Little Orphant Annie and Other Poems by James Whitcomb Riley

Author:James Whitcomb Riley
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dover Publications
Published: 2013-02-15T00:00:00+00:00

The Hired Man’s Dog-Story

Twa dogs that were na thrang at hame

Forgather’d ance upon a time.

—BURNS.

Dogs, I contend, is jes’ about

Nigh human—git ’em studied out.

I hold, like us, they’ve got their own

Reasonin’ powers ’at’s theirs alone—

Same as their tricks and habits too,

Provin’, by lots o’ things they do,

That instinct’s not the only thing

That dogs is governed by, i jing! —

And I’ll say furder, on that line,

And prove it, that they’s dogs a-plenty

Will show intelligence as fine

As ary ten men out o’ twenty!

Jewer investigate the way

Sheep-killin’ dogs goes at it—hey?

Well, you dig up the facts and you

Will find, first thing, they’s always two

Dogs goes together on that spree

O’ blood and puore dog-deviltry!

And, then, they always go at night—

Mind ye, it’s never in daylight,

When folks is up and wide awake,—

No self-respectin’ dogs’ll make

Mistakes o’ judgment on that score,—

And I’ve knowed fifty head or more

O’ slaughtered sheep found in the lot,

Next morning the old farmer got

His folks up and went out to feed,—

And every livin’ soul agreed

That all night long they never heerd

The bark o’ dog ner bleat o’ skeered

And racin’, tromplin’ flock o’ sheep

A-skallyhootin’ roun’ the pastur’,

To rouse ’em from their peaceful sleep

To that heart-renderin’ disaster!

Well, now, they’s actchul evidence

In all these facts set forth; and hence

When, by like facts, it has been foun’

That these two dogs—colloguin’ roun’

At night as thick as thieves—by day

Don’t go together anyway,

And, ’pearantly, hain’t never met

Each other; and the facts is set

On record furder, that these smart

Old pards in crime lives miles apart—

Which is a trick o’ theirs, to throw

Off all suspicion, don’t you know! —

One’s a town-dog—belongin’ to

Some good man, maybe—er to you! —

And one’s a country-dog, er “jay,”

As you nickname us thataway.

Well, now!—these is the facts I’ got

(And, mind ye, these is facts—not guesses)

To argy on, concernin’ what

Fine reasonin’ powers dogs p’sesses.

My idy is,—the dog lives in

The town, we’ll say, runs up ag’in

The country-dog, some Saturday,

Under a’ old farm-wagon, say,

Down at the Court-house hitchin’-rack. —

Both lifts the bristles on their back

And show their teeth and growl as though

They meant it pleasant-like and low,

In case the fight hangs fire.

And they Both wag then in a friendly way,

The town-dog sayin’: —“Seems to me,

Last Dimocratic jubilee,

I seen you here in town somewhere?’’

The country-dog says: —“Right you air! —

And right here’s where you seen me, too,

Under this wagon, watchin’ you!”

“Yes,” says the town-dog,—“and I thought

We’d both bear watchin’, like as not.”

And as he yawns and looks away,

The country-dog says, “What’s your lay?’’

The town-dog whets his feet a spell

And yawns ag’in, and then says,—“Well,

Before I answer that—Ain’t you

A Mill Crick dog, a mile er two

From old Chape Clayton’s stock-farm—say?”

“Who told you?” says the jay-dog—“hey?”

And looks up, real su’prised. “I guessed”

The town-dog says—“You tell the rest,—

How’s old Chape’s mutton, anyhow? —

How many of ’em’s ready now—

How many of ’em’s ripe enough fer use,

And how’s the hot, red, rosy juice?”

“’Mm!” says the country-dog, “I think

I sort o’ see a little blink

O’ what you mean.” And then he stops

And turns and looks up street and lops

His old wet tongue out, and says he,

Lickin’ his

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