XVII
Bill on War
(February, 1917)
My Land, ’twas cold thet night I set with Bill
Around the iron stove het up red hot
An’ Bill a-stokin’ on’t with all ’is mite.
He calls the room ’is “offis;” three four cheers,
A bench, farm jurnels layin’ on a stand,
Some books on cattle-feedin’—Bill’s he’s up
Ter date on all thet stuff, tho’ he aint hed
No the’ry trainin’ in them farmin’ schools—
A book on “Soils”—the same ez siles, I s’pose—
A walnut seckertry, some plants o’ Laury’s,
A lot o’ calendars—with smartish women
In droopy longish gowns a-ridin’ proud
High-sperr’ted colts along a river whar
A chap is ketchin’ traouts ez fast ez he
Kin sling a worm, or mebbe it’s a fly—
An’ Bill’s ol’ double bar’l behind the door.
I’ve offen gassed with Bill in thet thar room
O’ his when fokes was all a-bed ’n’ asleep.
The frost was thicker’n cream on all the winders;
Occazh’nully they’d be a pane ’thout none,
Or kivered only ha’f, an’ ’f I looked out,
Ez onct or twict I done, I seen a sight
Thet made me clean fergit how cold it was:
A sea o’ white ’way down ter “Thirty-One,”
With waves o’ drifts piled ev’ry here an’ thar;
An’ still—Jerushy! Still’s a mounting top
Up thar amongst them craters on the moon.
The only noise we heerd inside, ’cept co’se
The fire, was snappin’ clabboards on the house,
Like pistol shots thet kind o’ made us jump.
“It’s twenty-six below,” sez Bill, ez he
Throwed on another mess o’ coal; “I reck’n
We’ll need them extry quilts ternight. I’m glad
It’s be’n a-snowin’ some on thet ’ar field
O’ wheat this week; they wouldn’t be no crop
This spring if ’t hedn’t. Caint remember when
It’s ever be’n so cold afore here’bouts.
Reck’n Laury’s plants ’ll hev ter be brung up
A leetle closter ter the stove; thet thar
Jerainyum looks jessif ’twas fros’ bit now.
Yew look like yew was tew,” he sez, an’ grinned.
“I be,” I sez, “behind, but barbecued
In front.”
An’ then I mentioned cazhool like
The war a-hangin’ ov’r us. Bill kep’ still
At first, ’n’ I let ’im; then bimeby, julluk
He’s talkin’ tew ’isself, he sez reel grave,
“Ef’t comes, ’twill be the genooinest war
Our fokes hez ever saw; an’ we’re about
Ez ready for’t ’z a fat prize Berksheer barrer
Would be ter fight a bunch o’ timber wolves.
O’ co’se this here U. S. hez got back-bone,
But ’pears ter me it’s—what’s thet word? I seen
It t’other day an’ looked it up—O yes,
It’s atrofide.... We gotta train ri’ down
Ter razor-backs afore we’re enny good ....
We’re all tew pussy ’n’ prizey ’n’ prosp’rus like
Ter tech a wil’cat even with a fork....
’F a hoss hez won blue ribbons to a fair,
He prob’ly caint kick ha’f so long ’z a scrub
Thet’s hard ez nails an’ workin’ ev’ry day....
An’ then agin I think we’re like “Ol’ Ben”;
Yew ’member him—ez gentle ez a kitten,
An’ big an’ fat, good-natured, easy goin’,
Tho’ onct ’n a while they’s fire in ’is eye.
They want no doubt thet he could lick ’is weight
Twict over, but he never knowed it till—
Yew prob’ly don’t recall the time thet young
An’ fi’ry furrin bull o’ Otto’s bust
Clean threw three fences jes’ ter hev a crack
At Ben. I didn’t git thar till ’twas over,
But heerd consid’bul ’bout it from the naybers.
They said the younger critter kind o’ toyed
With Ben a spell, an’ Ben was sort o’ dazed,
But kep’ a-goin’ not scassly knowin’ what
’Twas all about; then later he got sore,
’Is dander an’ ’is blood come up, an’ say—
The way he whaled thet hateful little cuss....
It took ’im all day tew, an’ not a soul
Dast git up clost ter watch ’em fight it out....
Ol’ Ben was stannin’ kind o’ groggy when
I come ter git ’im, ’n’ ev’ry little while
He’d stop an’ paw an’ beller ’n’ lick ’is flank
Like he’d be’n hit right smart; but he was all
Right thar, ’n’ I hed ter laff.... They brung a pair
O’ hosses up an’ hauled the other beast
Somew’eres.... We never hed no better bull
Then Ben was after thet; he wouldn’t look
Fer trubble, an’ somehow ’r ’nother trubble seemed
Ter not be look’n’ fer him. It done ’im good,
We thought, an’ thet’s my idee ’bout this war.”
“But how ’bout Lon,” I sez, “ef war should come?”
Thet ketched ’im hard, an’ I was sorry ’t I
Hed ast ’im sich a techy question, ’cos
I knowed thet Lon was all they was ter go,
Bill’s bigges’ boy—the rest was either gals
Or els tew young—an’ Bill was allers jellus
O’ Lon, like heffers be with their firs’ ca’f.
I changed the subjec’, said how cold it was,
An’ stomped aroun,’ an’ ’lowed I’d go ter bed.
I said “good-night” an’ got ha’f way up stairs,
When Bill he give a little cough behind
An’ blowed ’is nose, ’n’ ’is words was drowndy like:
“I’d see ’t he went.” An’ then a gust o’ wind
Put out my light, ’n’ I thought how lucky ’twas,
Altho’ I never would ’a’ looked at Bill
When he was that ’a’ way.