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RUBÁIYÁT OF DOC SIFERS
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
POEMS HERE AT HOME.
NEGHBORLY POEMS.
SKETCHES IN PROSE AND OCCASIONAL VERSES.
AFTERWHILES.
PIPES O' PAN (Prose and Verse).
RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD.
FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT.
OLD-FASHIONED ROSES (English Edition).
GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS.
ARMAZINDY.
A CHILD-WORLD.
AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE.
RUBÁIYÁT OF DOC SIFERS
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
ILLUSTRATED
BY
C. M. RELYEA
PUBLISHED BY THE CENTURY CO.
NEW YORK M DCCC XC VII
Copyright, 1897,
By The Century Co.
Copyright, 1897,
By James Whitcomb Riley
The De Vinne Press.
TO
DR. FRANKLIN W. HAYS
THE LOYAL CHUM OF MY LATEST YOUTH
AND LIKE FRIEND AND COMRADE STILL
WITH ALL GRATEFUL AFFECTION OF
The Author.
We found him in that far-away that yet to us seems near— We vagrants of but yesterday when idlest youth was here,— When lightest song and laziest mirth possessed us through and through, And all the dreamy summer-earth seemed drugged with morning dew:
When our ambition scarce had shot a stalk or blade indeed: Yours,—choked as in the garden-spot you still deferred to "weed": Mine,—but a pipe half-cleared of pith—as now it flats and whines In sympathetic cadence with a hiccough in the lines.
Aye, even then—o timely hour!—the high gods did confer In our behalf:—and, clothed in power, lo, came their courier— Not winged with flame nor shod with wind,—but ambling down the pike, Horseback, with saddlebags behind, and guise all human-like.
And it was given us to see, beneath his rustic rind, A native force and mastery of such inspiring kind, That half unconsciously we made obeisance.—smiling, thus His soul shone from his eyes and laid its glory over us.
· · · · · ·
Though, faring still that far-away that yet to us seems near, His form, through mists of yesterday, fades from the vision here, Forever as he rides, it is in retinue divine,— The hearts of all his time are his, with your hale heart and mine.
RUBÁIYÁT
OF
DOC SIFERS
I
Ef you don't know Doc Sifers I'll jes argy, here and now, You've bin a mighty little while about here, anyhow! 'Cause Doc he's rid these roads and woods—er swum 'em, now and then— And practised in this neighberhood sence hain't no tellin' when!
II
In radius o' fifteen mile'd, all p'ints o' compass round, No man er woman, chick er child, er team, on top o' ground, But knows him—yes, and got respects and likin' fer him, too, Fer all his so-to-speak dee-fects o' genius showin' through!
III
Some claims he's absent-minded; some has said they wuz afeard To take his powders when he come and dosed 'em out, and 'peared To have his mind on somepin' else—like County Ditch, er some New way o' tannin' mussrat-pelts, er makin' butter come.
IV
He's cur'ous—they hain't no mistake about it!—but he's got Enough o' extry brains to make a jury—like as not. They's no describin' Sifers,—fer, when all is said and done, He's jes hisse'f Doc Sifers—ner they hain't no other one!
V
Doc's allus sociable, polite, and 'greeable, you'll find— Pervidin' ef you strike him right and nothin' on his mind,— Like in some hurry, when they've sent fer Sifers quick, you see, To 'tend some sawmill-accident, er picnic jamboree;
VI
Er when the lightnin' 's struck some hare-brained harvest-hand; er in Some 'tempt o' suicidin'—where they'd ort to try ag'in! I've knowed Doc haul up from a trot and talk a' hour er two When railly he'd a-ort o' not a-stopped fer "Howdy-do!"
VII
And then, I've met him 'long the road, a-lopin',—starin' straight Ahead,—and yit he never knowed me when I hollered "Yate, Old Saddlebags!" all hearty-like, er "Who you goin' to kill?" And he'd say nothin'—only hike on faster, starin' still!
VIII
I'd bin insulted, many a time, ef I jes wuzn't shore Doc didn't mean a thing. And I'm not tetchy any more Sence that-air day, ef he'd a-jes a-stopped to jaw with me, They'd bin a little dorter less in my own fambily!
