I buried my first womern In the spring; and in the fall I was married to my second, And haint settled yit at all?-- Fer I'm allus thinkin'--thinkin' Of the first one's peaceful ways, A-bilin' soap and singin' Of the Lord's amazin' grace. And I'm thinkin' of her, constant, Dyin' carpet-chain and stuff, And a-makin' up rag-carpets, When the floor was good enough! And I mind her he'p a-feedin' And I recollect her now A-drappin' corn, and keepin' Clos't behind me and the plow! And I'm allus thinkin' of her Reddin' up around the house; Er cookin' fer the farm-hands; Er a-drivin' up the cows.-- And there she lays out yender By the lower medder-fence, Where the cows was barely grazin', And they're usin' ever sence. And when I look acrost there-- Say its when the clover's ripe, And I'm settin', in the evenin', On the porch here, with my pipe, And the _other'n_ hollers "Henry!"-- W'y, they ain't no sadder thing Than to think of my first womern And her funeral last spring Was a year ago. This Man Jones This man Jones was what you'd call A feller 'at had no sand at all: Kindo consumpted, and undersize, And saller-complected, with big sad eyes, And a kind-of-a-sort-of-a-hang-dog style, And a sneakin' kind-of-a-half-way smile That kindo give him away to us As a preacher, maybe, or sumpin' wuss. Didn't take with the gang--well, no-- But still we managed to _use_ him, though,-- Coddin' the gilley along the rout' And drivin' the stakes that he pulled out;-- For I was one of the bosses then And of course stood in with the canvas-men-- And the way we put up jobs, you know, On this man Jones jes' beat the show! Used to rattle him scandalous, And keep the feller a-dodgin' us, And a-shyin' round jes' skeered to death, And a-feered to whimper above his breath; Give him a cussin', and then a kick, And then a kind-of-a back-hand lick-- Jes' for the fun of seein' him climb Around with a head on half the time. But what was the curioust thing to me, Was along o' the party--let me see,-- Who was our "Lion Queen" last year?-- Mamzelle Zanty, er De La Pierre?-- Well, no matter!--a stunnin' in mash, With a red-ripe lip, and a long eye-lash, And a figger sich as the angels owns-- And one too many for this man Jones: He'd always wake in the afternoon As the band waltzed in on "the lion tune," And there, from the time that she'd go in, Till she'd back out of the cage agin, He'd stand, shaky and limber-kneed-- 'Specially when she come to "feed The beast raw meat with her naked hand"-- And all that business, you understand.