As the busy knives thro’ the apples slip.
O ’er the luscious fruit for dried-apple pie.
That the rollicking sport of the apple-bee,
--The sweetness of smiles, the touch of the
Hands flashing there in the candle-light,--
To those mellowing strings, those festoons dun
And the tricking song of a big, blue fly;
How often I’ve wondered where she can be.
And doomed to be finally tombed in a pie.
Now there’s Hezekiall Adams--nicest man you
Never had a row with no one; never once got
Always worked like thunderation, but to save
Never seemed to get forehanded--and I’ve laid
For she always kept him meechin’; calls him
Till the critter hasn’t gumption for to say his
Lopped on the gate ’cross the upper rail.
But marm’s kept my back on a big hot brick
“It’s too early to hoe when the ground’s so dry?”
I’m sartin’ of is, I shall dig come fall.”
Like we farmers can fatten the pocket-book.”
“But inarm vows there ain’t much she can see.”
Says I, “but there’s money for folks with
Old Hezekiah shifted legs and give a lonesome
He has always worked like blazes, but, has
--Made his grabs at prancin’ Fortune, but has
Never jumped and gripped the bridle--wouldn’t
Always acts too blasted meechin’--and I’ve laid
’Tain’t much of a jingle, ’tain’t much of a tune,
But it’s spang-fired truth about Chester Cahoon.
Was Chester Cahoon of the Tuttsville Brigade.
He was boss of the tub and the foreman of hose;
When the ’larm rung he’d start, sis, a-sheddin’
--Slung cote and slung wes’cote and kicked off
A-runnin’ like fun, for he’d no time to lose.
And he’d howl down the ro’d in a big cloud of
For he made it his brag he was allus there fust.
--Allus there fust, with a whoop and a shout,
And he never shut up till the fire was out.
And he’d knock out the winders and save all the
And tear off the clapboards, and rip up the
For he allus allowed ’twas a tarnation sin
To ’low ’em to burn, for you’d want ’em agin.
He gen’rally stirred up the most of his touse
In hustling to save the outside of the house.
And after he’d wrassled and hollered and pried,
He’d let up and tackle the stuff ’twas inside.
To see him you’d think he was daft as a loon,
But that was jest habit with Chester Cahoon.
Now see what ye think of a doin’ like this:
The time of the fire at Jenkins’ old place