POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 2119, 8 December 1880, Page 3

POETRY.

THE HUNTER’S FIRST BABY!' SOBNB AT A FeONTIKB TeAPPING POST. “ By Wyoming Eit.” " Howdy do, Colonel Sam; an’ how’s bizness ? Yea, it has bin a rayther long time Since the light o’ my glorious count’nance Lit up this hyar low-country clime! It’s the fust trip I made from the mountains For two years a-comin’ next May j An’ if ’twan’t that we’re out o’ pervisions I wouldn’t bo with ye to-day. * An’ that isn’t all! Look 'yar, Colonel! Jist make a trip up on the range An* I*ll show you a sight that’s wu’th aeein You never obsarved one so strange ! Stop yer foolin’—we ain’t on that racket It’a a boy ; and the little galoot Shows signs of his father’s attainments— Fur he’s jist h’ilin over with ’cute ! “ Would yon b’lieve it, his nose ain’t no bigger Than a pine-nut—but ’tian’t a pug— An’ his mouth, when he’s settled for squallin’, Resembles the mouth of a jug! An’ his eyes! Why, Colonel, them peepers Air sharp as a catamount’s eyes ! But his head air as bald as a biscuit—Though I reckon the hair ’ll soon rise. “ The little galoot ain’t no bigger Than the foot of a cinnamon b’ar. An’ don’t weigh more at this minute Than one o’ them jack-rabbits thar! But the smart little rascal’s a growin’— Cornin’ out jist as nice as you pleaso; ’Twon’t bo long ’fore he’ll jist bo a reuser! I’m braggin ? Oh ! give us a breeze! “ I’m doin’ a sight of hard thinkin’ Senoe that baby showed up in the camp— Now, won’t it be nice, in the future, When the'old man’s not able to tramp,— Not able fur huntin’ an’ trappin’ To have a stout buck of a boy, To take the load off’n his shoulders. An’ fill the old cabin with joy ? •' Colonel Sam, thar, aint no use o’ talkin’; God Himself bad a hand in that game ! He sent that young kid just a purpose To comfort our lives —bless His name! An’ I’m goin’ ter train him fur bizness Jist as soon as he’s able to shoot— Teach him huntin’, trappin’ and so forth’ With a little book I’arnin, to boot! “ Mightn’t live ? Look ’yar. Colonel, confound it! Don’t spring sioh a racket—’twon’t go! I never done nuthin’ so wicked That God’d git after mo so ! If the Lord wants a shot at the fam’ly, Thar’s older game faangin around! I’d ruther He’d give me a ticket To a lodgin’ place under the ground !] (I Dura it all, Sam ; I wish ye’d a tumbled Afore ye shot off that remark! Only jokin’, I know, but sioh coddin’ Makes the future loom up rayther dark ! He’ll live, though—thar’s no use o’ tryin’ With sorrow to coax up a muss I But I xnus’ be going’—say, Colonel, Come up thar’ an’ see the sweet cuss !”