„ •* % \ \-"° v^^...»/V""/'^'>'- -o . . • .0^ \5 >. O^ ^ o " « . ''b <^ ♦..<." ^•?, Rude Rural Rhymes Bob Adams ^\>^ >Vu)>>\>>!jA5o CyA-JCl^-'^v^i Price 50 Cents Publi=hed by Bob Adams Syndicate Ithaca. N.Y. 1922 Copyright Robeit Moirill Adams 1922 FEB 16 "23 ©C1A698388 Dedicated to Hannah who has a sense of Humor Rude Rural Rhymes Being A Boy You know the Quaker poet writes of barefoot boys and their delights, of barefoot boys with cheek of tan and summer hills o'er which they ran — at- tractive pictures for the jaded, in rural rhymes that have mine faded; but of their truth I'm not persuaded. If at my side som,e potent fairy, with wings and wand both waving airy, should stop and offer me the jovs which appertain to barefoot boys, I'd say "What mischief are you brewing? Don't vamp me, dear; there's nothing doing. Go off and tempt some other man to be a boy with cheek of tan." My tan was localized in speckles; T was a boy with cheek of freckles, legs scratched with thorns and stuck with suibble and bruised .vitli stones and other rubble. I had no money when I would have. I had no hanky when I should have. I loved the preLty school marm misses, but primer kids got ail the kisses, or grown up lads who had the pluck; and hah grown b^ys wr-rc out of luck. Too many rocks waylaid n.y toe; the new nails took too long to grow. Tl;9 tliorn.s of life tjo (;:: would prick me, too many lackkiiives used to nick me, too many other boys '^^ould lick me. Too numy bossies Ke; i me harried; I have but one since I got married. Rude Rural Rhymes The Graduates O where are now the graduates w]jO left in June the college gates in fifties and in forty-eights, and those that swarmed from high school hives by twenties and by twenty-fives, all eager for to try their wings and eke the sharpness of their stings? We do not know where they have gone, but this we know, when years are flown, and gristle hardened into bone, when they're ground smooth where life's wheels whirr, they will be what they thought they were. Meanwhile they help to give us pep, with this old world to keep in step. If I my weight of years could shake, another trip through life to take, I would not start where life began nor be a boy with cheek of tan, a-wearing father's cut down clothes with big stone bruises on my toes: but I would choose a later date and ])e a fresh young graduate. Rude Rural Rhymes In Praise of Plumbing I sing the bathtub and its uses, its soap and suds and cleansing juices. How dear to my heart is its porcelain lining when Hannah has scmbbed it all clean and all shining, with nowhere upon it a circle of dark, some bather has left for a high water mark. How dear to my heart is the hot water fau- cet, the rack and the towels that spread out across it. I stand awhile oil one foot, first, just while the suds are at their worst, then teeter 'round up- on the other to rest and cool its par- boiled brother. As soon as I can stand the heat, I put in both my size-ten feet. The water still is over hot; I step about before I squat, in hopes to. find a cooler spot, and waiting yet an- other minute, I gingerly settle the rest of me in it. When I was young we had no tubs in which to take our weekly scrubs. If pa would bathe he had to pitch in and pack somie water to the kitchen. When that was hot, he call- ed for Bub to rustle up a laundry tub. And thei'e, with lather overlaid, cold kitchen drafts upon him played. Some folks keep warm with fat and loose flesh, but pa was thin and ran to goose flesh. He sprung the door a cau- tious crack; his deep bass voice rang through the shack and called for ma to wash his back. Then slipping in the soapy juice, he fell and jarred his backbone loose. O we have griefs and more are coming, but glory be for modern plumbing. Our lives of weal and woe are mixtures, but we have al! the modern fixtures. Rude Rural Rhymes A Seed-Time Song Sweet spring has come, her days are fair, her bluebirds flutter in the air. The noonday sun upon my lid is ghining hotter than it did. The blood of some ancestral gypsy is making me a little tipsy. Spring tickles me and makes me teeter, let's change to some more jazzy meter. Spring is the time to sharpen up the steel hoes, rub up the rakes and oil up the wheel hoes. I want to garden when I see the neighbors, digging in the dirt and sing- ing at their labors; old blue jeans and straw hat thatches, loosening the loam in old potato patches. I can kick a spade in spite of my bunions, I'll raise some beets, I'll raise some onions. I can work a hoe, in spite of my blisters, in among the corn and the pole bean twisters. I'll miake a dollar if I make a nickel, coaxing along a cucumber pickle. Stirring up the soil is good for rheumatics, good for your liver, your lights and lymphatics. Even supposing that every crop fails you, still the old garden is good for what ails you. Rude Rural Rhymes The Ad On The Fence I love my country's rocks and rills and feign would move from off her hills the billboard ads for liver pills. I love to gaze on some old barn that stands by wood or rock or tarn. I love its curves and graceful lines, its weathered boards from oaks and pines. I love its silo, cribs and mows, its Plymouth Rocks and brindle cows my farm-bom heart witn pleasure swells when I inhale its rich, lipe smells. But O I hate to see its back, exposed to road or railway track, in glaring paint give doubtful dope on some one's double-action soap, or urge relief from human ills by chewing six- teen-horsepowor pills. Around yon curve the engine scoots, and wayworn travelers press their snoots against the dusty window-panes, while tired eyes and weary brains drink in the peace of hills and plains. Forgetting cares and lack of cash, they gaze on fields of succotash. Green growin.;^ groves where dryads roost and bab- bling brooks their spirits boost. Tq keep these haunts for nymphs and Pan, the bilious billboard let us ban. Rude Rural Rhymes The Heritage I dwell in town, for me no more stretch woods and fields tlie house be- fore. Across the street, to side and rear, the homes of other men press near. Yet, come cold winds and cold- er rain and snow and shortened days again, to rural thoughts my mind goes back; I want a Farmers' Alman- ac, with longing strange, compelling, mystic, and doubtless partly atavistic. Old Bay State sires urge, "Take it from us the one you w^ant is good old Thomas." New Hampshire an- swers, "We'll not hev it, now look here, son, you get a Leavitt." And thus distracted, nothing loath, I com- promise and buy them both. Then first I scan above each date quaint pictures, old, appropriate; in Thomas see Sol's classic track, the twelve signs of the zodiac; while Leavitt limns field work and chores, the loaded wain, the lusty mowers. I shun the cold months next the cover and other chill days further over, but linger most where summer's charm lies light and sweet on wood and farm. I heed no more the winter storm; my days of June are "fair and warm." I hear the drip of summer showers, I feel the heat of noonday hours; in rest and labor, rain and shine, my fathers' life once more is mine. New