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Title: Rubáiyát of Doc Sifers

Author: James Whitcomb Riley

Illustrator: C. M. Relyea

Release date: June 22, 2010 [eBook #32944]

Language: English

Credits: Produced by David Edwards, Therese Wright and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RUBÁIYÁT OF DOC SIFERS ***

RUBÁIYÁT OF DOC SIFERS
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

POEMS HERE AT HOME.

NEGHBORLY POEMS.

SKETCHES IN PROSE AND OCCASIONAL VERSES.

AFTERWHILES.

PIPES O' PAN (Prose and Verse).

RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD.

FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT.

OLD-FASHIONED ROSES (English Edition).

GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS.

ARMAZINDY.

A CHILD-WORLD.

AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE.

RUBÁIYÁT OF DOC SIFERS

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

ILLUSTRATED

BY

C. M. RELYEA

PUBLISHED BY THE CENTURY CO.
NEW YORK M DCCC XC VII

Copyright, 1897,
By The Century Co.

Copyright, 1897,
By James Whitcomb Riley

The De Vinne Press.

TO

DR. FRANKLIN W. HAYS

THE LOYAL CHUM OF MY LATEST YOUTH
AND LIKE FRIEND AND COMRADE STILL
WITH ALL GRATEFUL AFFECTION OF

The Author.

We found him in that far-away that yet to us seems near—
We vagrants of but yesterday when idlest youth was here,—
When lightest song and laziest mirth possessed us through and through,
And all the dreamy summer-earth seemed drugged with morning dew:

When our ambition scarce had shot a stalk or blade indeed:
Yours,—choked as in the garden-spot you still deferred to "weed":
Mine,—but a pipe half-cleared of pith—as now it flats and whines
In sympathetic cadence with a hiccough in the lines.

Aye, even then—o timely hour!—the high gods did confer
In our behalf:—and, clothed in power, lo, came their courier—
Not winged with flame nor shod with wind,—but ambling down the pike,
Horseback, with saddlebags behind, and guise all human-like.

And it was given us to see, beneath his rustic rind,
A native force and mastery of such inspiring kind,
That half unconsciously we made obeisance.—smiling, thus
His soul shone from his eyes and laid its glory over us.

· · · · · ·

Though, faring still that far-away that yet to us seems near,
His form, through mists of yesterday, fades from the vision here,
Forever as he rides, it is in retinue divine,—
The hearts of all his time are his, with your hale heart and mine.

RUBÁIYÁT
OF
DOC SIFERS

I

Ef you don't know Doc Sifers I'll jes argy, here and now,
You've bin a mighty little while about here, anyhow!
'Cause Doc he's rid these roads and woods—er swum 'em, now and then—
And practised in this neighberhood sence hain't no tellin' when!

II

In radius o' fifteen mile'd, all p'ints o' compass round,
No man er woman, chick er child, er team, on top o' ground,
But knows him—yes, and got respects and likin' fer him, too,
Fer all his so-to-speak dee-fects o' genius showin' through!

III

Some claims he's absent-minded; some has said they wuz afeard
To take his powders when he come and dosed 'em out, and 'peared
To have his mind on somepin' else—like County Ditch, er some
New way o' tannin' mussrat-pelts, er makin' butter come.

IV

He's cur'ous—they hain't no mistake about it!—but he's got
Enough o' extry brains to make a jury—like as not.
They's no describin' Sifers,—fer, when all is said and done,
He's jes hisse'f Doc Sifers—ner they hain't no other one!

V

Doc's allus sociable, polite, and 'greeable, you'll find—
Pervidin' ef you strike him right and nothin' on his mind,—
Like in some hurry, when they've sent fer Sifers quick, you see,
To 'tend some sawmill-accident, er picnic jamboree;

VI

Er when the lightnin' 's struck some hare-brained harvest-hand; er in
Some 'tempt o' suicidin'—where they'd ort to try ag'in!
I've knowed Doc haul up from a trot and talk a' hour er two
When railly he'd a-ort o' not a-stopped fer "Howdy-do!"

VII

And then, I've met him 'long the road, a-lopin',—starin' straight
Ahead,—and yit he never knowed me when I hollered "Yate,
Old Saddlebags!" all hearty-like, er "Who you goin' to kill?"
And he'd say nothin'—only hike on faster, starin' still!

