Grouty and gruff,
Profane and rough,
Old’Lish Henderson slammed through life;
Swore at his workers,
—Both honest and shirkers,
Threatened his children and raved at his wife.
Yes,’Lish was a waspish and churlish old man,
Who was certainly built on a porcupine plan,
In all of the section there couldn’t be found
A neighbor whom Henderson hadn’t “stood ‘round.”
And the men that he hired surveyed him with
awe
And cowered whenever he flourished his jaw.
Till it came to the time that he hired John Gile,
A brawny six-footer from Prince Edward’s
Isle.
He wanted a teamster, old Henderson did,
And a number of candidates offered a bid,
But his puffy red face and the glare in his eyes,
And his thunderous tones and his ominous size
And the wealth of his language embarrassed
them so
Their fright made them foolish;—he told them
to go.
And then, gaunt and shambling, with good-
natured smile,
Came bashfully forward the giant John Gile.
“Have ye ever driv’ oxen?” old Henderson
roared.
Gile said he could tell the brad-end of a goad.
Then Henderson grinned at the crowd stand-
ing’round
And he dropped to his hands and his knees on
the ground.
“Here, fellow,” he bellowed, “you take that
’ere gad,
Just imagine I’m oxen; now drive me, my
lad.
Just give me some samples of handlin’ the stick,
I can tell if I want ye and tell ye blame quick.”
Gile fingered the goad hesitatingly, then
As he saw Uncle’Lish grinning up at the men
Who were eyeing the trial, said, “Mister, I
swan,
‘Tain’t fair on a feller—this teamin’ a man.”
“I’m oxen—I’m oxen,” old Henderson cried,
“Git onto your job or git out an’ go hide.”
Then Gile held the goad-stick in uncertain pose
And gingerly swished it near Uncle’Lish’s
nose.
“Wo hysh,” he said gently; “gee up, there,
old Bright!
Wo hysh—wo, wo, hysh,”—but with mischiev-
ous light
In his beady old eyes Uncle’Lish never stirred
And the language he used was the worst ever
heard.
“Why, drat ye,” he roared “hain’t ye got no
more sprawl
Than a five year old girl? Why, ye might as
well call
Your team ‘Mister Oxen,’ and say to ’em,
‘please!’”
And then Uncle’Lish settled down on his
knees.
And he snapped, “Hain’t ye grit enough, man,
to say scat?
Ye’ll never git anywhere, drivin’ like that.
I’ll tell ye right now that the oxen I own
Hain’t driven like kittens; they don’t go alone,
There’s pepper-sass in ’em—they’re r’arin’ an’
hot, .
An’ I—I’m the r’arin’est ox in the lot.”
Then Uncle’Lish Henderson lowered his head
And bellowed and snorted. John Gile calmly
said,
“Of course—oh, of course in a case such as
that—”
He threw out his quid and he threw down his
hat,
Jumped up, cracked his heels, danced around
Uncle’Lish
And yelled like a maniac, “Blast ye, wo hysh!”
Ere Uncle’Lish Henderson knew what was
what
His teeth fairly chattered, he got such a swat
From that vicious ash stick—though that
wasn’t as bad
As when the man gave him two inches of brad,
—Just jabbed it with all of his two-handed
might,
“Wo, haw, there,” he shouted, “gee up there,
old Bright!”
Well, Uncle’Lish gee-ed—there’s no doubt
about that—
Went into the air and he squalled like a cat,
Made a swing and a swoop at that man in a
style
That would show he proposed to annihilate
Gile.
But Gile clinched the goad-stick and hit him a
whack
On the bridge of his nose—sent him staggering
back,
And he reeled and he gasped and he sunk on
his knee,
“Dad-rat ye,” yelled Gile, “don’t ye try to
hook me!
Gee up, there—go’long there; wo haw an’ wo
hysh!”
And again did he bury that brad in old’Lish,
Then he lammed and he basted him, steady and
hard,
He chased and he bradded him all’round the
yard,
Till’Lish fairly screamed, as he dodged like a
fox,
“For heaven’s sake, stranger, let’s play I hain’t
ox.”