IX
Times now, at home, when Sifers' name comes up, I jes let on, You know, 'at I think Doc's to blame, the way he's bin and gone And disapp'inted folks—'Ll-jee-mun-nee! you'd ort to then Jes hear my wife light into me—"ongratefulest o' men!"
X
'Mongst all the women—mild er rough, splendifferous er plain, Er them with sense, er not enough to come in out the rain,— Jes ever' shape and build and style o' women, fat er slim— They all like Doc, and got a smile and pleasant word fer him!
XI
Ner hain't no horse I've ever saw but what'll neigh and try To sidle up to him, and paw, and sense him, ear-and-eye: Then jes a tetch o' Doc's old pa'm, to pat 'em, er to shove Along their nose—and they're as ca'm as any cooin' dove!
XII
And same with dogs,—take any breed, er strain, er pedigree, Er racial caste 'at can't concede no use fer you er me,— They'll putt all predju-dice aside in Doc's case and go in Kahoots with him, as satisfied as he wuz kith-and-kin!
XIII
And Doc's a wonder, trainin' pets!—He's got a chicken-hawk, In kind o' half-cage, where he sets out in the gyarden-walk, And got that wild bird trained so tame, he'll loose him, and he'll fly Clean to the woods!—Doc calls his name—and he'll come, by-and-by!
XIV
Some says no money down ud buy that bird o' Doc.—Ner no Inducement to the bird, says I, 'at he'd let Sifers go! And Doc he say 'at he's content—long as a bird o' prey Kin 'bide him, it's a compliment, and takes it thataway.
XV
But, gittin' back to docterin'—all the sick and in distress, And old and pore, and weak and small, and lone and motherless,— I jes tell you I 'preciate the man 'at 's got the love To "go ye forth and ministrate!" as Scriptur' tells us of.
XVI
Dull times, Doc jes mianders round, in that old rig o' his: And hain't no tellin' where he's bound ner guessin' where he is; He'll drive, they tell, jes thataway fer maybe six er eight Days at a stretch; and neighbers say he's bin clean round the State.
XVII
He picked a' old tramp up, one trip, 'bout eighty mile'd from here, And fetched him home and k-yored his hip, and kep' him 'bout a year; And feller said—in all his ja'nts round this terreschul ball 'At no man wuz a circumstance to Doc!—he topped 'em all!—
XVIII
Said, bark o' trees 's a' open book to Doc, and vines and moss He read like writin'—with a look knowed ever' dot and cross: Said, stars at night wuz jes as good 's a compass: said, he s'pose You couldn't lose Doc in the woods the darkest night that blows!
XIX
Said, Doc'll tell you, purty clos't, by underbresh and plants, How fur off warter is,—and 'most perdict the sort o' chance You'll have o' findin' fish; and how they're liable to bite, And whether they're a-bitin' now, er only after night.
XX
And, whilse we're talkin' fish,—I mind they formed a fishin'-crowd (When folks could fish 'thout gittin' fined, and seinin' wuz allowed!) O' leadin' citizens, you know, to go and seine "Old Blue"— But hadn't no big seine, and so—w'y, what wuz they to do?...
XXI
And Doc he say he thought 'at he could knit a stitch er two— "Bring the materials to me—'at's all I'm astin' you!" And down he sets—six weeks, i jing! and knits that seine plum done— Made corks too, brails and ever'thing—good as a boughten one!
XXII
Doc's public sperit—when the sick 's not takin' all his time And he's got some fer politics—is simple yit sublime:— He'll talk his principles—and they air honest;—but the sly Friend strikes him first, election-day, he'd 'commodate, er die!
XXIII
And yit, though Doc, as all men knows, is square straight up and down, That vote o' his is—well, I s'pose—the cheapest one in town;— A fact 'at's sad to verify, as could be done on oath— I've voted Doc myse'f—And I was criminal fer both!
XXIV
You kin corrupt the ballot-box—corrupt yourse'f, as well— Corrupt some neighbers,—but old Doc's as oncorruptible As Holy Writ. So putt a pin right there!—Let Sifers be, I jucks! he wouldn't vote agin his own worst inimy!
XXV
When Cynthy Eubanks laid so low with fever, and Doc Glenn Told Euby Cynth 'ud haf to go—they sends fer Sifers then!... Doc sized the case: "She's starved," says he, "fer warter—yes, and meat! The treatment 'at she'll git from me 's all she kin drink and eat!"