VIII

I'd bin insulted, many a time, ef I jes wuzn't shore
Doc didn't mean a thing. And I'm not tetchy any more
Sence that-air day, ef he'd a-jes a-stopped to jaw with me,
They'd bin a little dorter less in my own fambily!

IX

Times now, at home, when Sifers' name comes up, I jes let on,
You know, 'at I think Doc's to blame, the way he's bin and gone
And disapp'inted folks—'Ll-jee-mun-nee! you'd ort to then
Jes hear my wife light into me—"ongratefulest o' men!"

X

'Mongst all the women—mild er rough, splendifferous er plain,
Er them with sense, er not enough to come in out the rain,—
Jes ever' shape and build and style o' women, fat er slim—
They all like Doc, and got a smile and pleasant word fer him!

XI

Ner hain't no horse I've ever saw but what'll neigh and try
To sidle up to him, and paw, and sense him, ear-and-eye:
Then jes a tetch o' Doc's old pa'm, to pat 'em, er to shove
Along their nose—and they're as ca'm as any cooin' dove!

XII

And same with dogs,—take any breed, er strain, er pedigree,
Er racial caste 'at can't concede no use fer you er me,—
They'll putt all predju-dice aside in Doc's case and go in
Kahoots with him, as satisfied as he wuz kith-and-kin!

XIII

And Doc's a wonder, trainin' pets!—He's got a chicken-hawk,
In kind o' half-cage, where he sets out in the gyarden-walk,
And got that wild bird trained so tame, he'll loose him, and he'll fly
Clean to the woods!—Doc calls his name—and he'll come, by-and-by!

XIV

Some says no money down ud buy that bird o' Doc.—Ner no
Inducement to the bird, says I, 'at he'd let Sifers go!
And Doc he say 'at he's content—long as a bird o' prey
Kin 'bide him, it's a compliment, and takes it thataway.

XV

But, gittin' back to docterin'—all the sick and in distress,
And old and pore, and weak and small, and lone and motherless,—
I jes tell you I 'preciate the man 'at 's got the love
To "go ye forth and ministrate!" as Scriptur' tells us of.

XVI

Dull times, Doc jes mianders round, in that old rig o' his:
And hain't no tellin' where he's bound ner guessin' where he is;
He'll drive, they tell, jes thataway fer maybe six er eight
Days at a stretch; and neighbers say he's bin clean round the State.

XVII

He picked a' old tramp up, one trip, 'bout eighty mile'd from here,
And fetched him home and k-yored his hip, and kep' him 'bout a year;
And feller said—in all his ja'nts round this terreschul ball
'At no man wuz a circumstance to Doc!—he topped 'em all!—

XVIII

Said, bark o' trees 's a' open book to Doc, and vines and moss
He read like writin'—with a look knowed ever' dot and cross:
Said, stars at night wuz jes as good 's a compass: said, he s'pose
You couldn't lose Doc in the woods the darkest night that blows!

XIX

Said, Doc'll tell you, purty clos't, by underbresh and plants,
How fur off warter is,—and 'most perdict the sort o' chance
You'll have o' findin' fish; and how they're liable to bite,
And whether they're a-bitin' now, er only after night.

XX

And, whilse we're talkin' fish,—I mind they formed a fishin'-crowd
(When folks could fish 'thout gittin' fined, and seinin' wuz allowed!)
O' leadin' citizens, you know, to go and seine "Old Blue"—
But hadn't no big seine, and so—w'y, what wuz they to do?...

XXI

And Doc he say he thought 'at he could knit a stitch er two—
"Bring the materials to me—'at's all I'm astin' you!"
And down he sets—six weeks, i jing! and knits that seine plum done—
Made corks too, brails and ever'thing—good as a boughten one!

XXII

Doc's public sperit—when the sick 's not takin' all his time
And he's got some fer politics—is simple yit sublime:—
He'll talk his principles—and they air honest;—but the sly
Friend strikes him first, election-day, he'd 'commodate, er die!

XXIII

And yit, though Doc, as all men knows, is square straight up and down,
That vote o' his is—well, I s'pose—the cheapest one in town;—
A fact 'at's sad to verify, as could be done on oath—
I've voted Doc myse'f—And I was criminal fer both!