Hampshire trusts to Deav- itt's promise while Massachusetts cleaves to Thomas, and so their son, a hybrid growth, is well content lo swear by both, no strain upon the double tether since both sing sun and growing weather. Rude Rural Rhymes Antf-Fat If more of fat than lean and bone is found along your central zone, and you admit within your soul, if you should fall, that you would roll, think less of victuals, less of quiet and more of exercise and diet. Let me advise, in due proportions, the morning Wal- ter Camp contortions. I've taught my uncle, aunt and cousin to take each day their Daily Dozen. But, as the oil hymn says of heaven, no other rule than this is given, that you must fight if you would win, deny yourself if you'd be thin; cut out the sugar, starch and fat, the punkin pie and things like that. O brothers in this noble cause, pray work your limbs and not your jaws. O bald-head boys once young and nifty, who now are forty-odd and fifty, you should have gardens growing thrifty. Peel off your coats and prove your worth; cut off the inches from your girth by plant- ing murphies in the earth. To give the work your system needs, between the rows sprout harmful weeds. Go get a hoe and roughly treat them; raise lots of spuds, but do not eat them. Great is the hoe and great its use to all fat men who would reduce. So grab the same and swing it thuslv among the rag-weed and the pusley. Rude Rural Rhymes Show Your Colors The autos glide on streets and strands the Henries and the other brands. Of these machines I meet a host, and though I dodge as spry as most, I often rise from where I'm flung with bitter words upon my tongue, and having dusted off my clothes once more to Congress I pro- pose some colored tags to show who drives that men may flee and save their lives, tags uniform for all the na- tion and furnishing some indication of what we may expect to meet when folks come tooting up the street. The driver with his first machine shall sport a license tag of green. When he has hit and mained a few we'll change the same to black and blue, while he who leaves a victim dead henceforth shall wear a tag of red. But O, the lad who drives aright, is safe and sane and eke polite shall earn a number plate of white. And when at last he sprouts his wings, to welcome him from earthly things a shining angel crew shall hem the walls of new Jeru- salem. Right careful of his Lizzio's rim, lest he should bump the cheru- bim, he'll flivver up the golden street and shake the hand of good Saint Pete. Rude Rural Rhymes The Tested Herd This is the farmer who said "By dam, I'll build me a big red dairy barn." These are the black and white tested cows that stand in the stable beneath the mows, on the farm of the farmer whose big red barn is the start- ing point of all this yarn. These are the kiddies as fine as silk, because they drink so much of the milk that comes from the black and white test- ed cows, that stand in the stable be- neath the mows, on rhe farm of the farmer who builded u place for the foster-mothers of all the lace. These are the carrots and beets and beans which furnish some more of the vitamines, to help raise kiddies as fine as silk who drink, each one, a quart of the milk, that daily con? 93 frv)m tiie tested cows, that stand in the stable beneath the mows, on the farm of the public benefactor who has rid his herd of the last reactor. Rude Rural Rhymes Man Needs Them Still The hired misn between their chews had stopped and spat and aired their views where listening cows couid hear the news. So Jersey Jane nudged Guernsey Ann, shifted her cud and thus began. "I hear that Henry Ford allows that he can make some flivver cows, and since he never works by halves, no doubt some motorcycle calves. Do you believe, good sister Ann, that we shall lose our use lo man? Is our long history complete, and will they make us into meat?" Said Guernsey Ann to Jersey Jane. ' I share your fears, I share your pain." To hold his peace no longer able, thus spake old Dobbin from his stable: "O pray excuse this horse laugh grinny, but wouldn't Lizzie's milk be tinny? It makes me smile, it makes me snicker, it makes me whinny, neign and nicker. Your dams have known the herdsman's care since Eve was young and Eden fair. You topped with cream man's coffee cup ere good old Hector was a pup, and folks won't risk their lights and livers by drinking milk that comes from fliv- vers. So Jane and Ann pray cease to weep, swallow your cuds and go to sleep. You still shall serve your hu- man lords in spite of fifty Henry Fords." Rude Rural Rhymes Swat Them Now Helena Hicks is witty and wise with adequate muscles and accurate eyes, adapted for spotting and swatting the flies. When any youth a partner picks he'd better m^ly Helena Hicks than al- most any other six. This bard is old and bald and wary, of all strange drinking water scary, since first ne heard of Typhoid Mary; but what avails his constant care when flies are swarming everywhere? When, in the good old summer time, which singers sing and rhymers rhyme, he sits ai peace with all mankind, with nothing much upon his mind and very little on his skin, those blamed invertebrates begin. They come from stables and from worse to boost the business of the hearse. They come from garbage heaps and such, defiling everything they touch, with germs to slay our wives and widdies, our grandads and our pretty kiddies. Yea, many men have chills and itch, have glanders, pip and limbs that twitch, and many little children die, because we fail to swat the fly. Let's smite the critter for his sins, his wives, his triplets and his twins, his relatives by scores and dozens, his sons-in-law and second cousins. Rude Rural Rhymes Fast Time O in the good old pre-war days, which all sane men delight to praise, when Phoebus chased away the dark, the farmer rose as did the lark. Sini.e legislative Jabberwocks began to tink- er with the clocks and strive, like Joshua, at will to move the sun or hold it still, he now must rise ere peeps are heard from any self-respect- ing bird. The gent who brings fresh milk to me was wont to start for town at three. To pail that milk for you and John, he had to quit the hay at one. In his snug bed he might not tarry for fear of kicks from Dick and Harry. But now in summer, spring and fall the milk man never sleeps at all, for when he takes the town ward track be meets himself just coming back. We view old Sol with grave alarm when summer days are overwarm, but when we ask what time it is, that pie-faced planet is a whiz. I'll tell the world the job is his. And so I dedicate a rhyme Xo this here daylight slaving time. Rude Rural Rhymes The Melancholy Days The melancholy days have come — I'll say they're melancholy in that dame's house whose worthless spouse provides green wood, by golly. Just such a cuss is neighbor Jim; it is not lack of time with him, but mostly laz- iness and whim. Oft on the bench which stands before the well-known village general store, so ordered as to balance best, he brings his loose-hung frame to rest, and there instead cf sawing wood, he gives