XXVI
He orders Euby then to split some wood, and take and build A fire in kitchen-stove, and git a young spring-chicken killed; And jes whirled in and th'owed his hat and coat there on the bed, And warshed his hands and sailed in that-air kitchen, Euby said,
XXVII
And biled that chicken-broth, and got that dinner—all complete And clean and crisp and good and hot as mortal ever eat! And Cynth and Euby both'll say 'at Doc'll git as good Meals-vittles up, jes any day, as any woman could!
XXVIII
Time Sister Abbick tuk so bad with striffen o' the lung, P'tracted Meetin', where she had jes shouted, prayed and sung All winter long, through snow and thaw,—when Sifers come, says he: "No, M'lissy; don't poke out your raw and cloven tongue at me!—
XXIX
"I know, without no symptoms but them injarubber-shoes You promised me to never putt a fool-foot in ner use At purril o' your life!" he said. "And I won't save you now, Onless—here on your dyin' bed—you consecrate your vow!"
XXX
Without a-claimin' any creed, Doc's rail religious views Nobody knows—ner got no need o' knowin' whilse he choose To be heerd not of man, ner raise no loud, vainglorious prayers In crowded marts, er public ways, er—i jucks, anywheres!—
XXXI
'Less 'n it is away deep down in his own heart, at night, Facin' the storm, when all the town's a-sleepin' snug and tight— Him splashin' hence from scenes o' pride and sloth and gilded show, To some pore sufferer's bedside o' anguish, don't you know!
XXXII
Er maybe dead o' winter—makes no odds to Doc,—he's got To face the weather ef it takes the hide off! 'cause he'll not Lie out o' goin' and p'tend he's sick hisse'f—like some 'At I could name 'at folks might send fer and they'd never come!
XXXIII
Like pore Phin Hoover—when he goes to that last dance o' his! That Chris'mus when his feet wuz froze—and Doc saved all they is Left of 'em—"'Nough," as Phin say now, "to track me by, and be A advertisement, anyhow, o' what Doc's done fer me!—
XXXIV
"When he come—knife-and-saw"—Phin say, "I knowed, ef I'd the spunk, 'At Doc 'ud fix me up some way, ef nothin' but my trunk Wuz left, he'd fasten casters in, and have me, spick-and-span, A-skootin' round the streets ag'in as spry as any man!"
XXXV
Doc sees a patient's got to quit—he'll ease him down serene As dozin' off to sleep, and yit not dope him with mor-pheen.— He won't tell what—jes 'lows 'at he has "airn't the right to sing 'O grave, where is thy victery! O death, where is thy sting!'"
XXXVI
And, mind ye now!—it's not in scoff and scorn, by long degree, 'At Doc gits things like that-un off: it's jes his shority And total faith in Life to Come,—w'y, "from that Land o' Bliss," He says, "we'll haf to chuckle some, a-lookin' back at this!"
XXXVII
And, still in p'int, I mind, one night o' 'nitiation at Some secert lodge, 'at Doc set right down on 'em, square and flat, When they mixed up some Scriptur' and wuz funnin'-like—w'y, he Lit in 'em with a rep'imand 'at ripped 'em, A to Z!
XXXVIII
And onc't—when gineral loafin'-place wuz old Shoe-Shop—and all The gang 'ud git in there and brace their backs ag'inst the wall And settle questions that had went onsettled long enough,— Like "wuz no Heav'n—ner no torment"—jes talkin' awful rough!
XXXIX
There wuz Sloke Haines and old Ike Knight and Coonrod Simmes—all three Ag'inst the Bible and the Light, and scoutin' Deity. "Science," says Ike, "it dimonstrates—it takes nobody's word— Scriptur' er not,—it 'vestigates ef sich things could occurred!"
XL
Well, Doc he heerd this,—he'd drapped in a minute, fer to git A tore-off heel pegged on agin,—and, as he stood on it And stomped and grinned, he says to Ike, "I s'pose now, purty soon Some lightnin'-bug, indignant-like, 'll ''vestigate' the moon!...
