Sunday, January 31, 2021
Thursday, January 28, 2021
Tuesday, January 26, 2021
Wednesday, January 20, 2021
Monday, January 18, 2021
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Sunday, January 10, 2021
Saturday, January 9, 2021
Thursday, January 7, 2021
Wednesday, January 6, 2021
Tuesday, January 5, 2021
'When Jim Come Home From College' updated with undated, typed verion:
WHEN JIM CAME HOME FROM COLLEGE
When Jim come
home frum college, wall, I allus hate tur say
So very much
consarnin’ thet air mortifyin’ day,
But somehow in
the evenin’ when a neighbor straggles in,
I ruther like
tur rezzerrect thet sarcumstance ag’in.
He hadn’ b’en
home fur three hull years, becuz, his letters said,
He’d ruther save
the money fur his college work instead.
An’ Til an’ I
wuz proud uv him, an’ worked an’ scrimped each day
Tur eddicate our
Jimmy in the mos’ prerficient way.
When Jim come
home frum college ‘twuz a day uv ginral joy,
Fur Gungawamp
hed allus loved thet harum-scarum boy,
An’ off an’ on
the “Hawkeye,” an’ the “Gungawamp Gazette”
Hed proffersied
thet James Bellew would be a scholar yet.
An’ frien’s
dropped in, in meetin’ clothes, an’ made excuse tur stay
When Jim come
home frum college on thet long remembered day.
Wall, I druv tew
the station fur the local mornin’ train,
An’ waited fur
her whistle with a sort uv happy pain
A-swellin’ in my
bosom, ‘cuz like a durn’d ol’ fool,
I wuz proud uv
my investmunt which I’d made off thire tur school.
An’ I joked the
station marster, an’ I cut a wing or tew,
When I heerd the
local whistle an’ she swung roun’ into view.
Wall, a cussed
dood alighted, but I didn’t stop fur him,
I jogged erlong
down further lookin’ everywhere fur Jim;
An’ when the
train departed I wuz feelin’ purty blue
When thet idjut
with the glasses said, “Bah jove, ol’ boy, how do!
It’s me,
Guv’nor, Joimes, doncher know, aw yaas, aw yaas, aw yaas,”
An’ ef I hedn’t
hollered he’d be’n “awin’” yet, I guess.
I looked him
over, head tur foot, an’ eyed him threw an’ threw,
An’' when I’d
foun’ my voice I says, “By thunder, is this yew?”
“Aw yaas,” said
Jim, but I, says I, “Git in the waggin there,
I’ll drive down
threw the ‘Willers,’ not down the street, I swear!”
An’ so we rode
in silunce ‘cept when Jim said “Bah Jove,”
Ez Mandy Mullenjay
scorched by, awheel fur “Cedar Grove;”
But I warn’t
much affected tho, till Til thire at the gate
Wuz waitin’,
like an’ angel, fur thet doodish reprerbate.
An’ when I saw
her countenance go down like snow in May
I felt like
thrashin’ Jim Bellew an’ turnin’ him away.
But mother, wall
she ain’t like me, she kissed him with a sigh,
An’ thought thet
she could civilize him mebbie by an’ by.
The neighbors
they wuz sorry, an’ they kind uv slunk away,
An’ the gran’
reception fizzled on thet long remembered day.
Yaas, they lef’ us all arlone with Jim,
our college graduate –
Where is he now? Wall. re’ly, I allus kind
uv hate
Tur speak uv it; yew see, it teches me so
in here,
An’ we ain’t seen him, hev we ma, fur
somethin’ like a year?
But then, he’s welcome jest the same, ez
welcome ez kin be,
Altho’ he’s now prezzerdunt uv thet
Unerversity;
Prezzerdunt? Yaas sir-ee! Fooled us good?
Waal I should say,
When Jim come home frum college on thet
long remembered day!
Monday, January 4, 2021
The Dude (Prize Poem)
THE DUDE.
(Prize
Poem.)
’Twas
springtime in the quaint old town, tho’ somewhat raw and bleak,
And
stormy winds still beat the panes with dismal howl and shriek;
And
from the Northward mountain peaks the snow came melting down,
Swelling
the river to a race, which madly passed the town.
A
youth warm-clad in fashion’s garb alighted from the stage; –
An invalid he looked to be, of
wealthy parentage,
Who sought to find a boarding
place within the town remote,
Where to restore his broken
health in forest, field and boat.
The village folk were good of
heart and kindly as a rule,
But looked on fashion as a
thing to scoff and ridicule;
So when the natty college
youth at front doors did appear,
He met the same forbidding
words, “No dudes are wanted here.”
* * * * * *
The day grew faint, the rain
still beat, and high above the town
A dam gave way, and in the
swirl huge wreckage floated down;
And through the dusk someone
discerned a cabin drifting by,
On which a child lay
helplessly with hands stretched toward the sky.
An eager crowd rushed to the
bank, no boat was near at hand,
When lo, a stranger from the
rear with lightning movements shed
His outer clothes and plunged
the stream with naught of fear or dread.