Gile bashfully stammered, “Why,’course ye
are not!
But ye’ll have to excuse me—I sort o’ forgot!”
With a twisted smile
‘Lish looked at Gile,
Then he lifted one hand from the place where
he smarted;
And he held it out,
—Gripped good and stout,
“Ye’re hired,” said he; “I reckin I’m
started!”
His mouth is pooched and solemn and he’ll
never squeeze a smile,
He’s yeller ’em saffron bitters’cause he’s col-
ored so by bile;
No organ in his system seems to run the way
it should,
—He never has a hearty shake or says a word
of good.
He’ll soften, though, a crumb or so if money’s
to be lent
And some poor strugglin’ devil comes to time
with ten per cent.
He is flingin’ and is dingin’ first at this and
then at that,
And to ev’ry reputation gives a cuff or kick or
slat;
Pretty lately he was spewin’ sland’rous gossip
he had heard,
And our minister was passin’. Wal, the elder
he was stirred
And he says, “Ah, Brother Bowler, if you’d
lived in Jesus’ time
When they brought to him the woman whom
they’d taken in her crime,
That story in the Scriptures would have took
a diff’rent tone,
For I s’picion if you’d been there you’d’a’ up
and thrown the stone.
Yes, I reckon that the woman would have sartin
been a goner,
For you’d thrown the rock—and that hain’t
all! You’d’a’ thrown one with a corner!”
Wal, ye’d think a dig of that sort would have
shamed him ha’f to death,
But, Land o’ Goshen, neighbor,—hain’t no mor-
tifyin’ Seth!
—Jest a waste of breath
To jab at Uncle Seth,
He’s holler where the soul should be—hain’t
got no human peth.
He’s deef to ev’ry cry of want and don’t know
what is meant,
But—bet he’ll hear for ha’f a mile the whisper,
“Ten per cent!”
It took a lot of practicin’ to work his hearin’
down
To where he’s never bothered by the troubles in
our town.
He never hears the sorrows of some woman
who is left
With orphans and a morgidge’bout a thousand
times her heft.
He hain’t the one that worries when she says
she cannot pay,
The morgidge holds her anchored—the farm
can’t git away.
Upon the shattered door-steps of his racked
old tenements
He crowds the wolf of hunger when he goes
to git his rents.
But he never hears the wailin’ of the troubled
folks within,
He simply wants his money and’tis tenant, trot
or tin!
He never hears entreaties of his neighbors in
the lurch
Unless there’s good endorsers. He never hears
the church,
He never hears the knockin’ of a fist upon his
door
Unless he knows the thuddin’ means his ten
per cent—or more.
(His auditory organs sense no waves from
wails of sorrow
But they hear the faintest zephyr from the man
who wants to borrow.)
Now, with ears in that condition, when they’re
extry dulled by death,
On the Resurrection mornin’ I’ll have fears for
Uncle Seth.
When Gab’rel toots his trump
And risen spirits jump,
And up before the Throne of Light forthwith
proceed to hump,
I reckin Seth will slumber on, not knowin’ what
is meant
’Cause Gab’rel won’t take’special pains to hol-
ler, “Ten per cent!”
He could tell ye what he’d done,
—He was eloquent, my son,
In puttin’ all his doin’s into mighty lively talk.
But I’ve follered him around,
And, by gosh, I never found
That he ever lifted hard enough to
Bust
His
Fork!
Pie was always full o’ brag
‘Bout how he could lift a jag
That would double up a hossfork and make
the horses balk.
But I never see’d no signs
That he ever bent the tines
Or ever bruk’ the handle of his
Old
Pitch
Fork!
Old Sam Green!
What? Mean?
I reckin that a meaner man was skercely ever
seen.
People said he’d skin a fly for sake of hide an’
grease;
He wouldn’t grin—it stretched the skin, an’
he begredged the crease.
Sort o’ squirmed when asked to set—didn’t
want the chance!
We wondered why; we found at last’twas
jest to save his pants.