XXIV

You kin corrupt the ballot-box—corrupt yourse'f, as well—
Corrupt some neighbers,—but old Doc's as oncorruptible
As Holy Writ. So putt a pin right there!—Let Sifers be,
I jucks! he wouldn't vote agin his own worst inimy!

XXV

When Cynthy Eubanks laid so low with fever, and Doc Glenn
Told Euby Cynth 'ud haf to go—they sends fer Sifers then!...
Doc sized the case: "She's starved," says he, "fer warter—yes, and meat!
The treatment 'at she'll git from me 's all she kin drink and eat!"

XXVI

He orders Euby then to split some wood, and take and build
A fire in kitchen-stove, and git a young spring-chicken killed;
And jes whirled in and th'owed his hat and coat there on the bed,
And warshed his hands and sailed in that-air kitchen, Euby said,

XXVII

And biled that chicken-broth, and got that dinner—all complete
And clean and crisp and good and hot as mortal ever eat!
And Cynth and Euby both'll say 'at Doc'll git as good
Meals-vittles up, jes any day, as any woman could!

XXVIII

Time Sister Abbick tuk so bad with striffen o' the lung,
P'tracted Meetin', where she had jes shouted, prayed and sung
All winter long, through snow and thaw,—when Sifers come, says he:
"No, M'lissy; don't poke out your raw and cloven tongue at me!—

XXIX

"I know, without no symptoms but them injarubber-shoes
You promised me to never putt a fool-foot in ner use
At purril o' your life!" he said. "And I won't save you now,
Onless—here on your dyin' bed—you consecrate your vow!"

XXX

Without a-claimin' any creed, Doc's rail religious views
Nobody knows—ner got no need o' knowin' whilse he choose
To be heerd not of man, ner raise no loud, vainglorious prayers
In crowded marts, er public ways, er—i jucks, anywheres!—

XXXI

'Less 'n it is away deep down in his own heart, at night,
Facin' the storm, when all the town's a-sleepin' snug and tight—
Him splashin' hence from scenes o' pride and sloth and gilded show,
To some pore sufferer's bedside o' anguish, don't you know!

XXXII

Er maybe dead o' winter—makes no odds to Doc,—he's got
To face the weather ef it takes the hide off! 'cause he'll not
Lie out o' goin' and p'tend he's sick hisse'f—like some
'At I could name 'at folks might send fer and they'd never come!

XXXIII

Like pore Phin Hoover—when he goes to that last dance o' his!
That Chris'mus when his feet wuz froze—and Doc saved all they is
Left of 'em—"'Nough," as Phin say now, "to track me by, and be
A advertisement, anyhow, o' what Doc's done fer me!—

XXXIV

"When he come—knife-and-saw"—Phin say, "I knowed, ef I'd the spunk,
'At Doc 'ud fix me up some way, ef nothin' but my trunk
Wuz left, he'd fasten casters in, and have me, spick-and-span,
A-skootin' round the streets ag'in as spry as any man!"

XXXV

Doc sees a patient's got to quit—he'll ease him down serene
As dozin' off to sleep, and yit not dope him with mor-pheen.—
He won't tell what—jes 'lows 'at he has "airn't the right to sing
'O grave, where is thy victery! O death, where is thy sting!'"

XXXVI

And, mind ye now!—it's not in scoff and scorn, by long degree,
'At Doc gits things like that-un off: it's jes his shority
And total faith in Life to Come,—w'y, "from that Land o' Bliss,"
He says, "we'll haf to chuckle some, a-lookin' back at this!"

XXXVII

And, still in p'int, I mind, one night o' 'nitiation at
Some secert lodge, 'at Doc set right down on 'em, square and flat,
When they mixed up some Scriptur' and wuz funnin'-like—w'y, he
Lit in 'em with a rep'imand 'at ripped 'em, A to Z!

XXXVIII

And onc't—when gineral loafin'-place wuz old Shoe-Shop—and all
The gang 'ud git in there and brace their backs ag'inst the wall
And settle questions that had went onsettled long enough,—
Like "wuz no Heav'n—ner no torment"—jes talkin' awful rough!

XXXIX

There wuz Sloke Haines and old Ike Knight and Coonrod Simmes—all three
Ag'inst the Bible and the Light, and scoutin' Deity.
"Science," says Ike, "it dimonstrates—it takes nobody's word—
Scriptur' er not,—it 'vestigates ef sich things could occurred!"