XLI
"No, Ike," says Doc, "this world hain't saw no brains like yourn and mine With sense enough to grasp a law 'at takes a brain divine.— I've bared the thoughts of brains in doubt, and felt their finest pulse,— And mortal brains jes won't turn out omnipotent results!"
XLII
And Doc he's got respects to spare the rich as well as pore— Says he, "I'd turn no millionaire onsheltered from my door."— Says he, "What's wealth to him in quest o' honest friends to back And love him fer hisse'f?—not jes because he's made his jack!"
XLIII
And childern.—Childern? Lawzy-day! Doc worships 'em!—You call Round at his house and ast 'em!—they're a-swarmin' there—that's all!— They're in his Lib'ry—in best room—in kitchen—fur and near,— In office too, and, I p'sume, his operatin'-cheer!
XLIV
You know they's men 'at bees won't sting?—They's plaguey few,—but Doc He's one o' them.—And same, i jing! with childern;—they jes flock Round Sifers natchurl!—in his lap, and in his pockets, too, And in his old fur mitts and cap, and heart as warm and true!
XLV
It's cur'ous, too,—'cause Doc hain't got no childern of his own— 'Ceptin' the ones he's tuk and brought up, 'at's bin left alone. And orphans when their father died, er mother,—and Doc he Has he'pped their dyin' satisfied.—"The child shall live with me
XLVI
"And Winniferd, my wife," he'd say, and stop right there, and cle'r His th'oat, and go on thinkin' way some mother-hearts down here Can't never feel their own babe's face a-pressin' 'em, ner make Their naked breasts a restin'-place fer any baby's sake.
XLVII
Doc's Lib'ry—as he calls it,—well, they's ha'f-a-dozen she'ves Jam-full o' books—I couldn't tell how many—count yourse'ves! One whole she'f's Works on Medicine! and most the rest's about First Settlement, and Indians in here,—'fore we driv 'em out.—
XLVIII
And Plutarch's Lives—and life also o' Dan'el Boone, and this- Here Mungo Park, and Adam Poe—jes all the lives they is! And Doc's got all the novels out,—by Scott and Dickison And Cooper.—And, I make no doubt, he's read 'em ever' one!
XLIX
Onc't, in his office, settin' there, with crowd o' eight er nine Old neighbers with the time to spare, and Doc a-feelin' fine, A man rid up from Rollins, jes fer Doc to write him out Some blame p'scription—done, I guess, in minute, nigh about.—
L
And I says, "Doc, you 'pear so spry, jes write me that recei't You have fer bein' happy by,—fer that 'u'd shorely beat Your medicine!" says I.—And quick as s'cat! Doc turned and writ And handed me: "Go he'p the sick, and putt your heart in it."
LI
And then, "A-talkin' furder 'bout that line o' thought," says he, "Ef we'll jes do the work cut out and give' to you and me, We'll lack no joy, ner appetite, ner all we'd ort to eat, And sleep like childern ever' night—as puore and ca'm and sweet."
LII
Doc has bin 'cused o' offishness and lack o' talkin' free And extry friendly; but he says, "I'm 'feard o' talk," says he,— "I've got," he says, "a natchurl turn fer talkin' fit to kill.— The best and hardest thing to learn is trick o' keepin' still."
LIII
Doc kin smoke, and I s'pose he might drink licker—jes fer fun. He says, "You smoke, you drink all right; but I don't—neether one"— Says, "I like whiskey—'good old rye'—but like it in its place, Like that-air warter in your eye, er nose there on your face."
LIV
Doc's bound to have his joke! The day he got that off on me I jes had sold a load o' hay at "Scofield's Livery," And tolled Doc in the shed they kep' the hears't in, where I'd hid The stuff 'at got me "out o' step," as Sifers said it did.
LV
Doc hain't, to say, no "rollin' stone," and yit he hain't no hand Fer 'cumulatin'.—Home's his own, and scrap o' farmin'-land— Enough to keep him out the way when folks is tuk down sick The suddentest—'most any day they want him 'special quick.
LVI
And yit Doc loves his practice; ner don't, wilful, want to slight No call—no matter who—how fur away—er day er night.— He loves his work—he loves his friends—June, Winter, Fall, and Spring: His lovin'—facts is—never ends; he loves jes ever'thing....