advice for Harding's good. O on the hills and on the mountains, by busy brooks and fizzy fountains, a lot of pines, a bunch of oaks, await our rough and ready strokes and all are crammed, both trunk and limb, with exercise for me an Jim. Let's chop them up for Kate and Prue, then dry them out a year or two. For if it were my lot m life to cut the kindling as Jim's wife I often think that I would pick an ex- tra knobby, gnarly stick, then softly seek that loafer's frame intent to bean him with the same. Rude Rural Rhymes The Descent of Man I point with pride to that old monk- ey who sired the human race, by hunky. A faulty race both then and now, yet even pessimists allow he started something anyhow. When man first slid down from the trees, sloughed off his tail, unkinked his knees, forsook his safe old forest seat and stood straight up on his hind feet, he was a homely husky dub who scorned the weekly cleansing tub and ruled his soul-mate with a club. And when she talked of rights, I ween, he did not fuss nor make a scene but bounced big boulders off her bean. That female of the species bluff, he called it quick and called it rough. He let his hair and whiskers sprout, save when some rival yanked them out. He ate raw meat both hair and hide, then crunched the bones for fat in- side. We view this caveman with dis- gust when his rude manners are dis- cussed. In age, in middle life and youth, his roughneck ways were most uncouth. Yet what we think of that old cuss our sons will doubtless think of us. Give me the man whose tools had stoneheads instead of certain modern boneheads. Sleek citizens who fail to vote, buy bootleg booze or rock the boat. Rude Rural Rhymes Johnny Appleseed I'll write, that lie wlio runs may read, a rhyme of Johnny Appleseed. Men called him cracked, his ways were quaint, he was a hero and a saint. His praise the heavenly chorus sings while all the angels flap their wings. He left the town, the beaten track, with apple seeds upaon his back, and where he saw a likely site ne planted them to left and right; then lying on ithe ground at night he thought of more unselfish schemes and planted apples in his dreams. May Heaven send for modern need more men like Johnny Appleseed. He ate each day one fruit or more but never threw away the core. The seeds he rescued from his jaw blessed later gents he never saw, and not a tree he ever stuck bore fruit that he would ever pluck, but wh'^n our fathers em- igranted they found young orchards ready planted. What though your work men never know and credit it to me or Joe, let's do our darndest here below. I too will twang the lyre again to benefit my fellow-men. I too will rise and write some rhymes that folks may grin in these hard times. And when discourged, stumped and treed, I'll think of Johnny Appleseed. Rude Rural Rhymes Sweet Spring Sweet spring has come, the peep frogs peep; I hear the critters in my sleep. For some are thin with voices shrill while others hoarser music spill. One fellow yawns "ho hum, ho hum"; another answers "jug o' rum." Sweet spring has come, her raindrops thud to reinforce the juicy mud and swell the fresheit to a flood. The buds have shed their winter coats, the pretty birdies feel their oats and pour sweet music from their throats. Sweet spring has come, the young mans fancy is fluttering from Jane to Nancy, while his new tie, with wide stripes o'er it, is louder than the one before it. His girl ixi new spring sty^e appears, with less of legs and more of ears. A dream is her new Easter bon- net; a nightmare was (the price tag on It. Sweet spring has come yet winds are bitey; I wish I'd kept my winter nighty. By day the zephyrs hit my knees just where the Boston garters squeeze, between my socks and B. v. D's. I've shed ,too soon my winter flan- nels; my blood is frozen ii»its chan- nels. Rude Rural Rhymes The Water's Fine This bard though bald, is fairly slim; his years are not yet hurting him, but youth recedes from day to day and boyhood scenes seem far away. Already dimmer through the haze shine memories of the good old days, and other kids both plump and slim possess the creek he used to swim. By their free masonry the boys, e'en at their books, foretaste its joys. Two fingers raised (or is it three?,) mean "After school come swim with me." In frantic haste their shirts they shuck, tbeir britches from their legs they pluck, yet pause awhile before they duck; for one and all the little scamps, before they brave the chilly damps, perform the rite that wards off cramps. O bare brown limbs sun- health imbibing! O boyhood joys be- yond describing! Come, comrades of the good old times, and all old boys who read these rhymes; shuck off the cares that vex the soul, let middle age from off you roll and join me at the swimming hole. Why should we pause because we're bigger? "Last one in's a red-head nigger." Forget your years e'en though you've got 'era; "Bet you I can bring up bottom." "Gosh, old Fatty you look queer." "So deep. Skinny, lookahere." Rude Rural Rhymes The Other Fellow's Sins Though not in sooth a guide to youth, I do, by contrast, shine, since other jays have tricks and ways a blame sight worse than mine. If Bill Smith's pipe is rank and ripe and stinks when it's on fire, while my ci- gar is milder far. Bill ought to chuck his briar. I boost no sales of coffin nails, or loose or ready rolled, so want the state to legislate that they shall not be sold. If cigarettes were my best bets, I'd advocate some laws to slam the guys who exercise with quids between their jaws. I'm wrong at that, my head is fat; I ought to have more sense, and my own faults should gfive me jolts not those of other gents. At his own sins a fellow grins but frowns on those lof others. If he were wise he'd sympathise, and help his erring brothers. Though Pet- er Reese steals only geese^^that man he should not scorn, who «wnds a use for all that's loose in feamer, hair or horn. If every gink would stop and think, ere he bawled out his neigh- bor, he'd save, I wot, his strength a lot to use in gainful labor. Rude Rural Rhymes The New Year's Sun I send the joyful message forth that go.od old Sol is coming north. He paused upon his southward track, I gather from the almanac, then slowly, surely started back. O soon he'll quit those far off geezers, the southern zone Antipodesers, and they in turn will be the freezers. But though he leave the gents forlorn who cluster south of Caprioorn, I trust this thought may ease their pain, that southern loss is northern g'ain; and none should scowl or knit his brow, for they have got their innings now. While here we wither with pneumon- ia, sweet summer singes Patagonia. While we have snow and ice all over, New Zealand lies knee-deep in clover. They're picking peaches in Tasmania while frost is frizzling Pennsylvania. With last year's resolutions rusted, some rules of conduct we have busted, but since the sun has made the turn our souls with high resolve should burn. Let's shaKe, December thirty- first, besetting sins with which we're cursed, and ere we seek our cots and couches, cut out our meanness