XL

Well, Doc he heerd this,—he'd drapped in a minute, fer to git
A tore-off heel pegged on agin,—and, as he stood on it
And stomped and grinned, he says to Ike, "I s'pose now, purty soon
Some lightnin'-bug, indignant-like, 'll ''vestigate' the moon!...

XLI

"No, Ike," says Doc, "this world hain't saw no brains like yourn and mine
With sense enough to grasp a law 'at takes a brain divine.—
I've bared the thoughts of brains in doubt, and felt their finest pulse,—
And mortal brains jes won't turn out omnipotent results!"

XLII

And Doc he's got respects to spare the rich as well as pore—
Says he, "I'd turn no millionaire onsheltered from my door."—
Says he, "What's wealth to him in quest o' honest friends to back
And love him fer hisse'f?—not jes because he's made his jack!"

XLIII

And childern.—Childern? Lawzy-day! Doc worships 'em!—You call
Round at his house and ast 'em!—they're a-swarmin' there—that's all!—
They're in his Lib'ry—in best room—in kitchen—fur and near,—
In office too, and, I p'sume, his operatin'-cheer!

XLIV

You know they's men 'at bees won't sting?—They's plaguey few,—but Doc
He's one o' them.—And same, i jing! with childern;—they jes flock
Round Sifers natchurl!—in his lap, and in his pockets, too,
And in his old fur mitts and cap, and heart as warm and true!

XLV

It's cur'ous, too,—'cause Doc hain't got no childern of his own—
'Ceptin' the ones he's tuk and brought up, 'at's bin left alone.
And orphans when their father died, er mother,—and Doc he
Has he'pped their dyin' satisfied.—"The child shall live with me

XLVI

"And Winniferd, my wife," he'd say, and stop right there, and cle'r
His th'oat, and go on thinkin' way some mother-hearts down here
Can't never feel their own babe's face a-pressin' 'em, ner make
Their naked breasts a restin'-place fer any baby's sake.

XLVII

Doc's Lib'ry—as he calls it,—well, they's ha'f-a-dozen she'ves
Jam-full o' books—I couldn't tell how many—count yourse'ves!
One whole she'f's Works on Medicine! and most the rest's about
First Settlement, and Indians in here,—'fore we driv 'em out.—

XLVIII

And Plutarch's Lives—and life also o' Dan'el Boone, and this-
Here Mungo Park, and Adam Poe—jes all the lives they is!
And Doc's got all the novels out,—by Scott and Dickison
And Cooper.—And, I make no doubt, he's read 'em ever' one!

XLIX

Onc't, in his office, settin' there, with crowd o' eight er nine
Old neighbers with the time to spare, and Doc a-feelin' fine,
A man rid up from Rollins, jes fer Doc to write him out
Some blame p'scription—done, I guess, in minute, nigh about.—

L

And I says, "Doc, you 'pear so spry, jes write me that recei't
You have fer bein' happy by,—fer that 'u'd shorely beat
Your medicine!" says I.—And quick as s'cat! Doc turned and writ
And handed me: "Go he'p the sick, and putt your heart in it."

LI

And then, "A-talkin' furder 'bout that line o' thought," says he,
"Ef we'll jes do the work cut out and give' to you and me,
We'll lack no joy, ner appetite, ner all we'd ort to eat,
And sleep like childern ever' night—as puore and ca'm and sweet."

LII

Doc has bin 'cused o' offishness and lack o' talkin' free
And extry friendly; but he says, "I'm 'feard o' talk," says he,—
"I've got," he says, "a natchurl turn fer talkin' fit to kill.—
The best and hardest thing to learn is trick o' keepin' still."

LIII

Doc kin smoke, and I s'pose he might drink licker—jes fer fun.
He says, "You smoke, you drink all right; but I don't—neether one"—
Says, "I like whiskey—'good old rye'—but like it in its place,
Like that-air warter in your eye, er nose there on your face."

LIV

Doc's bound to have his joke! The day he got that off on me
I jes had sold a load o' hay at "Scofield's Livery,"
And tolled Doc in the shed they kep' the hears't in, where I'd hid
The stuff 'at got me "out o' step," as Sifers said it did.

LV

Doc hain't, to say, no "rollin' stone," and yit he hain't no hand
Fer 'cumulatin'.—Home's his own, and scrap o' farmin'-land—
Enough to keep him out the way when folks is tuk down sick
The suddentest—'most any day they want him 'special quick.

