XVI
The Pet Calf
Hey, Whitey, here’s a good fat ear,
It’s ’mong the last ye’ll git;
Come on now, lemme rub yer nose—
Ye’r’ lookin’ tol’ bul fit.
I’m gonna ship ye off terday,
Yew be’n here long enuff;
I s’pose ’f yew knowed what I’m a-sayin’
Yew’d think ’twas kind o’ ruff
Same’s I dew, ’n’ I’m a-tryin’ hard
Ter make ye onderstand;
Tho’ p’r’aps it’s jest ez well ye don’t—
Hi-i-i! What ye doin’ t’ my hand!
I’ve nussed ye sence ye fust was dropped—
Ye don’t remember, dew ye?
I’ve heerd ye blat a many times
An’ come a-runnin’ tew ye.
Yew didn’t hev yer mother long—
I went t’ the crick ter fetch ’er—
“Four Mile” was up, an’ I’s afraid
The flood might prob’ly ketch ’er.
It hed, fer when she’d tried ter cross
Ter yew on t’other bank,
She got all tangled in the drift,
Drownded right thar, an’ sank.
I brung ye up t’ the house, ’n’ the gals
They cosseted an’ fed ye,
An’ ever sence they’s be’n some one
Ter fetch ye slops an’ bed ye.
An’ now look at ye! Ha’f a ton
O’ helpless bone an’ beef;
A livin’ stack o’ hay an’ grain;
A critter boun’ fer grief.
I dassent tell the gals ye’r’ goin’—
I couldn’t, gosh a’mity;
They’ll miss ye tur’bul—fer a spell—
An’ bawl for “little Whitey.”
Thar’s Lon—he’s come ter round ye up.
Goo’ by, ol’ chap—O darn!
They’s suthin’ ’t I hev clean fergot—
I reck’n I’ll gw’int’ the barn.