and our grouches. Rude Rural Rhymes Irrigate Your Eden Believe me if all thosi endearing young charms, possessed by your fair spouse, are going to stay, you'll have to pay for water in the house. There's a long, long trail a-v/inding down to the farm yard pump, and if you make her travel it you are a selfish chump. "Drink to me only with thine eyes" is very fine to sing, but in the use of houshold juice, it doesn't mean a thing. To hew the wood that cooks the food and then to tote the water, it is not fair to make the share of mother, wife or daughter. O in the Suanee river and between the Wabash banks, a lot of water runs to waste that we might store in tanks, while many wives have up and died, and others wanted to, because they had no pipes of lead with water gurgling through. Silver threads among the gold, the passing years will send; don't hasten them — have iron pipes with spigots in the end. Rude Rural Rhymes A Shirtsleeves Song By those who rules of conduct quote, I'm told a man must keep his coat, e'en though the hotness get his goat. 0, when the sun pours ton-id heats upon the houses and the streets and when the women, lovely dears, are keeping cool except their ears, with nice silk stockings on each frame, and other clothes I may not name, with little waist and still less skirt; why should I fear to show my shirt? When summer simmers hot as Hades, let's take a tip from those wise ladies. O, on the farm where I was born we took no thought for custom s scorn, and when we found our bodies wet with perspiration or with sweat, I will confess, e'en though it hurts, we peeled right down to undershirts. Yea, when we saw the heat waves dance, we often longed to shuck our pants. Yv^ith no one but ourselves to please, we should have worked in B. V. D's. And still, when things grow hot as Tophet, I'm bound to grab my coat and doff it. My old blue shirt is clean and neat, my stout suspenders can't be beat. With half my buttons in their places, why should I wish to hide my braces? When northern zones have tropic heats, when Sol unclouded on us beats, that outer garment I shall dump it; if folks don't like it they can lump it. Rude Rural Rhymes The Standing Broad Grin The leaves were down, tlie trees were bare, like my smooth crown be- reft of hair. My pen was poor, my ink was pale, my muse was chilled by aut- umn's gale, and warned by brisk November breezes, I'd shed long since my B. V. Deezes. I sat beside the kitchen stove and thought with rueful soul how many Rural Rhymes it takes to buy a ton of coal. The shades of night were falling fast when through the town some boy scouts passed, their banner bearing words like these, "Smile a little wider please". O friends for you and me, I wis, a need- ed lesson lies in this, and we might well adopt, I wot, the motto whicfi those lads have got. I have a very homely mug which looks its worst when shut up snug, but I am always at my best with mouth spread out from east to west. Why should I make my troubles known, when other gents have got their own and have no re- spite or relief from fifty-seven kinds of grief. To all my gloom I've tied a can, I'll grin like Happy Hooligan. No more shall worry keep me slim; I'm waxing fat like Sunny Jim. O join wth me, this lesson seize, and smile a little wider please. Rude Rural Rhymes Winter Woes Of all the ills with which I'm cursed the winter furnace is the worst. On balmy days it rolls up heat, but balks on days of cold and sleet. And ever when my wife com- plains I do not take sufficient pains nor use my substitute for brains, once more the furnace mouth I stoke, lonce more the iron bar I poke among the cinders, ash and coke. I bend my frame at its equator and operate the agitator. I get the ?sh 'tis very true, but half the fire comes following through. Then when my strength is quite expended, I find the grate is end- for-ended. There's nothing' in the world to do but clean it out and start anew. In vain my weary eyes I raise no snappy kindling meets my gaze. Jim Jones, from whom I ordered wood, has failed to function as he should. That cussed furnace is the reason I so lament the vanished season when every gent had B. V. D's on, when summer birdies lifted lilts and folks could sleep without the quilts. Rude Rural Rhymes Corn From southern vales the corn plant came, from lands of gold and Aztec fame, where long it held an honored place in gardens of a vanished race. With gleeful grins the seed we drop, with honest pride we pick the crop, the flint and dent, the sweet and pop. Dame Nature formed it long ago, a giant grass in Mexico. From tribe to tribe the gift was passed. It reached our northern land a.'t last, to serve the early settlers' need, a sturdy staff of life indeed; to swell with grain the Yankee cribs and pad with fat their lanky ribs. Still on our tables it ap- pears, and in the form of roasting ears, against our rugged features pressed, it spreads them out from east to west. A noble food, but what a pity the way we eat it is not pretty. We gnaw it off in gulps and gobs, and on our plates we pile the cobs. Between the ears we hardly pause to wipe the butter from our jaws. When sweet corn yearly waves its banners we give vacations to our manners. Rude Rural Rhymes Catalog Time Wliere now the winds of March are blowing tlie garden sass will soon be growing. My muse shall sing man's yearly need for onion sets and spin- ach seed, shall sing likewise that gay deceiver which stimulates our garden fever, the subtle seedman's catalog whose charms our better judgment fog. Its pictured beets and peas and chard were never grown in my back yard. My radishes are noit so red, my punkins not so widely spread, my let- tuces refuse to head. The seedsman is an optimist and loves the brighter side I wist. He does not show in colored ed plate the wooly wonns that lie in wait. No darkbrown spots like mine are seen on his prolific greenpod bean. And yet, for planting all agog, I lovb that yearly catalog.. I hail with joy each harmless fable and plant new squashes for my table. For though lay r.'kes be bitter things, my cabl)age lull of vvorms, by jings, and all my snap beans full of strings, still to my heart the brown earth calls, Tiid nil her summers, springs and falls shall Inid my legs in overalls; sha^I ii.id me spading loam and sand wit'.i sev- en blisters on each hand. Rude Rural Rhymej Peaches or Pines O woodman spare that tree, refrain from further hacks and do not swing and sling so free yon double-bitted ax, but lend a listening ear to me and let your arm relax. Our wood supply is growing scant — we should not chop unless we plant. Ere to Saint Peter's choir I've risen to blend my deep bass voice with hisn, to thumb and strum both flat and sharp on one size ten left-handed harp — ere this, I say, has come to pass, I'll s'^raitch around in leaves and grass to find an oak or maple seed, and having stuck it in the mead and covered it with loam and muck, in later years with any luck, I'll have a tree beneath whose boughs the woodchucks and the goats may browse. "What does he plant who plants a tree?" the poet asks of