I ast ’im onct ’f ’e tho’t th’ alfalfy’d ketch. He spit an’ picked a blade o’ grass an’ et it. “Seems like ’f we hed a shower o’ rain, an’ then A warmish spell thet didn’t run ter drouth, No killin’ frost or long wet rainy days, An’ ’f Lon mixed in thet fosfate half way right, An’ all thet ’nockerlatin’ ’s enny good, An’ ’f luck should kind o’ come our way a bit, Thet air alfalfy’d mebbe make a start.” I knowed jes’ much then ’zif I hedn’t ast. One time a mule kicked Bill squar’ on the jaw. He seen it comin’—hed no chance ter dodge. He laid in bed a week afore he woke, An’ staid thar ’nother nursin’ up ’is face. A few days later meetin’ that ’ar mule Bill sez, a-shak’n’ ’is finger playful-like, “’F I knowed fer sure ’t was yew thet done this ’ere, I reck’n I might git mad, but I dunno,” An’ han’s the graynose cuss a fresh pulled carrot. That’s Bill all over. Fifty years o’ playin’ The game agin the god o’ Luck hez made ’Im jest a leetle guarded in ’is speech, An’ l’arned ’im how ter take ’is dose ’thout squealin’. X Laury’s “Eats” “It’s quarter t’ five,” Bill hollers; yew sigh an’ mutter “Gosh!” An’ jes’ slide int’ yer overhalls an’ shirt; It ain’t much use ter bother with try’n’ ter take a wash, F’r in ha’f a hour yew’ll be jes’ ’s bad fer dirt. Yew’re ou’ the barn ’n a jiffy a-feedin’ Ball an’ Belle, An’ rubbin’ up ol’ Zilfy’s battered hide; Yew’re like a tired enjin’, ’cos yer didn’t sleep right well, But say—that breakfas’ waitin’ thar inside! It’s wonderful what eatin’ will dew ter set ye right; It’s one the things ’bout farmin’ ’t nothin’ beats; Yew get all riled fer sweatin’ ’ithout a break in sight, But—yew fergit it when it’s time fer eats. Now toast an’ egg an’ coffee’s ’bout all the av’rage feller Kin eat fer breakfas’ in a swelt’rin’ town; But gosh all blinkin’ blazes, yew ain’t no clerk nor teller, Yew gotta hev reel feed, an’ wash it down. So in yew go t’ the kitchen, a room o’ quite some size; Yew grab a cheer an’ haul it up t’ yer place; Matildy ’n’ Sophy ’s servin’, while Laury fans the flies, An’ Bill he mumbles thru a form o’ grace. I wish thet I was able ter dew Bill’s Laury jestice, An’ tell the diff’runt things she’s set afore ye; But I’m ez fer from doin’ thet ’ar ez east from west is, ’N’ I suttenly hev no desire ter bore ye. But ennyhow jes’ listen: Pertaters mashed an’ wavy; A bowl of yeller butter thick an’ creamy; A plate o’ spicy sassage with eggs fried in the gravy, An’ chicken fricaseed, all hot an’ steamy; A dish o’ gravied dumplin’s, an’ one o’ beans an’ corn— Thet suckertash o’ Laury’s hits me hard! Her pickled beets is wonders, her slaw fresh ez the morn, Her passnips sweeter ’n frankinsense an’ nard.