SOME SCATTERING REMARKS OF BUB’S.
Wunst I looked our pepper-box lid
An’ cut little pie-dough biscuits, I did,
And cooked ’em on our stove one day
When our hired girl she said I may.
Honey’s the goodest thing—Oo-ooh!
And blackberry-pies is goodest, too!
But wite hot biscuits, ist soakin’-wet
Wiv 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 ist looks like p’serves tas’e’!
I ruther go to the Circus-show;
But, ’cause my parunts 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?
They called him Mr. What’s-his-name:
From where he was, or why he came,
Or when, or what he found to do,
Nobody in the city knew.
He lived, it seemed, shut up alone
In a low hovel of his own;
There cooked his meals and made his bed,
Careless of all his neighbors said.
His neighbors, too, said many things
Expressive of grave wonderings,
Since none of them had ever been
Within his doors, or peered therein.
In fact, grown watchful, they became
Assured that Mr. What’s-his-name
Was up to something wrong—indeed,
Small doubt of it, we all agreed.
At night were heard strange noises there,
When honest people everywhere
Had long retired; and his light
Was often seen to burn all night.
He left his house but seldom—then
Would always hurry back again,
As though he feared some stranger’s knock,
Finding him gone, might burst the lock.
Beside, he carried, every day,
At the one hour he went away,
A basket, with the contents hid
Beneath its woven willow lid.
And so we grew to greatly blame
This wary Mr. What’s-his-name,
And look on him with such distrust
His actions seemed to sanction just.
But when he died—he died one day—
Dropped in the street while on his way
To that old wretched hut of his—
You’ll think it strange—perhaps it is—
But when we lifted him, and past
The threshold of his home at last,
No man of all the crowd but stepped
With reverence,—Aye, quailed and wept!
What was it? Just a shriek of pain
I pray to never hear again—
A withered woman, old and bowed,
That fell and crawled and cried aloud—
And kissed the dead man’s matted hair—
Lifted his face and kissed him there—
Called to him, as she clutched his hand,
In words no one could understand.
Insane? Yes.—Well, we, searching,
An unsigned letter, in a round
Free hand, within the dead man’s breast:
“Look to my mother—I’m at rest.