you and me. He plants a hope of future good in shade and beauty, fruit or wood. So here and there tree seeds I'll place to benefit the human race. Posterity shall view those trees and pay me compliments like these. "In all his verse together tossed, that Rural Rhymer was a frost; we're good and glad his works are lost. But as a for- estation factor the *bonehead was a right good actor, in fact a blooming benefactor." Rude Rural Rhymes A Song of the Sock My friend and neighbor, Thomas Cox, is very hard upon his socks, for be they strongly knit or phony ne punctures them with Trilbies bony. Though oft his wife darns them and him, they will not stay in proper trim, but every night some pink will show through some new rent in heel or toe. When I was young and unbespok- en, and not yet wed and halter broK- en, I too had often holey socks, and so I sympathize with Cox. For at the store new brogans trying I found it veiT mortifying. With one good foot, to save my soul, I could not tell which sock was whole. I racked my brain with much ado, but never pulled the proper shoe; and gazing on my shrink- ing skin the clerks and customers would grin. No longer worried as be- fore, I seek with pride the general store and kick both shoes across tne floor; for I am wed to Hannah Jane and both my socks are safe and sane. So all day long I sing her praises, and fresh shoe clerks can go to blazes. Yea when she reads this Rural Rhyme, she'll feed me well at dinner time; my stockings extra smooth she'll keep and bake a cake three lay- ers deep. Rude Rural Rhymes Hair Tonic I hear that milk and garden greens have snappy things called vitamines that give us health and strength and pep and put the ginger in our step, but what is this I also hear from folks who ought to know that vita- mines will help to make our hair and whiskers grow. I find my Jove-liiie dome of thought of shade not quite bereft. I'll use this happy hunch and keep what herbage I have left. The razor makes a daily trip along my chin and jowls and lip, so by my wife it is not feared that I will ever raise a beard or whiskers like a Bolsheviit; but O I want my hair to stick. Upon my brain pan flies would crawl if I should sport no hair at all, and those that lit upon my head would have to wear a non-skid tread. They'd slip and slither on my scalp like mountain climbers on an Alp. To ward them off my hair I'll keep though I chew lettuce in my sleep. To nourish bristles on my brow I'll buy myself a mooley cov/. If milk and vegetables clinch the thatch upon our beans, so help me Pete but I will eat a lot of spinach greens. Rude Rural Rhymes The Rooster The rooster is a lusty bird; in all the land his voice is heard, a proud and haughty bird by heck who flaps his wings and curves his neck. From east to west, from perch and pole, his morning bugle echoes roll, arousing men from snoring deep and maidens from their beauty sleep. He hunts for worms with main and might, and finding one, with huge delight, to whet his harem's appetite, he calls his wives with trill and hum, then — humor great but manners bum — he eats it up before they come. Now, whether Red or Plymouth Rock, one half is he of all the flock, and chickens mostl.v favor dad in qualities both good and bad. But when the hatching season's over, we must restrain this gallant ro- ver, must shut him up in lonely state and keep the layers celibate. Their eggs will thus repay our toil when fer. tile ones would quickly spoil. The man who'd be a fresh egg booster must seg- regate that old he-rooster. Rude Rural Rhymes Keep The Home Flowers Blooming The rose has reds the violet blues and other flowers have other hues. When all without is storm and gloom, I lovo the brightness of a room lit by a red geranium bloom. Sweet summer comes and brings some phlox some Bouncing Betts and hollyhocks. The rose is red and on its head fall gently rain and dew, no Lome, though neat, is quite complete without a bush or two. The rose is red the violet blue whenever spring comes back; he starves his soul who does not have some flowers 'round his shack. The farmer tilLsi on vales and hills food crops his fathers knew, but let him raise by walks and ways his mother's posies too. We give him praise who spends his days with Ceres not with Mammon, and with her grain from hill and plain puts fat the porker's ham on; but let him steal an hour to feel the love of gentle Flora, upon his knees to plant sweet peas for wife or Sister Dora. Rude Rural Rhymes Your Editor Speaks We love this town, there's nothing like it, however far and wide we hike it. We're glad we came, we gladly linger and sling the type with skillful finger. Our feet and heart are over- size; with weal or woe we sympathize. We're tickled as that budding Beecli- er when church folks raise the local preacher. From Jimmy Smith's first wailing breath to when his eyes are closed in death, there's scarce a word or work or caper but interests the lo- cal paper. The member of the Ladies' Aid by whom the first prize pie is made, we're good and glad to cele- brate her, and, if unwed, thus help to date her. Each doubting Thomas to convince, we give her recipe for mince, and say our teeth have never sunk in a pie so pleasing as her punk- in. When Minnie finds her latest pet as good as she will likely get, we print kind words about the wedding, e'en though we fear they'll have hard sled- ding, felicitate the bride and groom and hope to see the birthrate boom. We want the news but want the best; we censor some and print the rest. Send in the facts and keep them com- ing, we like them fresh and hot and humming. Send in the news but search your heart; be sure it holds no poisoned dart. In all the land there is no cuss so mean as old Anonymous. We go each night in peace to roost if we have done our daily boost; but nightmares come to fright and shock lor every mean and measly knock. Rude Rural Rhymes Garlic Our garden crops have come from far where other climes and peoples are. From mountain valleys of Peiu the snappy snap bean comes to you. In Mexico sprang Indian corn, in India the cuke was born. The cabbage hails from Europe's sea land, hot weather spinach from New Zealand. But there's one peppy garden plant we natives mostly do not want. When long of yore its fumes arose and helped to shape the Roman nose, a favored food was garlic then for fighting fowls and fighting men. They mixed it with the warrior's hash and with the rooster's morning mash. It kept the legions primed for war till fear of Rome spread near and far, and doubtless made game fighting cocks of pacifis- tic Plymouth Rocks. A shrinking rah- bit fed up thus would lick a hippopot- amus. Hence sprang old tales of sud- den death from dragons slaying with their breath. Rucie Rural Rhymes So, Bossy, So O there are many breeds of kine, the Shorthorn coarse, the Jersey fine, the black and white of ancient line, as well as scrub or garden cows that on our rugged hillsides browse. On weeds and grass and leaves of trees, they ruminate upon their knees, and thus extract the vitamines from forty different kinds of greens. I oft have