An’ big an’ fat, good-natured, easy goin’, Tho’ onct ’n a while they’s fire in ’is eye. They want no doubt thet he could lick ’is weight Twict over, but he never knowed it till— Yew prob’ly don’t recall the time thet young An’ fi’ry furrin bull o’ Otto’s bust Clean threw three fences jes’ ter hev a crack At Ben. I didn’t git thar till ’twas over, But heerd consid’bul ’bout it from the naybers. They said the younger critter kind o’ toyed With Ben a spell, an’ Ben was sort o’ dazed, But kep’ a-goin’ not scassly knowin’ what ’Twas all about; then later he got sore, ’Is dander an’ ’is blood come up, an’ say— The way he whaled thet hateful little cuss.... It took ’im all day tew, an’ not a soul Dast git up clost ter watch ’em fight it out.... Ol’ Ben was stannin’ kind o’ groggy when I come ter git ’im, ’n’ ev’ry little while He’d stop an’ paw an’ beller ’n’ lick ’is flank Like he’d be’n hit right smart; but he was all _Right thar_, ’n’ I hed ter laff.... They brung a pair O’ hosses up an’ hauled the other beast Somew’eres.... We never hed no better bull Then Ben was after thet; he wouldn’t look Fer trubble, an’ somehow ’r ’nother trubble seemed Ter not be look’n’ fer him. It done ’im good, We thought, an’ thet’s my idee ’bout this war.” “But how ’bout Lon,” I sez, “ef war should come?” Thet ketched ’im hard, an’ I was sorry ’t I Hed ast ’im sich a techy question, ’cos I knowed thet Lon was all they was ter go, Bill’s bigges’ boy—the rest was either gals Or els tew young—an’ Bill was allers jellus O’ Lon, like heffers be with their firs’ ca’f. I changed the subjec’, said how cold it was, An’ stomped aroun,’ an’ ’lowed I’d go ter bed. I said “good-night” an’ got ha’f way up stairs, When Bill he give a little cough behind An’ blowed ’is nose, ’n’ ’is words was drowndy like: “_I’d see ’t he went._” An’ then a gust o’ wind Put out my light, ’n’ I thought how lucky ’twas, Altho’ I never would ’a’ looked at Bill When he was that ’a’ way. XVIII Treed ’Twas a Sunday in March ez we set on a log In a break in the woods, whar the crick makes a jog, An’ hez et int’ the bank an’ up under the mill, Thet the story herewith was related by Bill. “Years ago, forty odd, wild hogs was ez thick In these ’ere Skillet bottoms ez ‘cats’ in the crick. They follered the mast (tho’ I ain’t meanin’ shippin’), An’ ’long in the Fall got ez fat ez a pippin. My Paw uster hunt ’em with dawgs on the run, So ’z ter git us our pork ’fore the Winter begun; An’ many’s the time I’ve heerd ’im tell how He hed fit with or run from a perky ol’ sow. Fer them pigs was mean custumers, give ’em a chance, An’ a boar with ’is tushes could rip up yer pants A dum sight more quicker ’n a pirate crew, An’ ’e’d take a hull lot o’ yer leg with it tew.