XIV Bill’s “Risin’”

One mornin’ Bill he took ’is chair at table, ’N’ I seen ’is right hand almos’ kivered With bandages, an’ ’e wan’t scassly able Ter eat—jes’ set an’ kind o’ shivered. I didn’t say en’thing till I hed et ’Mos’ threw my breakfas’; then I said, “I reckin, Bill, yew better quit an’ let Us fix ye up, or go ter bed.” Thet hand o’ his was awful red, an’ swoll’d Ez big ’s a baby colt’s hind legs; The fingers on ’t looked whitish blew an’ cold, An’ stuck up like ol’ harness pegs. He suffered dretful, thet was plain enuff, Tho’ Laury ’d doctered ’im with messes, An’ polticed ’im with ev’ry kind o’ stuff, Horse linyments an’ warm compresses. But no, he wouldn’t go ter bed; he ’d see The dum thing threw ’f it took a week; We might ez well, he said, jes’ leeve ’im be, He wouldn’t show no yeller streak. An’ so he wandered ’round all day a-nussin’ Thet fest’rin’ dead man’s hand o’ his; He said it wan’t no use ter dew no cussin’— The more he swore the more it riz. By night the pain hed drove ’im almos’ wild, ’N’ is arm was big’s a water oak; It wouldn’t took much then ter git ’im riled, Or skeer ’im stiff he’s goin’ ter croak. But still he’d grin—tho’ co’se I knowed he’s fakin’— An’ say he didn’t give a dam fer A thing ’cept t’ ev thet “risin’” quit its achin’; An’ then he ’d sniff ’t a bottl’ o’ camfer. At last I sez, an’ tapped ’im on the wrist, “Ef I was yew I’d chuck fer fair Them soaky puddin’ rags, an’ give yer fist Jes’ antyskeptick wash an’ air.” Thet ’s all I said, an’ left ’im at ’is door The mos’ bedraggles’ ’pearin’ cuss, Julluk a houn’ dawg all chawed up an’ sore, ’At looks he ’s licked an’ feels it wuss. But on the quiet Bill ’e tried thet wash, An’ said nex’ day the pain had eased So much thet reely it felt good, buggosh, Like some ol’ wheel thet ’s jes’ be’n greased. I never seen a man more chipperer; ’T was plain he ’d busted thet thar “risin’”; An’ then, jessif he ’d be’n the minister, He started in a-moralizin’: “It ’s ruther cu’r’us, aint it, how a fuller Jes’ natchelly falls back on notions Thet long ago he ’d orter t’run down suller; I mean them poltices an’ lotions. Now I was raised ter b’leeve I ’d gotta take My med’cin, grin an’ bear it, when Dizease or death, misfortune, pain or ache Ketched holt, fer thet ’s the way o’ men; An’ thet is mos’ly trew; but here in farmin’ I find ye don’t git ha’f so leery ’Bout buckin’ fate, ’f ye’r’ ont’ them funny varmin They call ‘basilly’ or ‘backteery.’ I hev an idee ’t out o’ life we ’d git Much more o’ honey ’n’ less o’ wax, Ef we depended less on native wit An’ more on sientifick fac’s.”