sung, I sing again the uses of fresh milk to men. To hymn its praise I never tire; my thumb is ever on my lyre. I learned its use when very young; it suits my palate and my tongue. I drink a pint from timje to time, then straighway write a Rural Rhyme. We need some vitamines each day; they help us work; they help us play. Had we four stomachs like the kine, we too on foliage might dine, on daisy, dock and buttercup, we too might breakfast, lunch and sup, and thus obtain the A's and B's and other vitamines like these. But since we have one tummy each and bulky foods are out of reach, let's keep good cows upon the land, the Guern- sey or some other brand, and get our clover second hand. Rude Rural Rhymes Biddy Protests "I celebrate the good old days when no one checked up on our lays. These modern methods make me sick," thus spake old Biddy Dominick. "We laid to please ourselves you bet, folks took what fresh eggs they could get. We were not kept a narrow yard in but wandered freely through the garden: for every hen and every chicken had all out doors to scratch and pick in, and as we ambled here and there of every crop we took our share. Al- though we roosted oft in trees and shivered in the midnight breeze, no sane man looked for winter eggs nor watched the color of our legs. We slept at night like Christian folks and had no wish to make more yolks; but now we stay up half the night and lay our eggs by Mazda light. If I should go too soon to slumber some watchful gent would take my number. Of proper privacy divested, we're caught and pinched and weighed and tested. This culling business I pro- test; I'm growing old, I want to rest, but I must still perform as rated or have my old head amputated. If I my- self escape the block, some friends are missing from the flock and when the honeymoon is over, they seize and execute my lover; yea when the hatch- ing season's done they swat my hus- band and my son." Rude Rural Rhymes Cheese On wintry nights and rainy days I often sit beside the blaze and Han- nah, while I toast my shins, will read to me some bulletins. Among instruc- tive college prints, there's none more full of helpful hints than that which tells us forty ways to use the cheeses and the wheys, each one of which de- serves our praise. Before I heard that treatise wise I filled myself with meat and pies, with four boiled eggs and things like these, and then I ate a hunk of cheese. I had the stomachache all night, and nightmares came my soul to fright, I tossed about with grief and groans, while all the neigh- bors heard my moans. From this good bulletin I learn, that when for cheese our bosoms yearn, we should not first take all that comes, then add the cheese to full-fed tums but we should think of it as meat, and use discretion when we eat. For this my gratitude is deep; I wisely dine, then sweetly sleep, no more I thrash around and weep. Instead of ghosts and specteis grim, I dream of saints and seraphim. In loaf or casserole or rabbit, the use of cheese is now a habit. No book of poems brings me bliss to equal bul- letins like this. Rude Rural Rhymes Truth and Tombstones When through the quiet fields I go where side by side sleep high and low, I seldom see an epitaph which teiis the truth or even half. If we could sift the wheat from chaff, if pious lies no more were read but only bitter truth instead, with little left to soothe and please, some stones would tell us facts like these: "Poor Mary Jones lies m this tomb, she pushed too far a heav}' broom. Her husband grieves, his sor- row deeper because he bought no car- pet sweeper." "In memory of Hetty Burke who died of general overwork. Her husband finds it m;uch more both- er to save one wife than get another. He'll not be long a widowed weeper, hired help is dear but wives are cheaper." "Here Susan Smith has re;=it at last, too many children came too fast." "Here lies the wife of Hapgood Hicks who did the weekly wash for six. She's glad to rest beneath these sods; she carried water seven rods." Life's burdens should be justly shar- ed. Some husbands could be better spared than wives for whom these stones were squared. Dry-eyed we'd plant those selfish coots and leave them there till Gabriel toots. Rude Rural Rhymes The Apple Cure To regulate the human gizzard and all man's frame from A to izzard, the good red apple is a wizard. When Mother Eva picked her lunch I'll say- she had the proper hunch. The one she ate she found a seed in, and hav- ing sneaked it out of Eden, she plant- ed it and so I wist became the first pomologist, and put one over on her pardner who thought himself the only- gardener. To eat each day a juicy- pome will keep the doctor from your home, so shed your nightshirt, rise he- times, and pick yourself a Golden Grimes. No more I ween will old Doc Green come ramping up in his mach- ine all set to amputate my spleen. No m©re he'll jab, with hand expert, to find the spots he knows will hurt. No longer overwoik his brain and all its fine ball-bearings strain, determining a diagnosis before he tells me what the dose is. Instead of pills of varied size I'm eating Winesaps, Yorks and Spies. And you I hope will follow suit and fill yourself with wholesome fruit. Rude Rural Rhymes Name Your Farm If you possess a likely farm, chuck full of crops and cows and charm, you ought to give a name to it, like "Har- vest Hills" or "Bodger's Bit." And yet, I pray you, do not choose the common names that others use, the "Hilltop Farms" and "Valley Views," lest, when you s'iamp the same some day, on cheese or prunes or hops or hay, the Patent Office man may say: "Lay off that name, for it appears, m Podunk, Maine, John Henry Squeers has used it umpty-seven years." So work your brains and let them wan- der in search of new names here and yonder, through tales and myths and old traditions that fit your farm and its conditions. From Palestine and Greece and Rome, bring poetry and romance home. If you have oaks try "Druid Grove" or some neat refer- ence to Jove. If you raise mules, like my friend Bill, you might do worse thai "Balaam Hill." Yea, if the job were wished on me to say what each farm's name should be, my choice would fit at any rate, but might be too appropriate. For you and I and all men know some farms that should be "Housewife's Woe," and proud poss- essors would not swallow my "Hope- less Hill" or "Slipshod Hollow." Rude Rural Rhymes Old King Coal This is the hungry furnace door that eats up coal and calls for more. This is the coal for eighteen bones, so. full of slate so full of stones, or other grades for twenty plunks, but likewise full of clinker chunks, that go in through the furnace door and leave it hungry as before. These are the ashes dead and white to be scraped out both morn and night. This is the bard in these hard times who spends his dollars and his dimes, ob- tained by writing Rural Rhymes, for bum black diamonds long on slate, which sail in toward the furnace grate and leave it still insatiate. This is the shovel full of nicks with which the bard performs his tricks and puts in many weary licks; the poker too and