Never used to shave himself, never combed his
hair;
Used to sort o’ hate to wash, account o’ wear
and tear.
Never beau-ed the wimmen’round, never spent
a cent,
’Cept the time he bought a girl an ounce of
pepperment.
Alius kind o’ groaned o’ that; said the dratted
dunce
Set an’ chawnked an’ chawnked an’ chawnked
an’ et it all to once.
Said he learned a lesson then to last him all
through life;
Said’twould take a millionaire to feed a hearty
wife.
So he planned an’ worked an’ saved an’ grubbed
his little patch,
Allowed he’d ruther plug along, jest like he
was, “old bach.”
Sam, though, shifted later on—the pesky mean
old goat—
He struck a find; she’d had a shock that par-
alyzed her throat! .
Still, she worked most dretful spry—didn’t
need no spurs—
Only “out” that woman had was that ’ere
throat of hers. 1
Married her? you bet he did! Straight—right
off the reel!
Reckoned that she couldn’t eat a reel, good
hearty meal.
Figgered he’d git lots of work an’ only feed her
slim;
Wife, though, wopsed it t’other way an’ got
the laugh on him!
I reckin that a madder man was skercely ever
seen,
Than Green,
Old mean Sam Green.
Soon’s she fairly placed her feet, she called the
doctors in,
An’ they commenced to work on her an’ tap
old Green for tin.
He swore an’ howled, but she was boss—she
run the whole concern—
She said she’d morgidge all he owned to cure
that throat of her’n.
The high-priced doctors far an’ near come
hustlin’ to the place,
An’ fubbed an’ fussed an’ then discussed that
reely puzzlin’ case.
An’ each performed his little stunt with all his
skill an’ will,
An’ said that time would do the rest—an’ then
put in his bill.
Wal, Land o’ Goshen, Sam took on as though
they drawed his blood.
He’d hitch and hunch his wallet out as though
’twas stuck in mud.
Their nuss was quite a hand to tog; she used
to say to us
She wished that corsets laced as tight’s the
straps on that old puss.
Mis’ Green at last got down reel slim; one
night—so nuss, she said,
Old Sam come creepin’, creakin’ in; set down
‘longside the bed.
He stooped an’ poked around a spell, picked up
Lucindy’s shoe,
An’ then—wal, nuss she vums an’ vows this
’ere is honest true:
He routed’round the fireplace an’ got a cinder-
coal,
An’ went to figgerin’ up expense, right there
on ’Cindy’s sole.
He talked the items right out loud, but ’Cindy
didn’t kick
So long’s he only reckoned things she’d had
while she was sick.
But when he got to projickin’ ’bout what
’twould prob’ly cost
To bury her in decent shape, he sort o’ up an’
crossed
The “mean-man” line, the “tarnal mean” an’
even “gaul-durned mean”—
He formed a brand-new class himself; jest
him alone, Sam Green,
Stands serene!
“Green mean,”
Signifies the meanest man that ever ye have
seen.
Die? What! ’Cindy up an’ die? You bet
she didn’t die!
Got so mad to hear him talk she flew right up
sky-high.
Hopped like sixty out o’bed, as hearty’s Paddy’s
goat,
An’ that ’ere kink—whatever’twas—it came
right out her throat.
An’ talk? She hadn’t talked for years, but
soon’s she got her breath,
I swan to man, I reely b’lieve she talked old
Green to death.
For ’fore she’d trod around enough to wear the
coal marks out,
Old Sam curled up an’ passed away. Some
said there wa’n’t much doubt
He’d reely died two years before, but hadn’t
let folks know,
Because these undertakin’ chaps tuck on ex-
penses so.
Perk Todd was tellin’ down t’ the store he had
a dream las’ week—
He dreamed he got in Paradise! Must been
a denied close’ squeak!
Wal, Perk he says an angel there was showin’
him around,
“At last,” says Perk, “I ups an’ asks how
’twas I hadn’t found
No people there from where I’d lived. The
angel says, says he:
‘Here bub’ A cherub scooted up. ‘Go git
the storehouse key.’”
