XV
Calamitous Days
It seems ter be the human lot o’ man
Onct in a while ter hev a day
When ev’rything goes wrong, an’ nary plan
Works out at all in enny way.
It’s sure the stranges’ thing how succumstances
At times combines ter git yer goat;
When grinnin’ Fate jes’ mocks at ye, an’ dances
’Ter jangled fiddlin’ on one note.
Wal, thet’s how ’twas the time Bill hed ’is “risin’;”
’Peared like the farm was on the blink;
An’ I kin tell ye ’t wouldn’t be’n supprisin’
Ef even Bill hed took ter drink.
It come right at the bizzy season; Bill
Was all laid up an’ couldn’t work;
An’ when he wan’t around, ez co’se they will,
The help would soljer, loaf an’ shirk.
They’d be’n so slow ’bout gittin’ in the corn
On “Thirty-one”—the “Lower bottom”—
Thet when ’twas drown’d an’ scorched, I could ’a’ sworn
Thet Bill was mad enuff ter shot ’em.
An’ then we found ’t th’ alfalfy ’n’ wheat hed heaved
So bad thet most of it would die;
With wheat a dollar ninety Bill was peeved,
An’ ’taint no job ter figger why.
An’ next the forty west in alsike clover,
A field thet’s purty gin’ly dry,
A heavy rain hed kivered almos’ over
With water two three inches high.
Soon after Lon come in an’ sez ter me:
“Yew better tell Paw ’bout the rape;
It’s daid or ain’t come up; I reckon he
Do’ know it’s in sech awful shape.”
He did tho’, ’n’ when I told ’im, give a grunt,
An’ looked it ’stid o’ sayin’ it.
Bill’s mity strong on puttin’ up a front;
He seldom r’ars an’ champs ’is bit.
The garden truck was et by Willie’s pony;
Ol’ Jess got drunk on apple-jack;
The poults begun ter droop, an’ acted phony;
An’ Barney’s glanders all come back.
I reck’n ’twas Willie ’t throwed them kittens int’
The sistern, so ’t we all took sick.
(I seen Bill’s face was like a chunk o’ flint
Ez ’e chased Willie down t’ the crick!)
The telephone was crazy—jes’ made clicks;
The flies was thicker ’n ’Gypshun plaigs;
The kitchen door was off an’ wouldn’t fix,
An’ suthin’ sucked all Laury’s aigs.
Then pink-eye ketched the heffers an’ the ca’ves,
An’ some the critters lost the’r sight;
Fer fear yew’ll think thet things was goin’ by ha’ves,
The lightnin’ hit the barn one night
An’ burnt it clean ter blazes, ’long with ten
Or twenty ton o’ hay an’ straw,
An’ knocked the stuffin’ out o’ “Herford Ben,”
Whose peddygree was long ’s the law.
With Sunday come a quiet restin’ spell;
We needed it, by Jethro, tew,
Fer scorchy weather ’n’ rotten luck is hell
On fellers try’n’ ter “see it threw,”
Ez Bill is allers sayin’; them’s ’is words
When things is wrong an’ nothin’ ’s right;
When Fortune’s milk jes’ turns ter whey an’ curds,
An’ spiles yer spir’t-yel appetite.
The fambly ’d went ter church—ter hear ’bout Moses
An’ how ’e fit all kinds o’ luck;
While me an’ Bill jes’ lolled an’ dug our noses
Deep int’ the fresh green grass an’ muck.
I sez, “Bill, yew remind me some o’ Job,
Fer yew aint cussed the fates an’ quit,
Like lots o’ fellers would on this ’ere globe;
I sh’ think yew’d cause enuff fer it.”
He ups an’ sez, not ans’rin’ me direc’
But far away, ’z ’e sometimes done:
“Nothin’ ’s wuth while onless ye resk yer neck—
Ter shoot a owl by day ’s no fun—
Ter raise a mess o’ beef ’s a reel man’s job—
’T ’s a bully gamble growin’ fodder—
Caint git no corn ’ithout ye take the cob—
Alfalfy ’ll allers hev its dodder—”