Tuesday, May 4, 2021

Gratitude

 

Gratitude

[For Music and Mirth]

 

 

I’m glad that Uncle Ned died long, long ago,

And that the Old Arm Chair had an arm;

I’m glad the Grandfather’s Clock has ceased for to go,

And that the Old Oaken Bucket is Down on the Farm.

                                                        JOE CONE.

 

 

Not sure of date written or published.

Thursday, February 11, 2021

Lizzard Crick Poems - 'At Steel Trap

 

                                Lizzard Crick Poems.

                                  ’At Steel Trap.

 

Ast uncle once ef I could set

One o’them steel traps o’ his;

Tol’ ’im I’d seen some annermul,

    Bigger’n what the ol’ cat is,

Down in the medder nigh the crick;

    Seen ’is toe prints in the san’

Nigh to a hole. Said he guessed not,

    I’d be apter ketch my han’.

 

But guessed ’at I knew howter set

    A steel trap ’thought gittin ketched

Myself, so I sotter down th’ere,

    ‘n’ thought how he’d laff w’em I fetched

A coon or mebbie woodchuck home

    Nex’ mornin’ erbout sunrise!

An’ w’en I creeped up to the hole

    Heard some soft an’ mournful cries,

 

An’ ’ere wuz aunty’s ol’ black cat

    Lookin’ tearful like at me;

‘N’ it made me bawl an’ wisht I’uz dead

    Hurt her hin’ laigs so, yo_______

‘N’ I tuk her out an’ petted _______

    “N’ confessed tur uncle ______

An’ he, he jawed, ‘n’en said _____

    Bes’ boy wuz on Lizzard Crick __

 

                                    [lower right corner torn off]



 

'“Lizzard Crick Poems” - When Ol’ Ike Died' updated, including a handwritten version.

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.

 

Second page found and added, 2 10, 21:

 

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)


'The Platitudes' added to 'Short Pieces' page

Saturday, January 2, 2021

New Page added - 'Commentary - 'The Selfishness of the People'

New Story added to pages: 'The Brand'

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)