With rapid strokes he reached
the babe the while the people cheered;
A score of hands were reaching
down when he the dark shore neared.
And when they drew him up the
bank, beneath the lantern rude,
A cry of great surprise went up
– it was the college dude!
Strong, loving hands bore him
away, and by his side for weeks
Kind hearts held watch, till
come again the health-glow lit his cheeks.
And when he greets the fair
old town, where he sojourns each year,
They wring his hand and nobly
say, “Such dudes are wanted here.”
(undated)
Saturday, January 2, 2021
New Story added: 'Chewitt Knew a Good Dog'
Joe
Cone
Cambridge,
Mass.
C H E W I T T K N E W
A G O O D D O G .
By Joe
Cone, Author of “The Waybackers.”
“I say we are not
going to have a strange dog in our kitchen. Just look at the dirt he has
tracked in! When will you ever have any common sense about animals?” and Mrs.
Chewitt gathered up her skirts and made for the back door for the purpose of
opening it. The dog, by natural instinct, shrank closer to his defender.
“But he’s all right,”
protested Mr. Chewitt; “he’s a good dog. He followed me all the way from the
car track; stuck to me like a brother, as it were, and I’m not going to send
him away hungry. Good doggie, good doggie, ain’t you, old fellow?” and Chewitt
stroked the head of his new-found friend sympathetically.
“He’s a great, nasty,
ugly-looking brute, and I don’t want him in the house, and what’s more I’m not
going to have him. I have the cleaning up to do,” persisted Mrs. Chewitt,
decidedly.
“Just a moment, dear,
and I’ll let him out; poor old fellow, he’s hungry and I shall give him a bite
to eat, won’t I, old chap? Course I will, good doggie,” and Chewitt started for
the pantry, the dog following closely.
“Don’t let him in
there!” shrieked Mrs. Chewitt, and the dog, frightened by her shrill voice,
darted ahead of Chewitt through the door.
“Well,” said Mrs.
Chewitt, sweeping majestically into the dining room, “when you have done with
feeding stray curs and have gotten the kitchen hoed out I will proceed to put
your dinner on the table.”
“But he’s not a cur,
Julia,” protested Chewitt, turning in the door and calling after her. “If you
knew anything about dogs you could easily see that. He’s blooded stock; simon
pure Irish setter, handsome and intelligent. O, I know dogs from A. to Z. I
tell you he’s all right.”
Chewitt was about to
say something additional when a crash came from behind him, and as he turned to
see what the matter was the blooded stock shot past him with a pound of
porterhouse steak grasped firmly between his jars. Seeing no other outlet from
the kitchen the dog headed for the dining room. Mrs. Chewitt caught a glimpse
of dangling, red meat, backed by two fierce looking eyes, and letting out a
shriek she fled to her bedroom and slammed the door.
The dog circled the
dining room several times, then met Chewitt who was coming with an uplifted
broom, face to face at the threshold.
“Charge! Charge!” he
commanded.
The blooded stock
failed to obey orders, but sailed between his benefactor’s legs into the
kitchen.
“Charge I tell you!”
roared Chewitt, striking at the dog and hitting the gas range between the eyes.
Towser again took to
the dining room, upsetting Mrs. Chewitt’s pet fern. A loud crash resounded
throughout the flat, followed by shrieks from the bedroom, growls from the
bloodied stock and curses from the one who had taken him in.
“Let him out! Let him
out!” screamed Mrs. Chewitt from behind her locked door.
“Not until he gives
up that piece of meat, dod gast him!” shouted her husband, now armed with a
rolling pin in one hand and a stove poker in the other.
Stealthily he entered
the dining room. Towser was crouched under the table. Chewitt tiptoed around
behind him with uplifted pin. It was close quarters in which to make a
bulls-eye. The pan descended, but not on the blooded stock. It simply took a
chunk out of the gingerbread work that decorated the middle leg of the table.
With a growl and a mad scramble the dog once more sought to kitchen.
“Let him out, I say!”
Again commanded Mrs. Chewitt. “Let him have the meat! He’s a good dog, and you
wanted to feed him!” this sarcastically.
It seemed the only
wise course to pursue and after a moment’s debate with himself Chewitt sidled
through the kitchen and opened the back door. He didn’t have to tell Towser
that the door was ajar. He was an intelligent dog and knew what to do when the
opportunity offered. A streak of blooded stock shot into the night, followed by
a half-filled coal scuttle.
A moment later Mrs.
Chewitt appeared. After coldly surveying the wreckage she surveyed her husband.
“He was a stranger
and I took him in,” said Chewitt, meekly.
“Yes, and he took
your dinner; that’s the only satisfactory thing to me about it,” snapped his
wife. “Now you can eat vegetables and pie for dinner. It serves you just
right.”
“I didn’t care for
meat tonight, anyway,” returned Chewitt, sulkily.
“O, no, of course
not; but if I had had none something would have dropped. I suppose you would
have given it to Fido, anyway, wouldn’t you?”
Chewitt didn’t deem a
reply necessary and went out after the coal scuttle.
(undated)
Friday, January 1, 2021
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