Little Boots.

W


WAL, neighbor, ye have got me right sure When ye put a question like that: The age of my youngster—“Little Boots,” So frolicksome, funny and fat?
The year and the day he war cradl’d By the nurse what waited about; And stood watch over Polly jist thar, And heer’d his first inferntile shout?
He’s a brilliant pearl in our cabin— Is “Little Boots”—that’s cartenly true: But durn me if I know he war born! Maybe—like Miss Topsey—he grew!
Come, strenger; bring yer cheer ter the fire. Here’s some juice of the grape. Maybe Ye’ll not stand upon manners jist now, For I’ve no great larnin’, ye see.
So I’ll tell ye the story of “Boots”— Dog on’d strenge as ’t may seem ter you;— But may my ha’r be cheng’d ter black snakes If it is not Scripterly true!
Ye see, we come down ter Car’lina Five years ago, comin’ next Fall,— Polly and me, and our setter dorg: Without a mule or beast ter haul.
Here I knock’d up a little cabin, And skeer’d up a nigger or so, At odd times ter jine in the plantin’, And a startin’ the crop ter grow!
Wal, for a time we prosper’d right smart— Long afore “Little Boots” war born— But we fretted in vain for a somethin’, Though harvestin’ cotton and corn.
But the drought spil’d the crops, and one day— Leavin’ Polly ter boss the help— I kissed her good bye, and dug out Ter rough it a while by myself!
Three years I work’d hard in the gold mines— ’Way out in the mountains, ye see, Whar a feller don’t have sich comforts As a wife and a boy on the knee!
Wal, at last I grew rather homesick, And, ’thout writin’ Polly a word, I ti’d up my kit for a journey, And—slop’d for the home I prerferr’d?
Forty days I war comin’ ter Clark’s: A week brought me here ter the door, When I peek’d through a hole in the wall: “Little Boots” war squat on the floor!
The supper war spread on the table, And Polly war pourin’ the tea For Tom Smart, who had dropp’d in jist then Ter hear if she’d got word from me.
Now, Tom Smart war an old friend of our’n, Who had shown much friendly corncern In Polly and me, and, heaps of times, Had render’d a neighborly turn!
But, ter come ter the pint; I cornfess, I chuck’d my rerligion erside! And when they decla’r’d this boy war mine, I cussed ’em, and told ’em they lied!
For, strenger, I’d been away three years From Polly and home, yet, forsooth, The youngster they tried ter palm on me, Had only jist cut his first tooth!
But Polly, she kiss’d me so kind-like, And prertested that she had been true, That I tuk “Little Boots” ter my arms,— Why, strenger, what else could I do?
Since then I’ve been thinkin’ it over: How this youngster chanc’d inter life,— Durn me, if I don’t fear it’s the fault Of Tom Smart and Polly, my wife!
I don’t like ter suspicion my Polly Who’s jist now appearin’ in view; But, somehow, I don’t think it’s nat’ral That our “Boots” should come thus. Do you?
However, I’ll not fret erbout it: Say nothin’; my wife’s at the door: But one thing take note on:—We’re happy, And—Tom Smart don’t come here no more!
Now that is the whole histry of “Boots,” A plaguey quar case. It’s not clear! How this boy can be mine I can’t guess, Or how in the world he reach’d here!
But he’s Polly’s, that’s carten and sure, And I admit him inte my heart, Although he bars a strikin’ rersemblance Ter that Tar-heel known as Tom Smart!