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Idylls of the Skillet Fork

Chapter 27: XXV “Killed in Action: Corporal Alonzo—”
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About This Book

A lively sequence of rural poems and sketches portrays daily life in a small farming community, blending comic dialect pieces and affectionate nature scenes. Recurring voices such as Bill and Laury relay homespun observations on chores, animals, local gossip, bootlegging, hunts, seasonal change, and wartime worries, while bird songs and landscape detail evoke both springtime abundance and drought. The collection alternates playful mischief with quieter melancholy, offering short vignettes that balance folksy humor, communal rituals, and reflective notes on labor and loss.

XXV
“Killed in Action: Corporal Alonzo—”

The day ’fore thet thar awful telegram
From Washin’ton fer Bill was brung t’ the house
By Viny—she’d be’n up ter town; an’ Gene
The operater, lookin’ kind o’ white
Hed handed her the yeller envelope
An’ sez: “It’s jes’ some bizness fer yer Paw”——
Me ’n’ Bill was talkin’ ’bout the Lib’ty bonds.
We’d thrashed the matter over, ’n’ both agreed
The only thing ter dew, ’f a feller hed
The price, was git a bond, an’ ef ’e hedn’t,
Ter git one ennyhow; an’ thet’s how ’twas.
Bill he’d suscribed with Charlie Buck, who runs
The Farmers’ Gild (an’ nuthin’ much besides),
While I’d went up ter Sims’ an’ teched a chap
I knowed fer five, an’ trusted Proverdunce
Ter see me threw. (Bill sez thet Proverdunce
Is mos’ly what ye dew yerself, with p’r’aps
A dash o’ luck throwed in ter help along.)
Then come the stunnin’ news.... Things wa’n’t the same,
’N’ I reckon never will be ’gain. The farm
Seemed empty like, ’n’ I stopped good menny times
Ter look whar Lon hed carved ’is ’nishuls on
A crib door slat.... It give me ’n awful thump
Inside ter see how sort o’ closter Bill
An’ Laury was; she hed ter lean on him,
An’—God, I tell ye he was suthin’ wuth
A-leanin’ on, a human staff o’ oak.
Yew ’member them blue little lakes or ponds—
Most ev’r’y country deestric’ hez ’em—whar
Fokes sez they ain’t no bottom tew ’em ’t all,
Nobody never reeched it tho’ they’d tried
Fer years an’ years with ev’ry kind o’ line?
Wal, thet’s the way Bill’s eyes looked at ye then:
Great dep’s o’ shinin’ feelin’, purplish blue;
An’ dogged ef I could tell which from the t’other
A father’s greef, or father’s pride.
At five
One mornin’ not long arterwards, ez I
Was pitchin’ silage down ter feed the steers,
I seen Bill ridin’ out the yard on Belle.
He waved ’is hand an’ yelled he’d be ri’t back.
At bre’kfas’ time he sez jes’ cazhool like:
“I ketched thet ’ar Buck feller ’fore ’e’s up,
An’ taken out another Lib’ty bond.
’Pears like I gotta back them boys that’s left
In France jes’ twict ez strong now’t Lon has went.”

The
Skillet Fork