Kittles rattlin' underneath, Coal-hods scrapin' out a song,—   Makes a feller grit his teeth When old Jason comes along. Jason drives a sorrel mare, Bones an' skin at all her j'ints,   "Blooded stock," says Jase; "I swear, Jest see how she shows her p'ints! Walkin' 's her best lay," says he, Eyes a-twinklin' full of fun,   "Named her Keely Motor. See? Sich hard work ter make her run."    Jason's jest the slickest scamp, Full of jokes as he can hold; Says he beats Aladdin's lamp, Givin' out new stuff fer old;   "Buy your rags fer more 'n they're worth, Give yer bran'-new, shiny tin, I'm the softest snap on earth,"     Says old Jason, with a grin.    Jason gits the women's ear Tellin' news and talkin' dress; Can 't be peddlin' forty year An' not know 'em more or less; Children like him; sakes alive! Why, my Jim, the other night, Says, "When I git big I'll drive Peddler's cart, like Jason White!"  

 

     "SARY EMMA'S PHOTYGRAPHS" 

  Our Sary Emma is possessed ter be at somethin' queer; She's allers doin' loony things, unheard of fur and near. One time there wa'n't no limit ter the distance she would tramp Ter get a good-fer-nothin', wuthless, cancelled postage-stamp;   Another spell folks couldn't rest ontil, by hook or crook, She got 'em all ter write their names inside a leetle book; But though them fits was bad enough, the wust is nowadays, Fer now she's got that pesky freak, the photygraphin' craze. She had ter have a camera—and them things cost a sight—   So she took up subscriptions fer the "Woman's Home Delight"   And got one fer a premium—a blamed new-fangled thing, That takes a tin-type sudden, when she presses on a spring; And sence she got it, sakes alive! there's nothin' on the place That hain't been pictured lookin' like a horrible disgrace:   The pigs, the cows, the horse, the colt, the chickens large and small; She goes a-gunnin' fer 'em, and she bags 'em, one and all. She tuk me once a-settin' up on top a load er hay:   My feet shets out the wagon, and my head's a mile away; She took her Ma in our back yard, a-hanging out the clothes, With hands as big as buckets, and a face that's mostly nose. A yard of tongue and monstrous teeth is what she calls a dog; The cat's a kind er fuzzy-lookin' shadder in a fog; And I've got a suspicion that what killed the brindle calf Was that he seen his likeness in our Sary's photygraph. She's "tonin'," er "develerpin'," er "printin'," ha'f the time; She's allers buyin' pasteboard ter mount up her latest crime:   Our front room and the settin'-room is like 

 Prev. P 24/61 next