From the Bisbee Daily Review, January 25, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. Old Ez Jones don’t chaw tobacker, for he quit on New year’s day, And he’s grouchy as a grizzly with an achin’ tooth, they say. Henry Perkins, he quit smokin’ and he feels so tarnal mean That he’s tried to start a scrap with every feller he has seen. So old Ez and Hank they chanced to meet one day in Tibbitt’s store, And we saw a scrap the like of which we’d never seen before, For they broke up all the furniture and knocked the stovepipes down And they’ve both been laid up ever since and livin’ on the town. Abner Hanks has quit hard cider and he is so all fired cross That his wife has thrashed him seven times to show him who is boss. Amos Higgins cut out swearin’ and gives his feelings vent He has booted all the cats and dogs wherever he has went. Deacon Stubbs has sued Hi Maskins and Hi has sued the Deac On their old time line fence squabble and their families don’t speak. Both have swore off takin’ snuff and both are out for war, But they neither of ‘em seem to know just what they’re lawin’ for. Old Squire Hibbard has been busy tryin’ suits and fixin’ bail, And there’s sixteen cases waiting and there’s twenty men in jail. Never seen such scand-lus doin’s in this little village, quite. Seems like everybody’s peevish and is looking for a fight. Some is nervous, some is gloomy, some is desperit and so It doesn’t seem like the same old town we allus used to know. But I guess she will get righted and congenial when the men Who have all been swearin’ off start in to swearin’ on again.
Tag: Roy K. Moulton
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The Result
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The Homely Man
From the Bisbee Daily Review, January 23, 1913. By Roy K. Moulton. The homeliest man I ever seen was Ebenezer Brown. He was a sort of a laughing stock for folks here in our town. The jokers all told Eben that his face would stop a clock. If he looked at a pan of milk, it turned sour from the shock. The gals all turned poor Eben down. They didn’t like his style. The pretty fellers had him beat by many a long mile. So Eb got mad and went away and stayed for quite a while, And managed to accumulate a neat and nifty pile. The pretty fellers stayed around and flirted with the girls And took ‘em to the huskin’s and the other social whirls. Not one of ‘em was doin’ much but livin’ with their folks, And settin’ in the grocery store and crackin’ funny jokes. One day Eb came back to town up on a private car. He had a diamond shirt stud that would twinkle like a star. He didn’t care for money and he blowed it right and left. He had a bank roll that a feller couldn’t hardly heft. He set the old folks up for life and told in modest style About the way he’d gone away and gathered in his pile. Eb was just as homely as he ever was before, Perhaps a little more so than he was in days of yore. But still it dawned upon the pretty fellers mighty quick That Eb would simply go among the girls and take his pick. He took a good long time to choose did Ebenezer Brown, And then he wed the prettiest gal in all the gol ding town.
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Hayin’ Time
From The Topeka State Journal, December 28, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. All the treetoads are a yellin’ And the bees are buzzin’ round. The grasshoppers are hoppin’ Here and there upon the ground. All the birds are sweetly singin’ And all nature seems in tune. Makes a feller feel like workin’ Workin’ morning, night, and noon. And a sweet and wholesome odor Is a-risin’ from the earth. And the old sun is a-shinin’, Shinin’ down for all it’s worth. All the country folks are hustlin’ Startin’ at the break of day. Mother, she is busy cannin’, Me and dad are makin’ hay. Tell you what, we got to go some For there ain’t no time to lose, Four o’clock most every mornin’ Finds a feller in his shoes. Then he’s got to feed the horses And the pigs and mind the sheep ’Til he gets ‘em to the pasture While you folks in town all sleep. When it comes along to breakfast, Feller’s got an appetite And the salt pork and the taters And the beans taste out of sight, Then we hustle for the meadow And we hit her up ’til noon. When the dinner bell starts ringin’ And she never rings too soon. Half an hour and then we’re at it Pitching hay our very best And we never stop for nothin’ Till the sun sinks in the west. Then we’ve got to feed the horses Milk the cows and get the sheep And about the hour of nine we’re All in bed and fast asleep. Then we all get up at daylight And we start right in once more, Tell you what, a city feller Never’d think of gettin’ sore On his job, if he’d just travel Out here on some hot day And just stand around and look at Me and dad a-makin’ hay.
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A Strenuous Courtship
From The Topeka State Journal, December 20, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. Hank annexed a motorcycle Of the chugging, snorting kind, Then he went and called for Sadie And she clambered on behind. Through the city street they snorted Forty-seven miles an hour, Scaring people, dogs, and horses, Always crowding on more power. Sadie wrapped both arms around him And she hung on for dear life, Faster, faster, cutting through the Atmosphere just like a knife. Jolting, jarring, popping, snapping, Like the fourth day of July, On the wings of John D.’s petrol Did our Hank and Sadie fly. Hank he hollered: “Honest, Sadie, Ain’t it what you might call bliss? ’Tis a cinch, my little lady, I could ride through life like this.” “There ain’t nuthin’ to prevent it,” Screamed our Sadie in his ear, But the motor was so noisy, Hank could not exactly hear. Seven times did Sadie scream and Try to make him understand; Finally he got her answer And he blushed to beat the band. Then he turned around to kiss her. ’Tis a foolish thing to do When you’re on a bumpy highway, And you’re hitting fifty-two. Some time later they were rescued, They were hanging in a tree; Sadie, she was bruised and shaken, Hank had just a busted knee. In the hospital they married, Showing that they still had spunk, Then he sold the motorcycle To a man who dealt in junk. That was many moths ago and Now on cycles they don’t ride. But they run a horseless carriage With a cherub tucked inside.
