Standard Selections Part 52

Jane Jones she honestly said it was so!

Mebbe he did-- I dunno!

O' course that may be, but then you must allow They ain't no land to discover jest now!

FOOTNOTE:

[71] By permission of the author and Forbes & Co., publishers.

KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE[72]

JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

Tell you what I like the best-- 'Long about knee-deep in June, 'Bout the time strawberries melt On the vine,--some afternoon Like to jes' git out and rest, And not work at nothin' else!

Orchard's where I'd ruther be-- Needn't fence it in fer me!

Jes' the whole sky overhead, And the whole airth underneath-- Sorto' so's a man kin breathe Like he ort, and kind o' has Elbow-room to keerlessly Sprawl out len'thways on the gra.s.s Where the shadders thick and soft As the kivvers on the bed Mother fixes in the loft Allus, when they's company!

Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there-- S'lazy, 'at you peek and peer Through the wavin' leaves above Like a feller 'at's in love And don't know it, ner don't kere!

Ever'thing you hear and see Got some sort o' interest-- Maybe find a bluebird's nest Tucked up there conveenently Fer the boy 'at's apt to be Up some other apple-tree!

Watch the swallers skootin' past 'Bout as peert as you could ast; Er the Bob-white raise and whiz Where some other's whistle is.

Ketch a shadder down below, And look up to find the crow-- Er a hawk,--away up there, 'Pearantly froze in the air!-- Hear the old hen squak, and squat Over ever' chick she's got, Suddent-like--And she knows where That-air hawk is, well as you!-- You jes' bet yer life she do!-- Eyes a-glitterin' like gla.s.s, Waitin' till he makes a pa.s.s!

Pee-wees' singin', to express My opinion, 's second cla.s.s, Yit you'll hear 'em more er less; Sapsucks gittin' down to biz, Weedin' out the lonesomeness; Mr. Bluejay, full o' sa.s.s, In them base-ball clothes o' his, Sportin' 'round the orchard jes'

Like he owned the premises!

Sun out in the fields kin sizz, But flat on yer back, I guess, In the shade's where glory is!

That's jes' what I'd like to do Stiddy fer a year er two!

Plague! ef they ain't somepin' in Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in My convictions!--'long about Here in June especially!-- Under some old apple-tree, Jes' a-restin' through and through, I could git along without Nothin else at all to do Only jes' a-wis.h.i.+n' you Was a-gittin' there like me, And June war eternity!

Lay out there and try to see Jes' how lazy you kin be!-- Tumble round and souse yer head In the clover-bloom, er pull Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes, And peek through it at the skies, Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead, Maybe, smilin' back at you In betwixt the beautiful Clouds o' gold and white and blue!-- Month a man kin railly love-- June, you know, I'm talkin' of!

March ain't never nothin' new!

Aprile's altogether too Brash fer me! and May--I jes'

'Bominate its promises,-- Little hints o' suns.h.i.+ne and Green around the timber-land-- A few blossoms, and a few Chip-birds, and a sprout er two-- Drap asleep, and it turns in 'Fore daylight and snows ag'in!--

But when June comes--Clear my th'oat With wild honey!--Rench my hair In the dew! and hold my coat!

Whoop out loud! and th'ow my hat!-- June wants me, and I'm to spare!

Spread them shadders anywhere, I'll git down and waller there, And obleeged to you at that!

FOOTNOTE:

[72] From "Afterwhiles," published by the Bobbs-Merrill Co., Indianapolis, Ind.

LITTLE BREECHES[73]

JOHN HAY

I don't go much on religion, I never ain't had no show; But I've got a middlin' tight grip, sir, On the handful o' things I know.

I don't pan out on the prophets, And free-will and that sort of thing, But I believe in G.o.d and the angels, Ever sence one night last spring.

I come into town with some turnips, And my little Gabe come along-- No four-year-old in the country Could beat him for pretty and strong, Peart and chipper and sa.s.sy, Always ready to swear and fight-- And I'd larnt him to chew terbacker, Jest to keep his milk teeth white.

The snow come down like a blanket As I pa.s.sed by Taggart's store; I went in for a jug of mola.s.ses And left the team at the door.

They scared at something and started-- I heard one little squall, And h.e.l.l-to-split over the prairie Went team, Little Breeches and all.

h.e.l.l-to-split over the prairie!

I was almost froze with skeer; But we rousted up some torches, And searched for 'em far and near.

At last we struck hosses and wagon, Snowed under a soft white mound, Upsot, dead beat--but of little Gabe No hide nor hair was found.

And here all hope soured on me, Of my fellow-critters' aid-- I jest flopped down on my marrow bones, Crotch deep in the snow, and prayed.

By this the torches was played out, And me and Isrul Parr Went off for some wood to a sheepfold That he said was somewhar thar.

We found it at last, and a little shed Where they shut up the lambs at night; We looked in, and seen them huddled thar, So warm and sleepy and white.

And thar sat Little Breeches and chirped, As peart as ever you see, "I want a chaw of terbacker, And that's what's the matter with me."

How did he get thar? Angels.

He could never have walked in that storm, They just scooped down and toted him To whar it was safe and warm; And I think that saving a little child And bringing him to his own, Is a derned sight better business Than loafing around the Throne.

FOOTNOTE:

[73] By permission of Mrs. Hay.

THE LOW-BACKED CAR

SAMUEL LOVER

When first I saw sweet Peggy, 'Twas on a market-day; A low-backed car she drove, and sat Upon a truss of hay; But when that hay was blooming gra.s.s, And decked with flowers of spring, No flower was there that could compare With the blooming girl I sing.

As she sat in the low-backed car, The man at the turnpike bar Never asked for the toll, But just rubbed his owld poll, And looked after the low-backed car.

In battle's wild commotion, The proud and mighty Mars With hostile scythes demands his t.i.thes Of death--in warlike cars; While Peggy, peaceful G.o.ddess, Has darts in her bright eyes That knock men down in the market-town, As right and left they fly; While she sits in her low-backed car: Than battle more dangerous far-- For the doctor's art Cannot cure the heart That is. .h.i.t from that low-backed car.

Sweet Peggy round her cart, sir, Has strings of ducks and geese, But the scores of hearts she slaughters By far outnumber these; While she among her poultry sits, Just like a turtle-dove, Well worth the cage, I do engage, Of the blooming G.o.d of love; While she sits in her low-backed car, The lovers come near and far, And envy the chicken That Peggy is pickin'

As she sits in her low-backed car.