LVII
'Cept—keepin' books. He never sets down no accounts.—He hates, The worst of all, collectin' debts—the worst, the more he waits.— I've knowed him, when at last he had to dun a man, to end By makin' him a loan—and mad he hadn't more to lend.
LVIII
When Pence's Drug Store ust to be in full blast, they wuz some Doc's patients got things frekantly there, charged to him, i gum!— Doc run a bill there, don't you know, and allus when he squared, He never questioned nothin',—so he had his feelin's spared.
LIX
Now sich as that, I hold and claim, hain't 'scusable—it's not Perfessional!—It's jes a shame 'at Doc hisse'f hain't got No better business-sense! That's why lots 'd respect him more, And not give him the clean go-by fer other doctors. Shore!
LX
This-here Doc Glenn, fer instance; er this little jack-leg Hall;— They're business—folks respects 'em fer their business more 'n all They ever knowed, er ever will, 'bout medicine.—Yit they Collect their money, k-yore er kill.—They're business, anyway!
LXI
You ast Jake Dunn;—he's worked it out in figgers.—He kin show Stastistics how Doc's airnt about three fortunes in a row,— Ever' ten-year' hand-runnin' straight—three of 'em—thirty year' 'At Jake kin count and 'lucidate o' Sifers' practice here.
LXII
Yit—"Praise the Lord," says Doc, "we've got our little home!" says he— "(It's railly Winniferd's, but what she owns, she sheers with me.) We' got our little gyarden-spot, and peach- and apple-trees, And stable, too, and chicken-lot, and eighteen hive' o' bees."
LXIII
You call it anything you please, but it's witchcraft—the power 'At Sifers has o' handlin' bees!—He'll watch 'em by the hour— Mix right amongst 'em, mad and hot and swarmin'!—yit they won't Sting him, er want to—'pear to not,—at least I know they don't.
LXIV
With me and bees they's no p'tense o' social-bility— A dad-burn bee 'u'd climb a fence to git a whack at me! I s'pose no thing 'at's got a sting is railly satisfied It's sharp enough, ontel, i jing! he's honed it on my hide!
LXV
And Doc he's allus had a knack inventin' things.—Dee-vised A windlass wound its own se'f back as it run down: and s'prised Their new hired girl with clothes-line, too, and clothes-pins, all in one: Purt'-nigh all left fer her to do wuz git her primpin' done!
LXVI
And onc't, I mind, in airly Spring, and tappin' sugar-trees, Doc made a dad-burn little thing to sharpen spiles with—these- Here wood'-spouts 'at the peth's punched out, and driv' in where they bore The auger-holes. He sharpened 'bout a million spiles er more!
LXVII
And Doc's the first man ever swung a bucket on a tree Instid o' troughs; and first man brung grained sugar—so's 'at he Could use it fer his coffee, and fer cookin', don't you know.— Folks come clean up from Pleasantland 'fore they'd believe it, though!
LXVIII
And all Doc's stable-doors onlocks and locks theirse'ves—and gates The same way;—all rigged up like clocks, with pulleys, wheels, and weights,— So, 's Doc says, "drivin' out, er in, they'll open; and they'll then, All quiet-like, shet up ag'in like little gentlemen!"
LXIX
And Doc 'ud made a mighty good detective.—Neighbers all Will testify to that—er could, ef they wuz legal call: His theories on any crime is worth your listenin' to.— And he has hit 'em, many a time, 'long 'fore established true.
LXX
At this young druggist Wenfield Pence's trial fer his life, On primy faishy evidence o' pizonin' his wife, Doc's testimony saved and cle'red and 'quitted him and freed Him so 's he never even 'peared cog-nizant of the deed!
LXXI
The facts wuz—Sifers testified,—at inquest he had found The stummick showed the woman died o' pizon, but had downed The dos't herse'f,—because amount and cost o' drug imployed No druggist would, on no account, a-lavished and distroyed!
LXXII
Doc tracked a blame-don burgler down, and nailed the scamp, to boot, But told him ef he'd leave the town he wouldn't prosecute. He traced him by a tied-up thumb-print in fresh putty, where Doc glazed it. Jes that's how he come to track him to his lair!
