My Land, ’twas cold thet night I set with Bill Around the iron stove het up red hot An’ Bill a-stokin’ on’t with all ’is mite. He calls the room ’is “offis;” three four cheers, A bench, farm jurnels layin’ on a stand, Some books on cattle-feedin’—Bill’s he’s up Ter date on all thet stuff, tho’ he aint hed No the’ry trainin’ in them farmin’ schools— A book on “Soils”—the same ez siles, I s’pose— A walnut seckertry, some plants o’ Laury’s, A lot o’ calendars—with smartish women In droopy longish gowns a-ridin’ proud High-sperr’ted colts along a river whar A chap is ketchin’ traouts ez fast ez he Kin sling a worm, or mebbe it’s a fly— An’ Bill’s ol’ double bar’l behind the door. I’ve offen gassed with Bill in thet thar room O’ his when fokes was all a-bed ’n’ asleep. The frost was thicker’n cream on all the winders; Occazh’nully they’d be a pane ’thout none, Or kivered only ha’f, an’ ’f I looked out, Ez onct or twict I done, I seen a sight Thet made me clean fergit how cold it was: A sea o’ white ’way down ter “Thirty-One,” With waves o’ drifts piled ev’ry here an’ thar; An’ _still_—Jerushy! Still’s a mounting top Up thar amongst them craters on the moon. The only noise we heerd inside, ’cept co’se The fire, was snappin’ clabboards on the house, Like pistol shots thet kind o’ made us jump. “It’s twenty-six below,” sez Bill, ez he Throwed on another mess o’ coal; “I reck’n We’ll need them extry quilts ternight. I’m glad It’s be’n a-snowin’ some on thet ’ar field O’ wheat this week; they wouldn’t be no crop This spring if ’t hedn’t. Caint remember when It’s ever be’n so cold afore here’bouts. Reck’n Laury’s plants ’ll hev ter be brung up A leetle closter ter the stove; thet thar Jerainyum looks jessif ’twas fros’ bit now. Yew look like yew was tew,” he sez, an’ grinned. “I be,” I sez, “behind, but barbecued In front.” An’ then I mentioned cazhool like The war a-hangin’ ov’r us. Bill kep’ still At first, ’n’ I let ’im; then bimeby, julluk He’s talkin’ tew ’isself, he sez reel grave, “Ef’t comes, ’twill be the genooinest war Our fokes hez ever saw; an’ we’re about Ez ready for’t ’z a fat prize Berksheer barrer Would be ter fight a bunch o’ timber wolves. O’ co’se this here U. S. hez got back-bone, But ’pears ter me it’s—what’s thet word? I seen It t’other day an’ looked it up—O yes, It’s _atrofide_.... We gotta train ri’ down Ter razor-backs afore we’re enny good .... We’re all tew pussy ’n’ prizey ’n’ prosp’rus like Ter tech a wil’cat even with a fork.... ’F a hoss hez won blue ribbons to a fair, He prob’ly caint kick ha’f so _long_ ’z a scrub Thet’s hard ez nails an’ workin’ ev’ry day.... An’ then agin I think we’re like “Ol’ Ben”; Yew ’member him—ez gentle ez a kitten,