With Sunday come a quiet restin’ spell; We needed it, by Jethro, tew, Fer scorchy weather ’n’ rotten luck is hell On fellers try’n’ ter “see it threw,” Ez Bill is allers sayin’; them’s ’is words When things is wrong an’ nothin’ ’s right; When Fortune’s milk jes’ turns ter whey an’ curds, An’ spiles yer spir’t-yel appetite. The fambly ’d went ter church—ter hear ’bout Moses An’ how ’e fit all kinds o’ luck; While me an’ Bill jes’ lolled an’ dug our noses Deep int’ the fresh green grass an’ muck. I sez, “Bill, yew remind me some o’ Job, Fer yew aint cussed the fates an’ quit, Like lots o’ fellers would on this ’ere globe; I sh’ think yew’d cause enuff fer it.” He ups an’ sez, not ans’rin’ me direc’ But far away, ’z ’e sometimes done: “Nothin’ ’s wuth while onless ye resk yer neck— Ter shoot a owl by day ’s no fun— Ter raise a mess o’ beef ’s a reel man’s job— ’T ’s a bully gamble growin’ fodder— Caint git no corn ’ithout ye take the cob— Alfalfy ’ll allers hev its dodder—” XVI The Pet Calf Hey, Whitey, here’s a good fat ear, It’s ’mong the last ye’ll git; Come on now, lemme rub yer nose— Ye’r’ lookin’ tol’ bul fit. I’m gonna ship ye off terday, Yew be’n here long enuff; I s’pose ’f yew knowed what I’m a-sayin’ Yew’d think ’twas kind o’ ruff Same’s I dew, ’n’ I’m a-tryin’ hard Ter make ye onderstand; Tho’ p’r’aps it’s jest ez well ye don’t— _Hi-i-i! What ye doin’ t’ my hand!_ I’ve nussed ye sence ye fust was dropped— Ye don’t remember, dew ye? I’ve heerd ye blat a many times An’ come a-runnin’ tew ye. Yew didn’t hev yer mother long— I went t’ the crick ter fetch ’er— “Four Mile” was up, an’ I’s afraid The flood might prob’ly ketch ’er. It hed, fer when she’d tried ter cross Ter yew on t’other bank, She got all tangled in the drift, Drownded right thar, an’ sank. I brung ye up t’ the house, ’n’ the gals They cosseted an’ fed ye, An’ ever sence they’s be’n some one Ter fetch ye slops an’ bed ye. An’ now look at ye! Ha’f a ton O’ helpless bone an’ beef; A livin’ stack o’ hay an’ grain; A critter boun’ fer grief. I dassent tell the gals ye’r’ goin’— I couldn’t, gosh a’mity; They’ll miss ye tur’bul—fer a spell— An’ bawl for “little Whitey.” * * * * * Thar’s Lon—he’s come ter round ye up. Goo’ by, ol’ chap—O darn! They’s suthin’ ’t I hev clean fergot— I reck’n I’ll gw’int’ the barn. XVII Bill on War (_February, 1917_)