Idylls of the Skillet Fork

Yew’ve mebbe never saw this “river”? Thar is, p’r’aps, likelier streams; But when ye git ri’ daown to ’t, stranger, It right smart hants yer dreams.

The Bootleg Gang at Sims’

Yep, Egyp’s dry; ’z a gin’ral rule They ain’t much doin’ in likker; Saloons is skurce ’z a breedin’ mule, An’ shy ’z a nestin’ flicker. But fokes kin git it—“bootleg stuff”— An’ hev a reel good souse, Tho’ most o’ them that does it ’s tough, An’ allers startin’ rows.

Onct down ter Sims’, so people tell, A bunch o’ pickled runts Raised sev’ral kinds o’ p’tic’lar cain An’ pulled some rowdy stunts. Now ’Mersion ’s pop’lar thar ter Sims’, Some ’d ruther hev ’t than eatin’s; More ’n half the fokes sings Baptis’ hymns An’ goes ter all the meetin’s.

Wal, they jes’ give ’emselves a hunch An’ got the law behind ’em; The sheriff rounded up the bunch, An’ Jestice Herford fined ’em. This made the boozers awful sore; They’d git thet Baptis’ goat! So fer a week they planned an’ swore An’ kep’ their scheme remote.

Then suddint like one Sart’day night They took a hoss ’t hed died (They ’lowed it wan’t no pleasant sight), An’ lugged it right inside The Baptis’ church ’ithout a sound, An’ cut it all ter bits, Which they throwed ever’whar around, A-laffin’ mos’ ter fits.

It seems like sackerlege or libel, But fac’s is allers fac’s; Thet hoss’es head laid on the Bible, All bludjunned with a ax. The sexton cleaned the mess some way, An’ services was held; But no one hed no word ter say— Jes’ prayed an’ sang an’—smelled.

The foll’rin’ week some roughneck pup Shet caows up in the church; Which kind o’ het the members up— Enough ter start a search. But nothin’ doin’ till one dark night Thet rummy boozin’ crew Blowed up the church with dynamite, An’ then lit aout an’ flew.

Say, jevver see a Baptis’ hot, Not Christyun hot but human? The kind thet kin, jes’ ’s easy’s not, Coagerlate albewman? That’s what they was, jes’ reg’lar hellers; No more o’ heapin’ coals! They swore they’d jug them bootleg fellers ’F it cost their mortal souls.

They done it tew. Some tracks they seen They kivered up with pails; ’N’ a coupl’ o’ “bloods” thet wasn’t green Was sicked upon the trails. They chased the bums ter Hick’ry Run, An’ thar the Baptis’s tarred An’ feathered ev’ry doggone one, An’ chucked ’em under guard.

Them boys is crackin’ stun terday; A new church stan’s in Sims’, An’ now in peace they watch an’ pray An’ sing their Baptis’ hymns.

Yep, Egyp’s dry; ’z a gin’ral thing The toughs don’t dast ter dicker With enny kind o’ Baptis’ ring— Leastways when ’t comes ter likker.

Sich a foolish world fer sweatin’ an’ a-swinkin’, An’ a-thinkin’ Thet a feller hez ter rustle an’ be snappy Tew be happy. ’Twas a nawful loafy mornin’—tell ye thet— An’ I set Watchin’ ev’ry livin’ critter feel ’is oats. My, them shoats!

Say, yew’d orter heerd ’em gruntin’ an’ a-crunchin’ An’ a-munchin’, Jessif nuthin’ ever mattered in their creed ’Ceptin’ feed. An’ the pidjuns was a-cooin’ quite aloof On the roof; Thar was hosses, thar was heffers, thar was steers, Chanticleers,

Perky hens, an’ turkey cocks, an’, ’pon my word, Ev’ry bird Thet I ever seen or heerd of—all a-croakin’, An’ a-soakin’ In ol’ Feebus’ dazzlin’ rajunce—all a-eatin’ An’ a-tweetin’— Jim’ny Crickets, Holy Kittens! Dew ye wonder Now, by thunder,

’T I was glad ter jes’ be livin’ on the earth? W’y, ’twas worth All the sorrer, all the pain ’t I ever had, ’Twas, by gad! But I gotta tell ye suthin’ ’t ’appened then; Ever b’en Whar a mockin’-bird was tunin’ up ’is fiddle? It’s a riddle

How ’e symfonizes ev’ry sort o’ noise An’ employs A composer’s subterfujes (ez ye’ve noted) Single throated. Wal, I seen one settin’ up thar (knowed ’twas him) On a limb Of a deadish kind o’ ellum, ’n’ I could tell Jes’ ez well

’T ’e was cockyer than a roarin’ swearin’ pirate By the high rate He was thrashin’ o’ them wings o’ his, an’ tail Like a flail. First I tho’t I was a-list’nin’ tew a martin Sure for sartin; Then a blue-jay almos’ give me ’n awful shock With ’is squawk;

I was jest a-gittin’ used ter hearin’ that bird, When a cat-bird Started in ter yowl an’ sputter, julluk Tabby When she’s gabby; Then some swallers, chickadees, an’ whippoorwills Give me thrills, An’ I tell ye I was altergether foozled, Jes’ bamboozled,

Ez I watched that clever cynnic keep a-rockin’ An’ a-mockin’, Till at last he got so bubbly full o’ fizz Thet ’e riz Off thet lonely perch o’ his’n right up square Int’ the air, Still a-swingin’ an’ a-singin’ in ’is revel Like the devil!

Then ’e come ri’ down agin an’ hit the spot Whar ’e’d sot; Hadn’t lost a single note—jes’ kep’ ’er goin’ ’S if he’s mowin’.

The Siren

They’s a hull snarl o’ potes hez driveled ’bout Joon With its leefyness, freshness an’ greenth; ’N’ if I was anuther, I s’pose—which I ain’t— I’d be the four umpty an’ steenth.

Ez regards ter the Skillet—wal, pardner, b’leeve me, It’s right in its prime, buggosh; Yew kin talk all yer wanter, it’s fine ter jes’ sawnter An’ look at ol’ Nacher a-slosh.

I was thar spell ago—druv sixteen mile With Bill an’ a load o’ soy beans; An’ I swar ter the Dooce thet I never hed knowed Afore what greenin’ means.

Be’n a-rainin’ like sin, but hed then faired up An’ the sky was julluk a gentian; I ain’t never knew sich a hevvenly blue, Ef ye’ll ’low me in passin’ ter mention.

The river was full, plum full ter the top, A matter o’ thirty odd feet, An’ the water hed backed ont’ the bottoms right smart, But was dreenin’ off fast with the heat.

’Twas a sarpent o’ choc’lit a-rithin’ an’ twistin’ Ri’ down a arborial tunnel; An’ Bill ’e sez, “Naow, ef we hed a ol’ scaow, We could flote ter Noorleans thru a funnel!”

But the way them fiel’s was enjoyin’ thersel’s! They was fairly yellin’ with glee; I reckon I must ’a’ be’n pretty high keyed, An’ I tell ye it jes’ got me.

I kind o’ suspishun Bill heerd suthin’ tew, Fer a exstasy hit ’im like pain; It looked like fer sure he was feelin’ the lure O’ the siren thet sings after rain.

Laury at the ’Phone

Will’s drove ter Keene’s fer ’nockerlated seed; Queer, ain’t it, ’bout thet nitrigin—_Down Rover!_ Will sez we git mos’ twict ez much o’ feed Fer growin’ them thar teeny warts on clover....