A Practical Young Woman

Young Julius Jones loved Susan Slade;
And olt, in dulcet tones,
He vainly had besought the maid
To take the name of Jones.

“Wert thou but solid, then, be sure,
‘Twould be all right,” said she,
“But, Mr. J., whilst thou art poor
Pray think no more of me.”

Poor Jones was sad; his coat was bad;
His salary was worse;
But hope suggested: “Jones, my lad,
Just try the power of verse.”

He sat him down and wrote in rhyme
How she was in her spring,
And he in summer’s golden prime—
And all that sort of thing.

The poem praised her hair and eyes,
Her lips, with honey laden.
He wound it up—up in the skies—
And mailed it to the maiden.

She read it over, kept it clean,
Put on her finest raiment,
And took it to a magazine
And got ten dollars payment.

by Irwin Russell

A Sermon for the Sisters

I NEBBER breaks a colt afore he’s old enough to trabbel;
I nebber digs my taters tell dey plenty big to grabble.
An’ when you sees me risin’ up to structify in meetin’,
I’s fust clumb up de knowledge-tree an’ done some apple-eatin’.

I sees some sistahs pruzint, mighty proud o’ whut dey wearin’;
It’s well you isn’t apples, now, you better be declarin’!
Fur when ye heerd yo’ markit-price, ‘t’d hurt yo’ little feelin’s:
You wouldn’t fotch a dime a peck, fur all yo’ fancy peelin’s.

O sistahs!—leetle apples (fur you’re r’ally mighty like ’em)—
I lubs de ol’-time russets, dough it’s suldom I kin strike ’em;
An’ so I lubs you, sistahs, fur yo’ grace, an’ not yo’ graces—
I don’t keer how my apple looks, but on’y how it tas’es.

Is dey a Sabbat-scholah heah? Den let him ‘form his mudder
How Jacob-in-de-Bible’s boys played off upon dey brudder!
Dey sol’ him to a trader—an’ at las’ he struck de prison;
Dat comed ob Joseph’s struttin’ in dat streaked coat ob his’n.

My Christian frien’s, dis story proobs dat eben men is human—
He’d had a dozen fancy coats, ef he’d ‘a’ been a ooman!
De cussidness ob showin’ off, he toun out all about it;
An’ yit he wuz a Christian man, as good as ever shouted.

It l’arned him! An’ I bet you when he come to git his riches
Dey didn’t go fur stylish coats or Philadelphy breeches;
He didn’t was’e his money when experunce taught him better,
But went aroun’ a-lookin’ like he’s waitin’ fur a letter!

Now, sistahs, won’t you copy him? Say, won’t you take a lesson,
An’ min’ dis sollum wahnin’ ’bout de sin ob fancy dressin’?
How much you spen’ upon yo’self! I wish you might remember
Yo’ preacher ain’t been paid a cent sence somewhar in November.

I better close. I sees some gals dis sahmon’s kinder hittin’
A-whisperin’, an’ ‘sturbin’ all dat’s near whar dey’s a-sittin’;
To look at dem, an’ listen at dey onrespec’ful jabber,
It turns de milk ob human kin’ness mighty nigh to clabber!

by Irwin Russell

Along the Line

What say? A song or a story? Draw up a box ‘r a chair,
All them that is wantin’ to listen; — but, boys, I’m a-tellin’ you fair.
See this? It’ll go for the feller what takes a notion to laugh,
And him or me will be t’ our folks a man or a foretograph!

You didn’t know Jim — of course not — I’m tellin’ you now of him:
A fearful chap on his muscle, a wild old boy, was Jim;
But, boys, now don’t you forgit it, he was as good and square
As any man that the county held — and plenty o’ men was there.

Jim was alightnin’-jerker — of course you know’t I mean:
He sot at his little table and rattled the Morse machine.
And didn’t it rattle! I bet you! He’d studied it down so fine,
There wasn’t a one that could ” send ” with him, not all along the line.

One time Jim sat in the office, a-smokin’ and gazin’ out,
When in come a feller was lookin’ skeered — and nuff to be skeered about!
He told his news in a minute, and, man as he was, got cry’n’;
And ” Yaller fever is broken out! ” went clickin’ along the line.

I think that line was connected with every soul in the land,
From what was sent t’ us Howards — I’m one, d’ye understand?
Of all the parts o’ the Union, no tell’n’ which helped us most;
And we was a-workin’, we was, sir! And Jim he kep’ to his post.

All day long he was settin’ pushin’ away at the key,
Or takin’ off from the sounder, just as the case might be;
And most of the night a-nursin’. And what was bracin’ his heart
Was knowin’ his only sister ‘n’ him was seventy miles apart.

The air got full o’ the fever; grass growed up in the street;
Travel the town all over, and never a man you’d meet,
‘Cept, maybe, some feller a-runnin’, who’d say, as he passed you by:
” I’m tryin’ to find the doctor, ” or ” Billy is bound to die. ”

When folks went under — they might be the very best in the land —
We throwed ’em into a white-pine box, and drayed ’em out off-hand,
To wait their turn to be planted, without a word or a prayer;
There wa’n’t no chance and there wa’n’t no time for prayin’ or preachin’ there.

Well, Jim, he minded his duty, and stuck to the work — oh, yes —
But, boys, one Saturday night, when he was busy sendin’ the press,
There come a break, and his office call, and soon as he’d time to sign,
” Your sister’s took the fever and died ” come flashin’ along the line.

Throw up the winder and let in air! How can I breathe or speak
With — Jim? Oh, certainly; news like that was bound tor to make him weak;
But Jim sot straight at the table — he wa’n’t the man to shirk!
And, calmer and cooler than I am now, he finished the company’s work.

But then he dropped; and in four days more all that was left of him
Was the wasted body that once had held the noblest soul — poor Jim!
O boys! that brother and sister was brother and sister o’ mine!
I wonder if ever we’ll meet ag’in, somewheres along the line.

by Irwin Russell