LXXIII
Doc's jes a leetle too inclined, some thinks, to overlook The criminal and vicious kind we'd ort to bring to book And punish, 'thout no extry show o' sympathizin', where They hain't showed none fer us, you know. But he takes issue there:
LXXIV
Doc argies 'at "The Red-eyed Law," as he says, "ort to learn To lay a mighty leenient paw on deeds o' sich concern As only the Good Bein' knows the wherefore of, and spreads His hands above accused and sows His mercies on their heads."
LXXV
Doc even holds 'at murder hain't no crime we got a right To hang a man fer—claims it's taint o' lunacy, er quite.— "Hold sich a man responsibul fer murder," Doc says,—"then, When he's hung, where's the rope to pull them sound-mind jurymen?
LXXVI
"It's in a nutshell—all kin see," says Doc,—"it's cle'r the Law's As ap' to err as you er me, and kill without a cause: The man most innocent o' sin I've saw, er 'spect to see, Wuz servin' a life-sentence in the penitentchury."
LXXVII
And Doc's a whole hand at a fire!—directin' how and where To set your ladders, low er higher, and what first duties air,— Like formin' warter-bucket-line; and best man in the town To chop holes in old roofs, and mine defective chimblies down:
LXXVIII
Er durin' any public crowd, mass-meetin', er big day, Where ladies ortn't be allowed, as I've heerd Sifers say,— When they's a suddent rush somewhere, it's Doc's voice, ca'm and cle'r, Says, "Fall back, men, and give her air!— that's all she's faintin' fer."
LXXIX
The sorriest I ever feel fer Doc is when some show Er circus comes to town and he'll not git a chance to go. 'Cause he jes natchurly delights in circuses—clean down From tumblers, in their spangled tights, to trick-mule and Old Clown.
LXXX
And ever'body knows it, too, how Doc is, thataway!... I mind a circus onc't come through—wuz there myse'f that day.— Ringmaster cracked his whip, you know, to start the ridin'—when In runs Old Clown and hollers "Whoa!—Ladies and gentlemen
LXXXI
"Of this vast audience, I fain would make inquiry cle'r, And learn, find out, and ascertain—Is Doctor Sifers here?" And when some fool-voice bellers down: "He is! He's settin' in Full view o' ye!" "Then," says the Clown, "the circus may begin!"
LXXXII
Doc's got a temper; but, he says, he's learnt it which is boss, Yit has to watch it, more er less.... I never seen him cross But onc't, enough to make him swear;—milch-cow stepped on his toe, And Doc ripped out "I doggies!"—There's the only case I know.
LXXXIII
Doc says that's what your temper's fer—to hold back out o' view, And learn it never to occur on out ahead o' you.— "You lead the way," says Sifers—"git your temper back in line— And furdest back the best, ef it's as mean a one as mine!"
LXXXIV
He hates contentions—can't abide a wrangle er dispute O' any kind; and he 'ull slide out of a crowd and skoot Up some back-alley 'fore he'll stand and listen to a furse When ary one's got upper-hand and t' other one's got worse.
LXXXV
Doc says: "I 'spise, when pore and weak and awk'ard talkers fails, To see it's them with hardest cheek and loudest mouth prevails.— A' all-one-sided quarr'l'll make me biased, mighty near,— 'Cause ginerly the side I take's the one I never hear."
LXXXVI
What 'peals to Doc the most and best is "seein' folks agreed, And takin' ekal interest and universal heed O' ever'body else's words and idies—same as we Wuz glad and chirpy as the birds—jes as we'd ort to be!"
LXXXVII
And paterotic! Like to git Doc started, full and fair, About the war, and why 't 'uz fit, and what wuz 'complished there; "And who wuz wrong," says Doc, "er right, 't 'uz waste o' blood and tears, All prophesied in Black and White fer years and years and years!"
LXXXVIII
And then he'll likely kind o' tetch on old John Brown, and dwell On what his warnin's wuz; and ketch his breath and cough, and tell On down to Lincoln's death. And then—well, he jes chokes and quits With "I must go now, gentlemen!" and grabs his hat, and gits!
LXXXIX
Doc's own war-rickord wuzn't won so much in line o' fight As line o' work and nussin' done the wownded, day and night.— His wuz the hand, through dark and dawn, 'at bound their wownds, and laid As soft as their own mother's on their forreds when they prayed....
