A DOS'T O' BLUES

I' got no patience with blues at all! And I ust to kindo' talk Aginst 'em, and claim, tel along last Fall, They wuz none in the fambly stock; But a nephew of mine, from Eelinoy, That visitud us last year, He kindo' convinct me differunt Whilse he wuz a-stayin' here. From ev'ry-which-way that blues is from, They'd pester him ev'ry-ways; They'd come to him in the night, and come On Sundys, and rainy days; They'd tackle him in corn-plantin' time, And in harvest, and airly Fall,— But a dos't o' blues in the Wintertime, He 'lowed, wuz the worst of all! Said "All diseases that ever he had— The mumps, er the rhumatiz— Er ev'ry-other-day-aigger—bad As ever the blame thing is!— Er a cyarbuncle, say, on the back of his neck, Er a felon on his thumb,— But you keep the blues away from him, And all o' the rest could come!" And he'd moan, "They's nary a leaf below! Ner a spear o' grass in sight! And the whole woodpile's clean under snow! And the days is dark as night! You can't go out—ner you can't stay in— Lay down—stand up—ner set!" And a tetch o' regular tyfoid-blues Would double him jest clean shet! I writ his parunts a postal-kyard He could stay tel Springtime come; And Aprile—first, as I rickollect— Wuz the day we shipped him home! Most o' his relatives, sence then, Has eether give up, er quit, Er jest died off; but I understand He's the same old color yit!