse

A-writin’ rhymes and stuff,

And the school committee used to furse

‘ At the school war n't good enough.

He war n't as strict as he ought to been,

And never was known to whip,

Or even to keep a scholard in

At work at his penmanship;

‘ Stid o’ that he'd learn‘ em notes,

And have‘ em every day,

Spilin’ hymns and a-splittin’ th'oats

With his “Do-sol-fa-me-ra!”

Tel finally it was jest agreed

We'd have to let him go,

And we all felt bad — we did indeed,

When we come to tell him so;

Fer I remember, he turned so white,

And smiled so sad, somehow,

I someway felt it was n't right,

And I'm shore it was n't now!

He had n't no complaints at all —

He bid the school adieu,

And all o’ the scholards great and small

Was mighty sorry too!

And when he closed that afternoon

They sung some lines that he

Had writ a purpose, to some old tune

That suited the case, you see.

And then he lingered and delayed

And would n't go away —

And shet himself in his room and stayed

A-writin’ from day to day;

And kep’ a-gittin’ stranger still,

And thinner all the time,

You know, as any feller will

On nothin’ else but rhyme.

He did n't seem adzactly right,

Er like he was crossed in love,

He'd work away night after night,

And walk the floor above;

We'd hear him read and talk, and sing

So lonesome-like and low,

My woman's cried like ever'thing —

‘ Way in the night, you know.

And when at last he tuck to bed

He'd have his ink and pen;

“So's he could coat the muse” he said,

“He'd die contented then”;

And jest before he past away

He read with dyin’ gaze

The epitaph that stands to-day

To show you where he lays.

And ever sence then I've allus thought

That poetry's some disease,

And them like you that's got it ought

To watch their q's and p's;

And leave the sweets of rhyme, to sup

On the wholesome draughts of toil,

And git your health recruited up

By plowin’ in rougher soil.