eke the shaker, which worry that old rhyming faker till he says words nor right nor wise for one who hopes that, when he dies, he'll find in Peter kindly feelings and have an end of furnace dealings. Rude Rural Rhymes It Pays To Advertise The little flowers by hill and dell have learned their little lesson well. They breathe sweet scents for bees and tlies because it pays to advertise. The insect visitors that fall in or light upon the edge and crawl in, the butterflies and bugs and ants get pol- len on their coats and pants, and willy-nilly thus they share in every floral love affair. If I had peach and apple trees, I'd put the proper spray on these, and when the fruit was red and ripe I'd tell the world in good plain type, so plain that they who ran might read and buy the fruit their children need. That ad, so neatly i would phrase it that every dame and gent would praise it. In long im- patient lines they'd stand to buy the Rural Rhymer brand. To keep their lungs and livers right they'd chew my apples day and night. A primrose by the river's rim, plain primrose was to me and Jim, and no one else had greatly prized it until the poet adver- tised it. The meanest flower that grows I think might make a hit through printer's ink. Rude Rural Rhymes A Rude Rural Valentine The rose is red tlie violet blue, this Valentine is meant for you. The Feb- ruary days are classy, our good re- solves are not yet brassy. The rose is red the lily white, some couples fall in love at sight; to bring some others in- to line requires a saint like Valentine, and not another month, I wot, a spiffy saint like him has got. The second month with him alone can well for lack of length atone. This is the month when lovers kiss and lie a little too I wis; for each will swear, then swear some more, that neither ever loved before. The rose is red the chestnut green, they spring some chestnuts too I ween. But though their vows be trite and old, no whiter lies are ever told, for she tells him and he tells her, not what they are but wish they were. So let them wander hand in hand and heart to heart in fairyland. I too will rise and thumb my lyre, I too will share their youth- ful fire. Yea, though my bald dome shiny is, and though you creak with rheumatiz, the rose is red the violet blue, love still has sweets for me and you. Rude Rural Rhymes Hairy Vetch In the pleasant summer weather, rye and vetch grew green together. A boy came over hills and hollov/s saw the vetch and spoke as follows: "Fun- ny little purple pea, what can you io for me? I see you twining in the rye, where it stands head high; I see your lacy leaves grow, pretty purple posies blow, what's your use, I want lo know?" "My beauty would be some excuse, had my vine no other use, smiling at you from the rye as you wander barefoot by. But I have other uses; root nitrogen my best excuse is. Plow us under and entomb us, rye and I will give you humus. In your field or garden plot, bury us and let us rot. With a little longer stay, mowed in June and stowed away, we make mighty tasty hay. We grow well in falls and springs; guess we have our place, by jings, in the general scheme of things." Once a better bard than I wrote of coming through the rye. So I make this rhyming sketch in honor ol rye'is chum, the vetch. Rude Rural Rhymes Coffee I speak the truth, I stand in sooth within a prophet's shoes; I dare to say that coffee has a kick almost like booze. From Greenland's icy moun- tains to India's coral strand, my fel- lov/ men pay francs and yen each for his favorite brand. It is a mighty stimulant, a habit forming drug, as potent as the erstwhile beer or cider from a jug. When this for evening drink I steep, I go to bed and do not sleep; when this for morning use I brew, I feel as young and fresh as you. Two hours or three I'm on the jump, but after that my feelings slump. It is not good for me at all, it irks my liver and my gall. Yet when to quit it I begin, I act as mean and cross as sin. I shun the cup for many a day then fall once more beneath its sway. Now, while my weakness I de- plore, I think I'll take just one cup more. The flesh is weak and though I aim right soon to quit the coffee game, I hope they keep their pucker still, those sweating peasants of Bra- zil. I hope the Arab from his tent, a bumper coffee crop has sent, to carry with it everywhere its moratorium of care. Rude Rural Rhymes Do It Now In doing work a choice of plan is free to any maid or man, to either la- bor when they ought to, or else to wait until they've got to. The latter method is the one by which most hu- man tasks are done. If in the spring betimes I take, from off its nail a snag tooth rake, with ease I curry up the lawn, and burn the trash that lay thereon. If then I seize the waiting mower and drag it through the open door, that tool and I, like frolic frisk- ers, slip o'er the lawn and trim its whiskers. While here and there I tio a scooting, the weeds and grass fly scalahooting; in joyful haste the task is sped; the lawn is slick as buttered bread. But if I let the raking go, and let the dandelions grow, the mower clogs on hill and hummock; its handle jabs me in the stomach, and thus a- gainst my gizzarr". pressed, it knocks my temper galley west. O if I polish off the weeds, and leave some room for garden seeds, I soon have lettuce, onions, beets, and other classy garden eats; but this advice no merry josh is, where you grow weeds you caa't gr-'W squashes. Instead of dallying and chewing the needed tasks we should be doing. In skirt or shirt or waist or britches, a stitch in time saves lots of stitches. When death shall give us our quietus, well finished work in heaven will greet us, but jobs undone will rise to vex us and swat us in the solar plexus. Rude Rural Rhymes The Household Budget Before he traveled far in life Jim Henry Smith annexed a wife; then straightway loosened up his collar prepared to chase the nimble dollar. But all he earned his bride would spend; her wants and needs seemed without end. A nickel for a spool of thread and ten cents for a thimble and other things of higher price from Isenstein or Gimbel. In shopping trips she found delight. She searched Jim's trousers every night. There came a daughter, then a son, and they were dear more ways than one. For though he loved them bona fide, it cost to feed and clothe and didy. Smith's credit smashed to smithereens; he had no jitneys in his jeans. Then wiser grown, Jim Henry's spouse drew up a budget for her house, as- signed her dollars, dimes and cents to balance income with expense, a lot foi' food, a bit for frills, for movies, church, and pale pink pills. So now she knows just where she's at, and Jim no more is busted flat. He walks the street in manly pride nor looks for duns from side to side. He pays each month the merchant's tallies and is not dodging through the allies. Rude Rural Rhymes Here Comes The Bride This is the merry month of June which sets the wedding bells in tune, when men see those who soon will boss 'em all camouflaged with orange blossom. O blushing bride, O gentle dear, push back the tresses