Читать книгу Saint Abe and His Seven Wives - Robert Williams Buchanan - Страница 7

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Joe Wilson paused, and gazed straight down,

With gritting teeth and bitter frown,

And not till I entreated him

Did he continue,—fierce and grim,

With knitted brow and teeth clench'd tight.

"Along this way one summer night,

Jest as I meant to take the prize,

Passed an Apostle—dern his eyes!

On his old pony, gravel-eyed,

His legs a-dangling down each side,

With twinkling eyes and wheedling smile,

Grinning beneath his broad-brimm'd tile,

With heer all scent and shaven face.

He came a-trotting to the place.

My luck was bad, I wasn't near,

But busy many a mile from yer;

And what I tell was told to me

By them as were at hand to see.

'Twam't every day, I reckon, they

Saw an Apostle pass their way!

And Cissy, being kind o' soft,

And empty in the upper loft,

Was full of downright joy and pride

To hev thet saint at her fireside—

One of the seventy they call

The holiest holy—dern 'em all!

O he was 'cute and no mistake,

Deep as Salt Lake, and wide awake!

Theer at the ranche three days he stayed,

And well he knew his lying trade.

'Twarn't long afore he heard full free

About her larks and thet with me,

And how 'twas quite the fam'ly plan

To hev me for her second man.

At fust thet old Apostle said

Little, but only shook his head;

But you may bet he'd no intent

To let things go as things had went.

Three nights he stayed, and every night

He squeezed her hand a bit more tight;

And every night he didn't miss

To give a loving kiss to Ciss;

And tho' his fust was on her brow,

He ended with her mouth, somehow.

O, but he was a knowing one,

The Apostle Hiram Higginson!

Grey as a badger's was his heer,

His age was over sixty year

(Her grandfather was little older),

So short, his head just touch'd her shoulder;

His face all grease, his voice all puff,

His eyes two currants stuck in duff;—

Call thet a man!—then look at me!

Thretty year old and six foot three,

Afear'd o' nothing morn nor night,

The man don't walk I wouldn't fight!

Women is women! Thet's their style—

Talk reason to them and they'll bile;

But baste'em soft as any pigeon,

With lies and rubbish and religion;

Don't talk of flesh and blood and feeling,

But Holy Ghost and blessed healing;

Don't name things in too plain a way.

Look a heap warmer than you say,

Make'em believe they're serving true

The Holy Spirit and not you,

Prove all the world but you's damnation,

And call your kisses jest salvation;

Do this, and press'em on the sly,

You're safe to win'em. Jest you try!

"Fust thing I heerd of all this game,

One night when to the ranche I came,

Jump'd down, ran in, saw Cissy theer,

And thought her kind o' cool and queer;

For when I caught her with a kiss,

Twarn't that she took the thing amiss,

But kept stone cool and gev a sigh,

And wiped her mouth upon the sly

On her white milkin'-apron. 'Waal,'

Says I, 'you're out o' sorts, my gel!'

And with a squeamish smile for me,

Like folks hev when they're sick at sea,

Says she, 'O, Joseph, ere too late,

I am awaken'd to my state—

How pleasant and how sweet it is

To be in sech a state of bliss!'

I stared and gaped, and turned to Jim

Her brother, and cried out to him,

'Hullo, mate, what's the matter here?

What's come to Cissy? Is she queer?'

Jim gev a grin and answered 'Yes,

A trifle out o' sorts, I guess.'

But Cissy here spoke up and said,

'It ain't my stomach, nor my head,

It ain't my flesh, it ain't my skin,

It's holy spirits here within!'

'Waal,' says I, meanin' to be kind,

'I must be off, for I'm behind;

But next time that I pass this way

We'll fix ourselves without delay.

I know what your complaint is, Ciss,

I've seen the same in many a miss,

Keep up your spirits, thet's your plan.

You're lonely here without a man,

And you shall hev as good a one

As e'er druv hoss beneath the sun!'

At that I buss'd her with a smack.

Turn'd out, jump'd up, and took the track,

And larfing druv along the pass.

"Theer! Guess I was as green as grass!"