LVI

And yit Doc loves his practice; ner don't, wilful, want to slight
No call—no matter who—how fur away—er day er night.—
He loves his work—he loves his friends—June, Winter, Fall, and Spring:
His lovin'—facts is—never ends; he loves jes ever'thing....

LVII

'Cept—keepin' books. He never sets down no accounts.—He hates,
The worst of all, collectin' debts—the worst, the more he waits.—
I've knowed him, when at last he had to dun a man, to end
By makin' him a loan—and mad he hadn't more to lend.

LVIII

When Pence's Drug Store ust to be in full blast, they wuz some
Doc's patients got things frekantly there, charged to him, i gum!—
Doc run a bill there, don't you know, and allus when he squared,
He never questioned nothin',—so he had his feelin's spared.

LIX

Now sich as that, I hold and claim, hain't 'scusable—it's not
Perfessional!—It's jes a shame 'at Doc hisse'f hain't got
No better business-sense! That's why lots 'd respect him more,
And not give him the clean go-by fer other doctors. Shore!

LX

This-here Doc Glenn, fer instance; er this little jack-leg Hall;—
They're business—folks respects 'em fer their business more 'n all
They ever knowed, er ever will, 'bout medicine.—Yit they
Collect their money, k-yore er kill.—They're business, anyway!

LXI

You ast Jake Dunn;—he's worked it out in figgers.—He kin show
Stastistics how Doc's airnt about three fortunes in a row,—
Ever' ten-year' hand-runnin' straight—three of 'em—thirty year'
'At Jake kin count and 'lucidate o' Sifers' practice here.

LXII

Yit—"Praise the Lord," says Doc, "we've got our little home!" says he—
"(It's railly Winniferd's, but what she owns, she sheers with me.)
We' got our little gyarden-spot, and peach- and apple-trees,
And stable, too, and chicken-lot, and eighteen hive' o' bees."

LXIII

You call it anything you please, but it's witchcraft—the power
'At Sifers has o' handlin' bees!—He'll watch 'em by the hour—
Mix right amongst 'em, mad and hot and swarmin'!—yit they won't
Sting him, er want to—'pear to not,—at least I know they don't.

LXIV

With me and bees they's no p'tense o' social-bility—
A dad-burn bee 'u'd climb a fence to git a whack at me!
I s'pose no thing 'at's got a sting is railly satisfied
It's sharp enough, ontel, i jing! he's honed it on my hide!

LXV

And Doc he's allus had a knack inventin' things.—Dee-vised
A windlass wound its own se'f back as it run down: and s'prised
Their new hired girl with clothes-line, too, and clothes-pins, all in one:
Purt'-nigh all left fer her to do wuz git her primpin' done!

LXVI

And onc't, I mind, in airly Spring, and tappin' sugar-trees,
Doc made a dad-burn little thing to sharpen spiles with—these-
Here wood'-spouts 'at the peth's punched out, and driv' in where they bore
The auger-holes. He sharpened 'bout a million spiles er more!

LXVII

And Doc's the first man ever swung a bucket on a tree
Instid o' troughs; and first man brung grained sugar—so's 'at he
Could use it fer his coffee, and fer cookin', don't you know.—
Folks come clean up from Pleasantland 'fore they'd believe it, though!

LXVIII

And all Doc's stable-doors onlocks and locks theirse'ves—and gates
The same way;—all rigged up like clocks, with pulleys, wheels, and weights,—
So, 's Doc says, "drivin' out, er in, they'll open; and they'll then,
All quiet-like, shet up ag'in like little gentlemen!"

LXIX

And Doc 'ud made a mighty good detective.—Neighbers all
Will testify to that—er could, ef they wuz legal call:
His theories on any crime is worth your listenin' to.—
And he has hit 'em, many a time, 'long 'fore established true.

LXX

At this young druggist Wenfield Pence's trial fer his life,
On primy faishy evidence o' pizonin' his wife,
Doc's testimony saved and cle'red and 'quitted him and freed
Him so 's he never even 'peared cog-nizant of the deed!

LXXI

The facts wuz—Sifers testified,—at inquest he had found
The stummick showed the woman died o' pizon, but had downed
The dos't herse'f,—because amount and cost o' drug imployed
No druggist would, on no account, a-lavished and distroyed!