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The Regular Fellow
From The Topeka State Journal, December 12, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton The Regular Feller is one who kin smile When everything goes dead wrong; Kin smile with a smile that’s free from all guile And tinker up some sort of song. The Regular Feller kin whistle a tune When things seem to be breaking bad, He tries to be happy with what he has got, Forgetting what he might have had. The Regular Feller don’t talk all the while, Like rattlebrained fellers all do, But when he says something, just make up your mind It’s something worth listenin’ to. The Regular Feller don’t tell what he’s done, Or big things he’s going to do soon. He just goes and does ‘em and keeps his mouth shut His secrets he tells to the moon. The Regular Feller has no time to stoop And dig into other folks’ ground. For small village scandal he cares not a whoop, He passes no gossip around. The Regular Feller speaks well of his kind, Or else he says nothing at all. There’s no room for rubbish or junk in his mind, No room for the thoughts that are small. The Regular Feller does not slap your back, And brag that he’s always your friend. But when you’re in trouble and others all quit, He’ll stand by you, right to the end.
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Hitchin’ ‘Em Up
From The Topeka State Journal, November 29, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. The marriage microbe is a bird that’s hard to understand. The short man always asks the tall skyscraper for her hand. The man who’s six feet in his socks will wed for good and all Some maiden who is passing fair, but only four feet tall. The brilliant girl who takes the prize and outshines all the school Is more than apt to cast her fate in marriage with some fool. The learned man who knows his books and has a sober mind Most like weds the dizziest young damsel he can find. The prettiest of all the girls will wed some cross-eyed gink Who doesn’t look as though he knew enough to even think. The homely girl most likely hooks the handsome millionaire. The frivolous maid weds a man who’s loaded down with care. The pious girls is apt to draw some old night prowlin’ skate Who doesn’t think that 3 o’clock is anywhere near late. The pastor of the church may draw a social butterfly Who thinks more of her new fall hat than mansions up on high. The more you try to solve the thing, the less you really know. Philosophers all gave it up some centuries ago. The mystery is fathomless, as much now of yore. It’s only human nature, pure and simple, nothing more.
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After Rud Kip
From The Topeka State Journal, November 8, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. When the husband meets his helpmeet every morning in debate, And he’s trying to explain to her why he was out so late, There never is any question that his arguments will fail, For the female of the species can talk longer than the male. When the argument is hottest and they get down to brass tacks, And they land each other’s relatives a lot of pungent whacks; You would think that hers were angels and that his should be in jail, For the female of the species can think faster than the male. When they’re whacking up the boodle that he’s earned throughout the week, And deciding how to spend it, he’s a pretty helpless geek; It is hard for him to look at his percentage of the kale, For the female of the species can grab quicker than the male. When they do their weekly shopping and they linger ‘round the store, Till the husband thinks that living is a most decided bore; She can take her a 50-cent piece and get dry goods by the bale, For the female of the species can buy cheaper than the male. When it comes to information on the gossip of the day, On the neighborhood activities and things that people say, She has got her husband beaten when she gets up on the trail, For the female of the species can “hear” lots more than the male.
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Mother’s Pumpkin Pie
From the Bisbee Daily Review, October 2, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. Some folks prefer the fancy grub they serve at swell cafes, And cookin’ by a foreign chef is really quite a craze. The bill of fare, in fancy French, they like to take in hand To demonstrate that they can make the waiter understand. They order up a high toned meal that may be very fine, But when it comes to eatin’ good, I want no French in mine. I like the good old-fashioned meal, not like the kind you buy. It ends up with a great big slice of mother’s pumpkin pie. We always start in with the soup that is so lickin’ good, That everyone is helped again—that’s always understood. And then we have a husky roast and fixin’s family style, With sweet potatoes, hubbard squash, and father’s bound to pile Enough on every feller’s plate to last him for a week, And we all eat till we can hardly think or breathe or speak. But e’en at that we have to save some space, for bye and bye The climax of the meal must come, in mother’s pumpkin pie. They talk about the joys of wealth and how to live in style, But I am glad that I must live the old way for a while; There’s no dyspepsia in the house when mother’s on the job, No indigestion, dizzy spells or gout araisin’ hob, The meals are always served just right in winter, spring and fall. I like the whole year’s bill of fare, but one thing best of all— When I am through with earthly things and take my place on high, It won’t seem just like heaven without mother’s pumpkin pie.
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Back to the Soil
From the Bisbee Daily Review, September 13, 1912. By Roy K. Moulton. They’re urgin’ weary city men to go back to the soil, To tinker up their shattered nerves by good old honest toil. They say it does a feller good to live close to the ground With not a high-toned French cafe for fifty miles around. That may sound fine and dandy when a feller is town-bred, And doesn’t know a spring tooth harrow from a foldin’ bed, But to us fellers on the farm who’ve been agin’ the game All of our lives, that sage advice sounds purty doggone tame. It ain’t so gol dum dandy and it ain’t so gol dum fine To hop out of the hay at four instid of eight or nine. It ain’t so ‘tarnal cheerful to do three hours’ work before The farmer’s wife yells: “Breakfast” from the old farm kitchen door. It ain’t no sort of easy snap to work right through till night, And do back-breaking stunts as long as there is any light. They say it is a rest-cure and it possibly may be, But as a rest it never yet has quite appealed to me. The poets write quite purty of the everlastin’ hills, The wooded glens and lowin’ kine and little babbling rills. Of course, it is the only life that’s healthful right along, But still it ain’t what you would always call a glad sweet song. There’s plenty of the other thing, the hard, heartrendin’ toil And I guess that them city guys who go back to the soil Would about one good hot day with sun a-beatin’ down, And then they’d pack their grips and gladly yell, “Back to the Town.”