Says Perk: “The angel took me in. An’
where we were, it’peared
That’bout a billion boxed-up things was there
all nicely tiered.
The angel said, ‘When folks on earth do any-
thing that’s small
Their souls git squizzled bit by bit; an’ when
they die, then all
The little, teenty souls that come are packed in
here, ye know,
Jes’ same’s they box tomater plants to giv’ ’em
time to grow.’
He hunted’round an’ found a box. ‘There,’
finally said he,
‘We’ve got about as sing’lar thing as ever ye
will see.’
Inside that box was nested dus’ a dozen boxes
more;
The last box was the smallest box I ever saw
before,
An’ in it was a teenty speck. ‘Is that a soul?’
says I.
‘Oh, no,’ said he, ‘the thing you see’s the eye-
brow of a fly.
You couldn’t see the soul that’s there, to save
your blessed neck,
Because it’s one ten-millionth part as big’s
that leetle speck.
In fact it is the smallest soul that we have ever
seen;
The label says’—he squinted hard—‘it’s one
old Sam’wel Green.’
All serene,
Sam Green
Is ticketed ‘The Limit; Number billion-umpty
steen.’”
That Dickerer Jim—Shenanigan Jim.
I never see’d hoss jockey equal to him.
He’d rather swap hosses than eat a good meal,
He’d take all the chances—and Jim wouldn’t
squeal!
He’d talk like a cyclone on any old skate
—Take a wheezy old pel ter with hopity gait
And he’d make you believe—would that Dick-
erer Jim—
There were all kinds of pedigrees tied up in
him.
And you bet your old boots, if he got you in
range
He could touch you all right for a sale or a
“change.”
—As keen as a brier, as sharp as a knife
He never got phazed except once in his life.
And that was a corker, by ginger, on him,
On Dickerer Jim—Shenanigan Jim.
He loaded a breather—a reg’lar old rip
On a man from the city—just did it by lip.
Talked the man dumb and silly and giv’ him the
hooks
Till the chap forked his money just simply on
looks.
And he went back to town with a big double
cross
In the shape of a whoofity plug of a boss.
Jim—Jim,
Shenanigan Jim,
Didn’t you—didn’t you soak it to him!
Jim—Jim,
As a sample of “trim”
That feller was pruned to the very last limb.
Now Dickerer Jim—Shenanigan Jim—
Was down in the city. His eyesight was dim;
So he couldn’t keep lookout, and first thing he
knew
Right plumb up against him that city chap
blew.
He recognized Jim—Jim hadn’t seen him—
Till the feller grabbed holt; then the chances
seemed slim
For avoidin’ a scrimmage, for seldom is seen
A chap that’s so mad that his face is pea green.
But his tongue wasn’t ready as quick as his
sight;
Now Jim couldn’t see, yet his tongue was all
right,
And away he went, lickity-whizzle! Talk,
talk!
While the feller was still scoring down in a
balk
With his mouth propped apart; oh, he’d plenty
to say,
But Jim, goin’ steady, had levelled away.
And he told that ’ere feller he’d hunted for him,
—Did Dickerer Jim—Shenanigan Jim.
The feller allowed he’d been huntin’ some, too,
But Jim didn’t hesitate—slam-banged it
through!
Says he, “I’ve been sorry I sold you that hoss
And the minit I sold him I knew’twas a loss.
For the very same day that you took him away
I met with a chap that I figger will pay
A clean and cool hundred above what you giv’,
—I can load that ’ere hoss on that chap, sure’s
you live.
That feller he wants him—lie’s anxious to pay;
Now what shall I say to him—what shall I
say?”
Then the sucker he tore and he swore, and says
he,
“Go tell him the same blasted lie you told me!
He’ll buy, don’t you worry! You’ll tag him—
he’s It,
—That’s a lie you can never improve on a bit!”
Jim—Jim,
Shenanigan Jim,
That was a side-windin’ answer for him.
Jim—Jim,
Jest turned and he “clim’”
For he see’d there warn’t stretch in the chap’s
t’other limb.