On a tussock of grass; and he pulled out the
That jealously gagged the old iron-stone jug.
And cocking his jug on his elbow he rigged
And set down the jug with a satisfied smack.
“Aha!” said he, “that grows the hair on ye,
My rule durin’ hayin’s more cider, less grub.
I take it, sah, wholly to stiddy my nerves,
On a drink of straight cider, in harnsomer shape
Than a feller could do on the juice of the grape.
Some new folderinos come ’long every day,
All sorts of new jiggers to help git yer hay.
Improvements on cutter bars, hoss forks, and
And tedders and spreaders and all of them fakes.
But all of their patents ain’t fixed it so yit
That hayin’ is done without git-up and git.
If ye want the right stuff, sah, to take up the
The stuff to put buckram right inter yer back,
The stuff that will limber and ile up yer j’ints,
Just trot out some cider and drink it by pints.
It ain’t got no patents--it helps you make hay
As it helped out our dads in their old-fashioned
’Twill irrigate some, but it won’t see ye through.
And ice water’ll chill ye, and skim milk is durn
Mean stuff any place, sah, except in a churn.
--The man who gits bit by the adder’s a fool,--
But when it comes hayin’ and folks have to strain,
I tell you, old cider’s a stand-by in Maine.”
And patiently gazed on the hay while it “made.”
And, jedged from looks, there warn’t no doubt
Laid out his shroud--when first they knew,
And so he laughed and laughed and laughed.
But foresight is better and safer, old chap.
Experiment teaches, but common sense reaches
And tests the bright baubles in Dame Future’s
But he got right up and slam-banged through.
His plan was, “Never look up; just climb.”
He strung the chain ’round a good big rock
Of a hook and link, and it’s called a fid.
By the ends, and he looked and he got profane.
But he couldn’t find it and wouldn’t wait,
And the crack-brained critter--what do ye
Why, he stuck his thumb in the unhooked link.
He didn’t consider that ’twarn’t his fid,
When the deed is done and the thing is through:
You stick your thumb where it don’t belong
And the world will yank it, good and strong.
But you’d better ask foresight to give ye a
Or, first thing you’re knowin’, Old World will be
And he’ll laugh while you howl with your thumb