Copyright, 1892, 1898, 1900
1903, 1907; 1908 James Whitcomb Riley
The Boy Lives on Our Farm
The Boy lives on our Farm, he’s not Afeard o’ horses none! An’ he can make ’em lop, er trot, Er rack, er pace, er run. Sometimes he drives two horses, when He comes to town an’ brings A wagon-full o’ ’taters nen, An’ roastin’-ears and’ things.
Two horses is “a team,” he says,— An’ when you drive er hitch, The rightun’s a “near-horse,” I guess, Er “off”—I don’ know which.— The Boy lives on our Farm, he told Me, too, ’at he can see, By lookin’ at their teeth how old A horse is, to a T!
I’d be the gladdest boy alive Ef I knowed as much as that, An’ could stand up like him an’ drive An’ ist push back my hat, Like he comes skallyhootin’ through Our alley, with one arm A-wavin’ Fare-ye-well! to you— The Boy lives on our Farm!
The Squirt-Gun Uncle Maked Me
Uncle Sidney, when he wuz here, Maked me a squirt-gun out o’ some Elder-bushes ’at growed out near Where wuz the brick-yard—’way out clear To where the Toll Gate come!
So when he walked back home again, He makes it, out in our Wood house where Wuz the old work-bench an’ the old jack-plane, An’ the old ’poke-shave, an’ the tools all lay’n’ Ist like he wants ’em there.
He sawed it first with the old hand-saw; An’ nen he peeled off the bark, an’ got Some glass an’ scraped it; and told ’bout Pa, When he wuz a boy an’ fooled his Ma, An’ the whippin’ ’at he caught.
Nen Uncle Sidney, he took an’ filed A’ old arn ramrod; an’ one o’ the ends He screwed fast into the vise; an’ smiled, Thinkin’, he said, o’ when he wuz a child, ’Fore him an’ Pa wuz mens.
He punched out the peth, an’ nen he putt A plug in the end with a hole notched through; Nen took the old drawey-knife an’ cut An’ maked a handle ’at shoved clean shut But ist where yer hand held to.
Aw’ he wropt th’ uther end with some string an’ white Piece o’ the sleeve of a’ old tored shirt; An’ nen he showed me to hold it tight, An’ suck in the water an’ work it right.— An’ it ’ud ist squirt an’ squirt!
Some Scattering Remarks of Bub’s
Wunst I took our pepper-box lid An’ cut little pie-dough biscuits, I did, An’ cooked ’em on our stove one day When our hired girl she said I may.
Honey’s the goodest thing—Oo-ooh! An’ blackburry-pies is goodest, too! But wite hot biscuits, ist soakin’ wet Wive tree-mullasus, is goodest yet!
Miss Maimie she’s my Ma’s friend,—an’ She’s purtiest girl in all the lan’!— An’ sweetest smile an’ voice an’ face— An’ eyes it looks like p’serves tas’e!
I ruther got to the Circus-show; But ’cause my parents told me so, I ruther go to the Sund’y School, ’Cause there I learn the goldun rule.
Say, Pa,—what is the goldun rule ’At’s allus at the Sund’y School?
Lizabuth-Ann on Bakin’-Day
Our Hired Girl, when it’s bakin’-day She’s out o’ patience allus An’ tells us “Hike outdoors an’ play, An’ when the cookie’s done,” she’ll say, “Land sake! she’ll come an’ call us!” An’ when the little doughbowl’s all Ist heapin’-full, she’ll come an’ call— Nen say, “She ruther take a switchin’ Than have a pack o’ pesky childern Trackin’ round the kitchen!”
The Old Hay-Mow
The Old Hay-mow’s the place to play Fer boys, when it’s a rainy day! I good-’eal ruther be up there Than down in town, er anywhere!
When I play in our stable-loft, The good old hay’s so dry an’ soft, An’ feels so fine, an’ smells so sweet, I ’most ferget to go an’ eat.
An’ one time wunst I did ferget To go ’tel dinner was all et,— An’ they had short-cake—an’—Bud he Hogged up the piece Ma saved fer me
Nen I won’t let him play no more In our hay-mow where I keep store An’ got hen-eggs to sell,—an’ shoo The cackle-un old hen out, too!
An’ nen, when Aunty she was here A-visitun from Rensselaer, An’ bringed my little cousin—he Can come up there an’ play with me.
But, after while—when Bud he bets ’At I can’t turn no summersetts,— I let him come up, ef he can Ae’ ha’f-way like a gentleman!
This work was published before January 1, 1930, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
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