Cape Cod Ballads, and Other Verse | Page 9

talkin' that way
'cause the minister's ter tea.
Everybody'll be a-smilin' and as good as ever was,
Pa won't growl
about the vittles, like he generally does,
And he'll ask me would I like
another piece er pie; but, sho! That, er course, is only manners, and I'm
s'posed ter answer "No." Sis'll talk about the church-work and about the
Sunday-school, Ma'll tell how she liked that sermon that was on the
Golden Rule, And if I upset my tumbler they won't say a word ter me:--

Yes, a boy can eat in comfort with the minister ter tea!

Say! a minister, you'd reckon, never 'd say what wasn't true; But that
isn't so with ours, and I jest can prove it, too;
'Cause when Sis plays
on the organ so it makes yer want ter die, Why, he sets and says it's
lovely; and that, seems ter me, 's a lie: But I like him all the samey, and
I only wish he'd stay
At our house fer good and always, and eat with
us every day; Only think of havin' goodies every_ evenin'! Jimmi_nee!

And I'd never git a scoldin' with the minister ter tea!

"YAP"
I've got a little yaller dog, a wuthless kind of chap,
Who jest ain't
good fer nothin' but ter eat and sleep and "yap." Fer all 'round general
wuthlessness I never see his beat,
And yet he makes more fuss and
noise than all the farm complete. There ain't a mite of sense inside that
yaller hide of his; But, as he ain't no good, he likes ter pester them that
is. The critters all despise him, but there ain't a one but feels A little
mite oneasy when he's "yappin'" round their heels.
Yer see, he loves ter sneak around behind 'em, out of sight, And give a
sudden snap and snarl as if he meant ter bite;
Of course they know he
wouldn't hurt, and only means to scare, But still, it worries 'em ter
know the little scamp is there; And if they do git nervous-like and try to
hit him back
He swells up so with pride it seems as if his skin would
crack; And then he's wuss than ever, so they find it doesn't pay,
But
let him keep on "yappin'" till he's tired and goes away.
There's lots of people built like him--yer see 'em everywhere-- Who,
'cause they ain't no use themselves, can't somehow seem ter bear Ter
see another feller rise, but in their petty spite
And natural meanness,
snarl and snap and show they'd like ter bite. They don't come out in
front like men, and squarely speak their mind, But like that wuthless
yaller pup, they're hangin' 'round behind. They're little and
contemptible, but if yer make a slip
It must be bothersome ter know
they'll take that chance ter nip.

But there! perhaps it isn't right ter mind 'em, after all;
Perhaps we
ought ter thank the Lord our souls ain't quite so small; And they, with
all their sneakin' ways, must be, I rather guess, The thorns that prick
your fingers 'round the roses of success: Fer, when yer come ter think
of it, they never bark until
A feller's really started and a good ways up
the hill;
So, 'f I was climbin' up ter fame I wouldn't care a rap,
But
I'd think I was somebody when the curs begun ter "yap."

THE MINISTER'S WIFE
She's little and modest and purty,
As red as a rose and as sweet;
Her
children don't ever look dirty,
Her kitchen ain't no way but neat.

She's the kind of a woman ter cherish,
A help ter a feller through life,

Yet every old hen in the parish
Is down on the minister's wife.
'Twas Mrs. 'Lige Hawkins begun it;
She always has had the idee

That the church was built so's she could run it,
'Cause Hawkins is
deacon, yer see;
She thought that the whole congregation
Kept step
ter the tune of her fife,
But she found 't was a wrong calkerlation

Applied ter the minister's wife.
Then Mrs. Jedge Jenks got excited--
She thinks she's the whole upper
crust;--
When she found the Smiths was invited
Ter meet'n', she
quit in disgust.
"You can have all the paupers yer choose to,"
Says
she, jest as sharp as a knife;
"But if they_ go ter church _I refuse to!"

"Good-by!" says the minister's wife.
And then Mrs. Jackson got stuffy
At her not comin' sooner ter call,

And old Miss Macgregor is huffy
'Cause she went up ter Jackson's at
all.
Each one of the crowd hates the other,
The church has been full
of their strife;
But now they're all hatin' another,
And that one's the
minister's wife.
But still, all their cackle unheedin',
She goes, in her ladylike way,


A-givin' the poor what they're needing
And helpin' the church every
day:
Our numbers each Sunday is swelling
And real, true religion is
rife,
And sometimes I feel like a-yellin',
"Three cheers fer the
minister's wife!"

[Illustration: "'Well, now,