Neghborly Poems and Dialect SketchesRiley, James Whitcomb
General
Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches
Riley, James Whitcomb
Dialect literature, American; Dialect poetry, American
It was jist a-gittin' a little gray-like in the morning by the time we
reached the ford, but you couldn't hardly see two rods afore you fer
the mist and the fog 'at had settled along the river. We looked fer
tracks, but couldn't make out nothin'. Thereckly old Ezry punched me
and p'inted out acrost the river. "What's that?" he whispers. Jist
'bout half-way acrost was somepin' white-like in the worter--couldn't
make out what--perfeckly still it was. And I whispered back and told
him I guess it wasn't nothin' but a sycamore snag. "Listen!" says he;
"sycamore snags don't make no noise like that!" And, shore enough, it
was the same moanin' noise we'd heerd the baby makin' when we first got
on the track. Sobbin' she was, as though nigh about dead. "Well, ef
that's _Bills_," says I--"and I reckon they hain't no doubt but it
is--what in the name o' all that's good and bad's the feller a-standin'
there fer!" And a-creepin' clos'ter, we could make him out plainer and
plainer. It _was_ him; and there he stood breast-high in the worter,
a-holdin' the baby on his shoulder like, and a-lookin' up stream, and
a-waitin.'
"What do you make out of it?" says Ezry. "What's he waitin' fer?"
And, a-strainin' my eyes in the direction _he_ was a-lookin', I seed
somepin' a-movin' down the river, and a minute later I'd made out the
old boat a-driftin' down stream; and then of course ever'thing was
plain enough: He was waitin' fer the boat, and ef he got _that_ he'd
have the same advantage on us he had afore.
"Boys," says I, "he mustn't git that boat ag'in! Foller me, and don't
let him git to the shore alive!" And in we plunged. He seed us, but he
never budged, on'y to grab the baby by its little legs, and swing it
out at arms-len'th. "Stop, there!" he hollered.--"Stop jist where ye
air! Move another inch and I'll drownd this dam young-un afore yer
eyes!" he says.--And he'd a-done it. "Boys," says I, "he's got us.
Don't move! This thing'll have to rest with a higher power'n our'n! Ef
any of you kin _pray_," says I, "now's a good time to do it!"
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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