Part 2 (1/2)
HEROES
If ye run up ag'in Carnegie, I'd kind o' thankful be If he gets a-talkin' of heroes, you'd ring in Sandy McPhee.
Now, Mac don't want no medals--he ain't th' braggin' set; But what he done back in eighty-one, he's livin' t' tell; you bet!
We was trekin' th' trail t' Forty-Mile; sleepin' in snow-b'ilt caves, An' the great White Trail we hoofed it on was milestoned jest by graves.
Mac shot on ahead with his dog--itchin' t' make his pile; Carried his grub-stake on his back. Got there? I should smile!
But th' blizzard struck him; th'r he was, him an' his dog alone---- A week pa.s.sed by--then his grub give out; but he never made no moan.
His husky died an' he e't his guts; tho't his brain 'ud go---- Then he 'member'd his wife an' kids at home. Who'd hoe their row?
Both feet fruz cle'r int' th' bone! Says he ”Fac's is fac's”;-- Gangrene sot in--black t' th' knees. Then he ups an' eyes his axe:--
”I ain't,” says he, ”no great M.D., but I kinder calcalate To meet this here e-mergency as was sent b' a unkind Fate.”
So he humped hisself up ag'in a rock in a little bunch o' trees, A couple o' hacks with that there axe, an' off went his laigs at th' knees!
And he stumped it int' Forty-Mile! What's that? It ain't true?
It's hard t' b'leeve, I kin onderstand, b' a white-livered skunk like YOU!
But, if old Skibo is huntin' a hero, ther's somethin' in my mind Says that, if he don't see McPhee, HE MUST BE GOL-DURN'D BLIND!
LOWER-FLAT ANNALS
When we lived in Lower-Flat us folks know'd where we was at; But them Eastern folks come, puttin' on great style: Us Old-Timers, we all said we was better we was dead, F'r th' way they talked an' acted, raised our bile.
They interduced new dances--thing-a-me-bobs called--”Lance's”---- Where they traipsed up an' down upon th' floor, A-bowin' and a'sc.r.a.pin' (lords an' ladies they was apin'), Th' Red River Jig? 'Twa'n't never danced no more!
Sniffed at bannock--sniffed at bacon; then, dried apples, they was taken; An' that good old dish ”plum-duff” went out th' door; Then ”part singin'” in th' church--”A Choir” up in a perch---- And a ”Tenner” frum th' city. Say, y' should a-heard HIM roar!
Then the pretty little crea'cher, boardin' 'round, th' country Teacher; (Her we fought about f'r dances in th' barn) SHE went out o' date; a ”perfesser” come t' prate About ologies an' colleges; things childern COULDN'T larn.
Then they started ”makin' calls,” ketched Pa in his over-alls; But he met 'em with a ”How'dy!” at th' door; The place was in a clutter--Ma, she was churnin' b.u.t.ter, An' Pa fetch'd 'em in th' kitchen, an' they didn't ”call” no more.
That was Mrs. Mumble-Mumps. Say, she DID put on humps; Took her daughter Gwendolina t' furrin lan's, An' they say paid out s.h.i.+n-plasters t' one o' them Old Masters F'r t' make a bust of Gwendolina's hands!
Gone was th' good old days, and gone th' good old ways When an invitation meant th' fambly all; When th' little an' th' big would crowd into th' rig, An' th' fiddle livened up th' Chris'mus Ball.
It was ”Welkim, welkim, Boys!” Lots of laughin', lots of noise; With the babies piled like cordwood on th' floor; Boys an' girls all dancin'--old folks too got prancin'---- An' th' supper? Say, we'd eat ontil we couldn't hold no more.
But them Eastern folks fetched ”Style”; changed all that in a while; Printed tickets told th' folks they was ”to-home”; Served the supper frum ”a buffey,” an' they acted kind o' huffy When our childern round the parler used t' roam.
House was full of bricky-brack; china tea-pot with a crack,-- An' they sort o' boasted of it; set it out t' common view; Talked about the'r ”Fambly Tree”--good land! why, they know'd that we Had ninety acres of 'em--scrub-oak bluff--an' poplars too!