XC
His wuz the face they saw the first—all dim, but smilin' bright, As they come to and knowed the worst, yit saw the old Red-White- And-Blue where Doc had fixed it where they'd see it wavin' still, Out through the open tent-flap there, er 'cros't the winder-sill.
XCI
And some's a-limpin' round here yit—a-waitin' Last Review,— 'U'd give the pensions 'at they git, and pawn their crutches, too, To he'p Doc out, ef he wuz pressed financial'—same as he Has allus he'pped them when distressed—ner never tuk a fee.
XCII
Doc never wuz much hand to pay attention to p'tence And fuss-and-feathers and display in men o' prominence: "A railly great man," Sifers 'lows, "is not the out'ard dressed— All uniform, salutes and bows, and swellin' out his chest.
XCIII
"I met a great man onc't," Doc says, "and shuk his hand," says he, "And he come 'bout in one, I guess, o' disapp'intin' me— He talked so common-like, and brought his mind so cle'r in view And simple-like, I purt'-nigh thought, 'I'm best man o' the two!'"
XCIV
Yes-sir! Doc's got convictions and old-fashioned kind o' ways And idies 'bout this glorious Land o' Freedom; and he'll raise His hat clean off, no matter where, jes ever' time he sees The Stars and Stripes a-floatin' there and flappin' in the breeze.
XCV
And tunes like old "Red, White and Blue" 'll fairly drive him wild, Played on the brass band, marchin' through the streets! Jes like a child I've saw that man, his smile jes set, all kind o' pale and white, Bare-headed, and his eyes all wet, yit dancin' with delight!
XCVI
And yit, that very man we see all trimbly, pale and wann, Give him a case o' surgery, we'll see another man!— We'll do the trimblin' then, and we'll git white around the gills— He'll show us nerve o' nerves, and he 'ull show us skill o' skills!
XCVII
Then you could toot your horns and beat your drums and bang your guns, And wave your flags and march the street, and charge, all Freedom's sons!— And Sifers then, I bet my hat, 'u'd never flinch a hair, But, stiddy-handed, 'tend to that pore patient layin' there.
XCVIII
And Sifers' eye's as stiddy as that hand o' his!—He'll shoot A' old-style rifle, like he has, and smallest bore, to boot, With any fancy rifles made to-day, er expert shot 'At works at shootin' like a trade—and all some of 'em's got!
XCIX
Let 'em go right out in the woods with Doc, and leave their "traps" And blame glass-balls and queensware-goods, and see how Sifers draps A squirrel out the tallest tree.—And 'fore he fires he'll say Jes where he'll hit him—yes, sir-ee! And he's hit thataway!
C
Let 'em go out with him, i jucks! with fishin'-pole and gun,— And ekal chances, fish and ducks, and take the rain, er sun, Jes as it pours, er as it blinds the eye-sight; then, I guess, 'At they'd acknowledge, in their minds, their disadvantages.
CI
And yit he'd be the last man out to flop his wings and crow Insultin'-like, and strut about above his fallen foe!— No-sir! the hand 'at tuk the wind out o' their sails 'ud be The very first they grabbed, and grinned to feel sich sympathy.
CII
Doc gits off now and then and takes a huntin'-trip somewhere 'Bout Kankakee, up 'mongst the lakes—sometimes'll drift round there In his canoe a week er two; then paddle clean on back By way o' old Wabash and Blue, with fish—all he kin pack,—
CIII
And wild ducks—some with feathers on 'em yit, and stuffed with grass. And neighbers—all knows he's bin gone—comes round and gits a bass— A great big double-breasted "rock," er "black," er maybe pair Half fills a' ordinary crock.... Doc's fish'll give out there
CIV
Long 'fore his ducks!—But folks'll smile and blandish him, and make Him tell and tell things!—all the while enjoy 'em jes fer sake O' pleasin' him; and then turn in and la'nch him from the start A-tellin' all the things ag'in they railly know by heart.
CV
He's jes a child, 's what Sifers is! And-sir, I'd ruther see That happy, childish face o' his, and puore simplicity, Than any shape er style er plan o' mortals otherwise— With perfect faith in God and man a-shinin' in his eyes.
Tamám.
Transcriber's Note:
All variations in spelling, inconsistent hyphenation and spelling have been retained as they appear in the original text.
