"You can cum down, sur," ses Marks, "you've lost your case;" and shore enuf, old Phil giv a verdik agin him like a darn.
Marks was a whale in his way. At the same court he was about to nonsoot a Doktor bekaus he didn't hav his diplomy, and the Doktor begged the court for time to go home after it. He rode seven miles and back as hard as he could lick it, and when he handed it over, Marks, ses he, "Now, sur, you will just take the stand and translate this lattin' into English, so that the court may onderstand it." Well, he jest caved, for he couldn't do it.
He lost his case in two minits, for the old squire sed that a dokter who couldn't read his diplomy had no more right to praktise than a magistrate what couldn't read the license had to jine two cuple together.
If ever there lived a Yankee lad, Wise or otherwise, good or bad, Who, seeing the birds fly, didn't jump With flapping arms from stake or stump, Or, spreading the tail Of his coat for a sail, Take a soaring leap from post or rail, And wonder why _He_ couldn't fly, And flap, and flutter, and wish, and try,-- If ever you knew a country dunce Who didn't try that as often as once, All I can say is, that's a sign He never would do for a hero of mine.
An aspiring genius was D. Green: The son of a farmer, age fourteen; His body was long and lank and lean,-- Just right for flying, as will be seen; He had two eyes as bright as a bean, And a freckled nose that grew between, A little awry,--for I must mention That he had riveted his attention Upon his wonderful invention, Twisting his tongue as he twisted the strings, And working his face as he worked the wings, And with every turn of gimlet and screw Turning and screwing his mouth round, too, Till his nose seemed bent To catch the scent, Around some corner, of new-baked pies, And his wrinkled cheeks and his squinting eyes Grew puckered into a queer grimace, That made him look very droll in the face, And also very wise. And wise he must have been, to do more Than ever a genius did before, Excepting Dædalus, of yore, And his son Icarus, who wore Upon their backs Those wings of wax He had read of in the old almanacs. Darius was clearly of the opinion That the air is also man's dominion, And that, with paddle or fin or pinion, We soon or late shall navigate The azure, as now we sail the sea. The thing looks simple enough to me; And, if you doubt it, Hear how Darius reasoned about it. "The birds can fly, an' why can't I? Must we give in," says he, with a grin, "That the bluebird an' phoebe Are smarter'n we be? Jest fold our hands an' see the swaller An' blackbird an' catbird beat us holler? Does the little, chatterin', sassy wren, No bigger'n my thumb, know more than men? Jest show me that! Ur prove't the bat Hez got more brains than's in my hat, An' I'll back down, an' not till then!" He argued further, "Nur I can't see What's the use o' wings to a bumble-bee, Fur to git a livin' with, more'n to me; Ain't my business Important's his'n is? That Icarus Made a perty muss: Him an' his daddy Dædalus They might 'a' knowed wings made o' wax Wouldn't stand sun-heat an' hard whacks. I'll make mine o' luther, Ur suthin' ur other."