(Friday, May 15, 1908)
Well, Grandma Ingram gave us an assignment for the summer. She said we have to write a poem, and have it all finished when school resumes in the fall.
Grandpa says a man shouldn’t procrastinate, so I decided to go ahead and finish this poem I have been working on.
I don’t like poems, but I do like to write, mostly about life – real, honest to goodness, life. Like holding your breath before you let a crawdad pinch ya! It doesn’t hurt as bad if you hold your breath! Did you know that? I think people should know such things, so I write about it.
Do you know Mr. and Mrs. Mullaney? They have a farm close by, and I help with some of their chores.
They grow lots and lots of potatoes. Big ones! Then, Mr. Mullaney stores them under his hay stacks for the winter.
I asked him, “Why do you grow so many potatoes?”
Do you know what he said? He said, “Laddie, me was jist a wee little lad mee-self, but I was alive to see “Black ’47.” That twer the yeer, the woorst it twas, that we Irish all almost died from starvation; died I tell ya! ‘Twas because of the potato blight it twas! So now me grows as many potatoes as me can. Take this lesson from an old Irishman Laddie Will, don’t be lazy! The good Lord says we shouldn’t woory ’bout toomorrow, aye, and we shouldn’t! But ’tis the very same Lord who said to take the ant as an example, and to work! So, work Laddie, and be thankful for the bounty!”
The Mullaneys also raise sheep, and they have a Shorthorn milk cow. Her name is Aibreann. Mrs. Mullaney says you pronounce it Ah-brrawn. It’s how they say April in Irish.
Mr. Mullaney says he wouldn’t have a Holstein cow on his farm. He retorted, “Laddie Will, a truth I tell ya, a Holstein is either looking for something to eat, or a place to die! Well, she twont be doin’ it here!”
He says a milk cow needs spunk to live a good long life, and that shorthorns have spunk!
I really like Mr. Mullaney – he has spunk! He is a little man that wears overalls, and a gray felt hat.
We got Ben from Mr. Mullaney. Ben is our English Shepherd, he is such a great dog! When he was four months old, he got kicked in the head by Dad’s mean mare. I held Ben on my lap all night long that first night. He whimpered and told me just how bad he hurt. I cried too – I just knew he was going to die! But I prayed and prayed, and did my part to nurse him back to health.
Well, he got better, and Ben has been my constant shadow ever since. He brings in the milk cow for me every morning and evening, and he is good with the sheep. I do have to watch him though, because he fusses with an ornery ewe that I named Aunt Mutt. She tries to boss Ben, and then he teaches her a lesson! So, I kinda gotta watch him that he doesn’t get too rough.
I can “sick” Ben on anything that creeps or crawls! Mother is horribly scared of spiders! When she sees a spider in the house, she puts a big pot over it, and then hollers outside, “Will! Bring Ben!”
Yep, I know what that means. So, Ben and I high-tail it to the house. Mother stands on a chair, while I lift the pot from the floor. Ben, standing at ready, snatches the spider and eats it whole; Mother then grabs her throat and gags like she is going to throw up! Ben and I just laugh, and run back outside.
Anyways, back to my poem. I am not very good at writing poems, and it was Mr. Mullaney that gave me the idea for it. He said “Laddie Will, yer no longer a kitten, time to open yer eyes and look ’round. Listen to the Lord Laddie, He twill use nature to teach ya. Aye, He twill.”
Well, I finished my poem, and think I will title it: “The Hen or the Hog?” I hope Grandma Ingram likes it.
Blessings, Lil’ Will.
Sitting quietly on this log, about three hours before ten;
I am pondering something, just me, and my dog Ben.
For, as I begin this day that is starting real fine,
Will I choose what is right, or shall I be like the swine?
Oh, he destroys green pastures, yes, I would pose,
That’s why the farmer, puts a ring in his nose.
So he is left to the mire, the mud, and the slop,
Where he can wallow, and have fun, to snort, and to flop.
He thinks it real pretty, he thinks he is scot-free,
Yet, blind as a bat – no, he cannot see!
So he goes about his day, playing in filthy water,
Having no regard, there is coming a day of slaughter.
A man could sit in a tree, and pour corn from a cup,
The unthankful pig, will eat it, and never look up.
Oh, I should rather be like the hen – yes, any day in seven,
For every time she takes a drink, she looks up to heaven!
The sow is nasty, and she will teach it to her child,
she will throw away modesty, and act completely wild.
The hen quietly gathers her chicks; the tiny little things;
The Lord compared Himself, to her loving wings (Luke 13:34).
Modesty her hallmark, the pretty scarf around her neck,
She would never wallow in the mud – no, not even for a sec!
So, as I begin this day, sitting quietly on this log,
“Thank you Jesus for Grandma Ingram, who’s like the hen, and not the hog.”
Lord willing, until next time.
Michael Everett Jones is a Texas County native, old fashioned historian and purveyor of traditional Christian values. Email ozarksgrandpajones@gmail.com.