Would it give them back his boyhood smiles, His boyhood love, their simple joy,
Would it heal the wounds of these afterwhiles, And make him again their own dear boy?
Would it soothe the smart of the cruel words, Of sullen looks and cold neglect?
And dull the taunts that pierced like swords And slashed where the wielders little recked?
Rebuking with a stern reproof A son’s unfilial, shameless greed.
The glow of peace that shamed the storm And melted on the pane the sleet;
And faith and truth and loving hearts And tender trust in fellow men--
Ah, these, my friend, no lawyers’ arts Can give again, can give again.
He always dodged ’round in a ragged old coat,
With a tattered, blue comforter tied on his throat.
His dusty old cart used to rattle and bang
As he yelled through the village, “Gid dap!” and “Go ’lang!”
You’d think from his looks that he wa’n’t wuth a cent;
--Was poorer than Pooduc, to judge how he went.
But back in the country don’t reckon on style
When he died and they figgered his pus’nal estate,
He was mighty well-fixed--was old “Squeal- in’ Jim” Waite.
But say, I’d advise ye to sort of look out
How ye say “Squealin’ Jim” when the’s widders about.
They’re likely to light on ye, hot tar and pitch,
And give ye some points as to what, where and which;
For if ever a critter was reckoned a saint
By the widders’round here, I’ll be dinged if he ain’t.
For please understand that the widders call him,
--Sheddin’ tears while they’re sayin’ it,-- “Thanksgivin’ Jim”.
He was all of a whew If he’d things to do!
’Twas a zip and a streak when Jim went through.
And the boys all called him “Squealin’ Jim”.
He was always a-hurryin’ all through his life
And said there wa’n’t time for to hunt up a wife.
So he kept bach’s hall and he worked like a dog,
--Jest whooped right along at a trottin’ hoss
There’s a yarn that the fellers that knew him will tell
If they want to set Jim out and set him out well:
He was bound for the city on bus’ness one day
And whoosh! scooted down to the depot, they say.
The depot-man says, “Hain’t no rush, Mr. Waite,
For the train to the city is ten minutes late
Off flew Squealin’ Jim with his grip, on the run,
And away down the track he went hoofin’ like fun.
When he tore out of sight, couldn’t see him for dust