Читать книгу Up in Maine: Stories of Yankee Life Told in Verse - Holman Day - Страница 17

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Your marmy’s mixin’ cream o’ tartar biskit up

for tea;

Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!

And I reckon you had better come and roost

upon my knee;

Tumpy, dumpy, deedle, leetle barby!

I s’picion how ye never heard of Ebernezer

Cowles.

Tell ye what, he warn’t brung up to be afraid of

owls.

Reckon that a spryer critter never tailored

boots;

Allus up to monkey tricks and full o’ squirms

and scoots.

Once he done a curis thing, I vummy, on a

stump:

Set a larder up one end and gin’ a mighty jump;

Run right up the larder, jest as nimble as a

monkey,

Balarnced, I sh’d suttin say, a minit—all a-

hunky;

Then he straddled out on air and grabbed the

pesky larder

And run ’er up another length—another length,

suh, farder;

Skittered up that larder ’fore she had a chance

to teeter,

Quicker’n any pussy cat—lighter’n a mos-

keeter.

Soon’s he clambered to the top, grabbed the

upper rung,

Ketched hisself with t’other hand, and there the

critter hung.

Gaffled up his britches’ slack and took a resky

charnce

And thar’ he held hisself right out, arms-length,

suh, by his parnts.

Ye ought ter heerd, my barby dear, the cheerins

and the howls

The crowd let out when they’d obsarved that

trick of Mister Cowles.

Sing’lar thing of which I sing—might not

think ’twas true;

Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!

But ye know, my leetle snoozer, grampy wouldn’t

lie to you,

—To his dumpy, dumpy deedle, leetle

barby.

Hush, I guess that mammy isn’t done a-makin’

bread,

We ain’t at all pertic’lar how she overhears

what’s said.

Ye’re over-young, purraps, to hear of Sam’wel

Doubl’yer Strout,

—Weighed about two hundred pounds, and,

chowder, warn’t he stout!

Used to work for me one time as sort of extry

hand,

—Allus planned to ’gage him when I cleared up

any land;

Once I see him lug a rock with fairly mod’rit

ease

So hefty that at ev’ry step he sunk above his

knees.

Hain’t at all surprised to see the wonder in your

eye;

Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!

But ye know your poor old grampy wouldn’t

tell ye ary lie,

—To his tumpy, dumpy deedle, leetle

barby.

Course ye’ve never heerd ’em tell of Atha-ni-al

Prime,

For he was round a-raisin’ Cain so long afore

your time.

Used to run the muley saw down to Hopkins

mill,

—Allus euttin’ ding-does up—a master curis

pill!

Once the chaps that tended sluice stood upon a

log,

Got to argyin’ this and that, suthin’ ’bout a dog.

Clean forgot to start the log a-goin’ up the

sluice,

But shook their fists and hollered round and spit

torbarker juice.

Atha-ni-al heerd the towse and grabbed a pick-

pole up,

—Wasn’t goin’ to stop a mill to fight about a

pup—

Tied a rope around the pole and then he let her

flam,

Speared the end of that air log and yanked her

quicker’n Sam.

Log, suh, come right out the bark, he twitched

the thing so quick;

Fellers never felt the yank, ’twas done so smooth

and slick.

Log come out and up the sluice and left behind

the bark,

—Fellers thought the log was there and stood

and chawed till dark.

Sing’lar things has come to pass when I was

young as you;

Fie, deedle, deedle, leetle ba-a-arby!

And best of all, what grampy sings you bet your

life is true,

Tumpy, deedle, dumpy, leetle barby.