IX Bill Non-Committal

I s’pose all farmers gits thet way in time, An’ I don’t wonder; it’s enough ter make Perfesh’nal prophits feel onsartin like. I mean the everlastin’ buckin’ up Agin ol’ Nacher an’ the elemunts Year in, year out, ontil ye wouldn’t sw’ar ’T ye’ve got ’ny oats at all, f’r exampel, even When cut an’ thrashed an’ layin’ in the bin; Yew know thet somp’n still kin spile thet crop. ’F a farmer wants ter gamble, he don’t hev Ter speckerlate on ’Change; I should say not; Jes’ let ’im farm it, plain an’ orn’ry farm it— Thet’s all he’s gotta dew. I’ll bet ye’n less ’N a fortnit he’d be plum dead sure ’t ’is chances Fer buy’n’ a kerosene kerridge playin’ faro Was ten ter one agin the farmin’ game. Naow jes’ consider what the farmer’s got Ter fight; they’s tew much rain or not enough; ’F ’e ’s got a crick, ’t will overflow an’ drownd ’Is corn, or else ’t will be a ditch o’ dust; An’ then they’s ev’ry bug in all helnation A-eatin’ off his truck an’ animuls; They’s lightnin’, winter-killin’, rust, an’ smut, An’ wind—’d yew ever see one them black twisters Come rippin’ down an’ shave the ten foot silage Right off a eighty slick’s a whistle? I hev. It’s one the grandes’, weerdes’ sights on earth, But hell on farmin’. Yew cain’t blame a farmer ’F ’e aint quite sure thet death an’ taxes might Not leave ’im be. Mos’ farmers won’t commit The’rsel’s on nothin’ ’t all, an’ ain’t they right? The trooth on’t is, they don’t jes’ ’zac’ly know The’r soul’s the’r own, an’ Bill he’s that ’a’ way. I never seen a feller thet could git Away with sech a everlastin’ lot O’ beatin’ round the bush an’ dodgin’ ’s Bill. W’y, he aint sure o’ heaven or hell, or enny O’ them things fokes knows mostly all about. ’F I ast ’im if they’s “cats” in Four Mile, “Wal,” He’d say—an’ mebbe Laury’d jes’ be’n cleanin’ A mess he’d ketched thet day—“they git ’em thar, So I’ve heerd tell, but I dunno’s they is, An’ dunno as they is.” An’ when I ’low It looks right smart like rain, Bill squints aroun’ An’ sez he shouldn’t wonder whether ’t did Or not. An’ when he’s stuck a pig, an’ Willy, A-lookin’ on with bulgin’ baby eyes, Sez breathless, “Paw, ’s ’e daid?”—all Bill kin say’s, “Wal, I suspishun so; he’d orter be.” I ast ’im onct ’f ’e tho’t th’ alfalfy’d ketch. He spit an’ picked a blade o’ grass an’ et it. “Seems like ’f we hed a shower o’ rain, an’ then A warmish spell thet didn’t run ter drouth, No killin’ frost or long wet rainy days, An’ ’f Lon mixed in thet fosfate half way right, An’ all thet ’nockerlatin’ ’s enny good, An’ ’f luck should kind o’ come our way a bit, Thet air alfalfy’d mebbe make a start.” I knowed jes’ much then ’zif I hedn’t ast. One time a mule kicked Bill squar’ on the jaw. He seen it comin’—hed no chance ter dodge. He laid in bed a week afore he woke, An’ staid thar ’nother nursin’ up ’is face. A few days later meetin’ that ’ar mule Bill sez, a-shak’n’ ’is finger playful-like, “’F I knowed fer sure ’t was yew thet done this ’ere, I reck’n I might git mad, but I dunno,” An’ han’s the graynose cuss a fresh pulled carrot. That’s Bill all over. Fifty years o’ playin’ The game agin the god o’ Luck hez made ’Im jest a leetle guarded in ’is speech, An’ l’arned ’im how ter take ’is dose ’thout squealin’.