from your ear, I have some words for you lo hear. When all mankind were troglo- dytes, before the dates that history cites, a female person had no rights. The bridegroom's plan for home sweet home was bending saplings on her dome. But times have changed since those beginnings and women long have had their innings. Since Satan made the rolling pin, the human head is all too thin. If Jason calls his soul his own, rap gently on his frontal bone, but bear in mind the tool is meant to stupefy, not crack or dent. From self assertion you must wean him, but do be careful when you bean him. I wish you luck, I hope you win, I'm very strong for discipline; but yet as oft as once a week, for him some freedom I bespeak, and you should give no wrathful sign, providing he is home by nine, nor bounce his head .v gainst a rafter for coming just a min- ute after. So, nobly just, but sternly great, step to the helm and navigate; you are the captain, he the mate. And when he tries back talk with you he'll soon be nothing but the crew. Nay more, if he a bit too far go, he may be classed as simply cargo. Ruoe Rural Rhymes He Feeds Us All The farmer's tasks are never done; He works two eight-hour days in one; till daylight saving knocks him flat by adding one more hour to that. In certain years the crops won't grow, when they do well the price is low; so raising little, naught, or much, he's very apt to get in Dutch. And when 1 see him on the jump, I sometimes think that he's a chump for raising food that loafers eat; whose pantd wear only at the seat; then taking all the market's chance, producing wool to patch those pants. Of course, be- sides those lazy folk who sidestep ev- ery labor yoke, he feeds some worthy people too, hard-working scouts like me and you. If he should quit all things would slump; I hope he still stays on the jump; and I am filled with gratitude for fifty-seven kinds of food. Should need arise, so help me Pete, I'd go and help him husk his wheat. Rude Rural Rhymes The Community Newspaper Of all the sheets from East to Wesc the local paper is the best. Doep i 5 our love and deep our debt to Record, Journal or Gazette. When first I land- ed on thi;5 ball, a bit of flesh W':-ai;ped 'round a squall, it welcomed me with joy and pride my life has neve:- justi- fied. It follows me my whole life through, with words all kind and most- ly true; and even after I am hearsed 'twill tell my best and hide my worst. When in Oshkosh or Wickiup I wander homesick as a pup, or if in foreign lands I roam, it brings me pleasant news of home. Across the sands, ac- ross the sea, the old home paper comes to me. It is a friend both true and tried, and to it, gents', I point with pride; yea, I will hock my Sun- day pants to pay up six years in ad- vance. Rude Rural Rhymes A Rural Book The Bible is a rural book. From pastured hills the prophets look; the inspiration of their word, stern voices in the storm winds heard. When Hea- ven's light on Jacob shone his head was pillowed on a stone. The city no such vision yields; his ladder rested in the fields. Not yet a king, by wood and rock, Saul sought his father's straying stock. Young David watched the grazing sheep, the flock from wolves and bears to keep. With pebbles from a country brook, the great Philistine's life he took. All scripture heroes had their birth, where naked feet touch naked earth. And one there was, exceeding them, who walked Main Street in Bethlehen? and kept with angel voices tryst; a small-town carpenter was Christ, He wrought no stately mansion's ribs but homely things like babies' cribs. We celebrate his natal day; and even cities own his sway, but still, as then, the fields rejoice and praise him with a clearer voice. No little village gav-3 him death, no Bethany nor Nazareth. His words were words of life to them: men slew him in Jerusalem. Rude Rural Rhymes Feeding Father We know the latest diet rules and raise the children by them; they keep ma slim and Susan plump, but father will not try them. Man wants but little here below nor wants that little long, but pa wants coffee thrice a day and wants that coffee strong. We know that fruits are good for pa, we steam them, boil them, bake them, we cook them fifty-seven ways but can't make father take them. We serve him eggs in many styles, we scramble, poach and beat them; they must be fried like tough raw hide, or father will not eat them. The healthful greens and stringless beans his palate do not tickle, but he will shout for sourkrout nine wienies and a pickle. He's bust- ing all nutrition rules in spirit and in letter, he wants fried spuds three times a day, the greasier the better. If pa still stubbornly persists. Dame Nature's wrath to brave, we fear, by gum,, that he will come to an untimely grave. Just how he'll fare when over there and what he'll chew we know- not. How will he eat celestial meat without a soggy doughnut? Above the choir they'll hear our sire; above its loud hosanna, he'll criticize the lack of pies and kick about the manna. Rude Rural Rhymes Bill Quits We view the farmer with alarm be- cause he won't stay on the farm. He moves to town and there he lives, while here and yon his flivver flivs, and city papers wonder why he thus neglects our food supply. How can he tear him self away from smells of flowers and new mown hay? I tracks d one rustic to his flat and begged of him, by this and that, to answer if he felt no shame, in spite of youth and stalwart frame to quit thus cold the farming game. "Nay, nay" quoth he, "by ding and dang, I suffer not a single pang. The crops I sold went cheap as dirt, I needed cash for baby's shirt, and for my wife's — that is to say — ^though South Sea belles wear suits of hay, my woman hates to dress that way," "But Bill" says I, "all men are brothers, you farmers ought to feed the others." "The worid can feed it- self" he said, and threw me out upon my head. Too husky he for me to fight, and anyway the cuss was right. Long laboring hours and meager gain this rural exodus explain. Rude Rural Rhymes Dinner's Ready Awake my muse, get going some; for good Thanksgiving time lias come, witli foods that please the human turn. How dear to my heart is the Thanks- giving bird when segregated from the herd and served upon a platter fair with drumsticks stuck up in the air. For us he pipped his speckled shell and w^andered over hill and dell. He hunted worms, he gulped them down; he made good meat both white and brown. For us the sprightly punkin vines broke through the com rows' stiffer lines, set orange fruit with golden meat and made pie-filling rich and sweet. For us the biddies, white and red, laid eggs in barn, garage and shed, while cows ate dock and other greens to fill ^their milk with vitamines. I pity those dyspetic jays with extra- careful eating ways who do not like Thanksgiving days, but hail "with joy the lad who's able l^o stretch his feet beneUh the table,- and lodged in that strategic place feed double rations to his face. 31*77-1^3 lot 7k o > "^oV ^^-V i^. ' ^0^ < o V * ' * "' ex ?",* '^ ^^ ".-r^^. ^ &" r:^' .^ y 0' 4 o '^0' -*b. .*' "•*. .0*