First they almost had a squabble, fightin’ ’bout
the future life;
When they’d settled that they started runnin’ down the parson’s wife.
Then they got a-goin’ roastin’ all the folks there is in town,
And they never stopped, you bet yer, till they’d done ’em good and brown.
They knew everybody’s business and they made it mighty free,
But the way they loved each other would have done yer good to see;
Seems ter me the only way ter keep yer hist’ry off the streets
Is to be on hand a-waitin’ when the Sewin’ Circle meets.
Pretty quick they’ll have their supper, then’s
the time to see the fun;
Ma’ll say the rolls is awful, and she’s ’fraid the pie ain’t done.
Really everything is bully, and she knows it well enough,
But the folks that’s havin’ comp’ny always talks that kind of stuff.
That sets all the women goin’, and they say, “How can you make
Such delicious pies and biscuits, and such lovely choc’late cake?”
Me and Billy don’t say nothin’ when we pitches in and eats
Up the things there is left over when the Sewin’ Circle meets.
I guess Pa do’n’t like the Circle, ’cause
he said ter Uncle Jim
That there cacklin’ hen convention was too peppery for him.
And he’ll say to Ma, “I’m sorry, but I’ve really got ter dodge
Down t’ the hall right after supper—there’s a meetin’ at the lodge.”
Ma’ll say, “Yes, so I expected.” Then a-speakin’ kinder cold,
“Seems ter me, I’d get a new one; that excuse is gettin’ old!”
Pa’ll look sick, just like a feller when he finds you know he cheats,
But he do’n’t stay home, you bet yer, when the Sewin’ Circle meets.
* * * * *
“Blessed are the poor in spirit”:
there, I’ll just remember that,
And I’ll say it over ’n over, till I’ve got it good and pat,
For when I get home from meetin’, Gran’ma’ll ask me for the text,
And if I say I’ve forgot it, she’ll be goin’ for me next,
Say in’, I don’t pay attention, and what am I comin’ to;
Tellin’ ’bout when she was little, same as old folks always do.
Say, I’ll bet she didn’t like it any better than the rest,
Sittin’ ’round all stiff and starchy, dressed up in your Sunday best.
“Blessed are the poor”—I tell yer, some day I’ll be clearin’ out, Leavin’ all this dressin’ nonsense, ‘cause I’m goin’ ter be a scout, Same as “Deadwood Dick,” a-killin’ all the Injuns on the plains: He do’n’t comb his hair, you bet yer; no, nor wash, unless it rains. And bimeby I’ll come home, bringin’ loads of gold and di’mon’ rings; My, won’t all the boys be jealous when they see those kind of things! ‘N’ I’ll have a reputation, folks’ll call me “Lariat Ben,” Gran’ma’ll think I ‘mount ter somethin’, maybe, when she sees me then.