Читать книгу Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches - James Whitcomb Riley - Страница 8

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The Summer's put the idy in

My head that I'm a boy again;

And all around's so bright and gay

I want to put my team away,

And jest git out whare I can lay

And soak my hide full of the day!

But work is work, and must be done—

Yit, as I work, I have my fun,

Jest fancyin' these furries here

Is childhood's paths onc't more so dear:—

And as I walk through medder-lands,

And country lanes, and swampy trails

Whare long bullrushes bresh my hands;

And, tilted on the ridered rails

Of deadnin' fences, "Old Bob White"

Whissels his name in high delight,

And whirrs away. I wunder still,

Whichever way a boy's feet will—

Whare trees has fell, with tangled tops

Whare dead leaves shakes, I stop fer breth,

Heerin' the acorn as it drops—

H'istin' my chin up still as deth,

And watchin' clos't, with upturned eyes,

The tree where Mr. Squirrel tries

To hide hisse'f above the limb,

But lets his own tale tell on him.

I wunder on in deeper glooms—

Git hungry, hearin' female cries

From old farm-houses, whare perfumes

Of harvest dinners seems to rise

And ta'nt a feller, hart and brane,

With memories he can't explane.

I wunder through the underbresh,

Whare pig-tracks, pintin' to'rds the crick,

Is picked and printed in the fresh

Black bottom-lands, like wimmern pick

Theyr pie-crusts with a fork, some way,

When bakin' fer camp-meetin' day.

I wunder on and on and on,

Tel my gray hair and beard is gone,

And ev'ry wrinkle on my brow

Is rubbed clean out and shaddered now

With curls as brown and fare and fine

As tenderls of the wild grape-vine

That ust to climb the highest tree

To keep the ripest ones fer me.

I wunder still, and here I am

Wadin' the ford below the dam—

The worter chucklin' round my knee

At hornet-welt and bramble-scratch,

And me a-slippin' 'crost to see

Ef Tyner's plums is ripe, and size

The old man's wortermelon-patch,

With juicy mouth and drouthy eyes.

Then, after sich a day of mirth

And happiness as worlds is wurth—

So tired that heaven seems nigh about—

The sweetest tiredness on earth

Is to git home and flatten out—

So tired you can't lay flat enugh,

And sorto' wish that you could spred

Out like molasses on the bed,

And jest drip off the aidges in

The dreams that never comes again.