XIV
Bill’s “Risin’”
One mornin’ Bill he took ’is chair at table,
’N’ I seen ’is right hand almos’ kivered
With bandages, an’ ’e wan’t scassly able
Ter eat—jes’ set an’ kind o’ shivered.
I didn’t say en’thing till I hed et
’Mos’ threw my breakfas’; then I said,
“I reckin, Bill, yew better quit an’ let
Us fix ye up, or go ter bed.”
Thet hand o’ his was awful red, an’ swoll’d
Ez big ’s a baby colt’s hind legs;
The fingers on ’t looked whitish blew an’ cold,
An’ stuck up like ol’ harness pegs.
He suffered dretful, thet was plain enuff,
Tho’ Laury ’d doctered ’im with messes,
An’ polticed ’im with ev’ry kind o’ stuff,
Horse linyments an’ warm compresses.
But no, he wouldn’t go ter bed; he ’d see
The dum thing threw ’f it took a week;
We might ez well, he said, jes’ leeve ’im be,
He wouldn’t show no yeller streak.
An’ so he wandered ’round all day a-nussin’
Thet fest’rin’ dead man’s hand o’ his;
He said it wan’t no use ter dew no cussin’—
The more he swore the more it riz.
By night the pain hed drove ’im almos’ wild,
’N’ is arm was big’s a water oak;
It wouldn’t took much then ter git ’im riled,
Or skeer ’im stiff he’s goin’ ter croak.
But still he’d grin—tho’ co’se I knowed he’s fakin’—
An’ say he didn’t give a dam fer
A thing ’cept t’ ev thet “risin’” quit its achin’;
An’ then he ’d sniff ’t a bottl’ o’ camfer.
At last I sez, an’ tapped ’im on the wrist,
“Ef I was yew I’d chuck fer fair
Them soaky puddin’ rags, an’ give yer fist
Jes’ antyskeptick wash an’ air.”
Thet ’s all I said, an’ left ’im at ’is door
The mos’ bedraggles’ ’pearin’ cuss,
Julluk a houn’ dawg all chawed up an’ sore,
’At looks he ’s licked an’ feels it wuss.
But on the quiet Bill ’e tried thet wash,
An’ said nex’ day the pain had eased
So much thet reely it felt good, buggosh,
Like some ol’ wheel thet ’s jes’ be’n greased.
I never seen a man more chipperer;
’T was plain he ’d busted thet thar “risin’”;
An’ then, jessif he ’d be’n the minister,
He started in a-moralizin’:
“It ’s ruther cu’r’us, aint it, how a fuller
Jes’ natchelly falls back on notions
Thet long ago he ’d orter t’run down suller;
I mean them poltices an’ lotions.
Now I was raised ter b’leeve I ’d gotta take
My med’cin, grin an’ bear it, when
Dizease or death, misfortune, pain or ache
Ketched holt, fer thet ’s the way o’ men;
An’ thet is mos’ly trew; but here in farmin’
I find ye don’t git ha’f so leery
’Bout buckin’ fate, ’f ye’r’ ont’ them funny varmin
They call ‘basilly’ or ‘backteery.’
I hev an idee ’t out o’ life we ’d git
Much more o’ honey ’n’ less o’ wax,
Ef we depended less on native wit
An’ more on sientifick fac’s.”