If you are looking for The Loom of Life Part 9 you are coming to the right place.
The Loom of Life is a Webnovel created by Cotton Noe.
This lightnovel is currently completed.
Cheap wits don’t make no noise ‘Bout Wes, ’cause he destroys Their wisdom, which annoys The humorist, more or less.
Unless your jokes ‘ll fit You’d best reserve your wit, And entirely omit, ‘Fore Perkins, boys call Wes.
THE FIRST MESS OF GREENS
You may boast of landscapes golden With the harvest’s ripenin’ grain, Or of Autumn pensive foldin, All her flowers to sleep again; But to me the woods a-ringin’
With the notes of happy birds When the April buds is springin’
Is a song too sweet for words: And the beautifullest, since you ask it, In art or nature’s scenes, Is Kate with knife and basket, A-getherin’ of greens.
It pears to lift the veil of years And opens up to view, A scene that brings me soothin’ tears As sweet as tender dew To gra.s.s that suns have withered dry: I can see her jist as plain, Though Father Time has dimmed my eye, And ricollect the pain, I suffered while she paused a-thinkin’
What such an answer means; And the “Stay and help us, John,” a-winkin’
“Eat our first mess of greens.”
I’ve heard my neighbor Johnson say His choice was chicken pie; And Perkins lows he likes to stay His stomach with a fry: And Jones, he says, says he, “I think Good old Kentucky rye Suits me the best; give me a drink, Whenever I am dry.”
But I have never tasted meat, Nor cabbage, corn nor beans, Nor fluid food one half as sweet As that first mess of greens.
It’s not the pictur’ near as much As the thoughts that gethers round, That always gives the paintin’ such Distinction and renown.
There’s nothin’ in a gra.s.sy knoll So beautiful to see, And yit I think within my soul It beats a flowery lea.
And oh, I’d git _Munkasket_, If I only had the means, To paint me Kate with basket A-getherin’ of greens.
Wes Banks, you know, he teaches school, Has teached for nigh on forty year, And I jist want to say right here, That though he may not fit your rule, Wes Banks, by jings, he ain’t no fool.
And if you bet your dough ‘gin Wes, You’ll want your money back, I guess.
Wes Banks, he never wears a tie– Them things, you know, some call cravats, Nor collar neither, and jist that’s The very tarnal reason why I bet on Wes, and that’s no lie: No man can lead Wes by the nose If he don’t wear the latest clothes.
Wes Banks, you know, I’m speakin’ uv: He lives way out on old Line Fork, As good a place as in New York; Out where the birds sing lays of love, The wren, the thrush, the turtle dove– Sometimes, it seems, because of Wes, Who loves their music, more or less.
Wes claims that now for forty year He has prescribed strong peachtree tea For cusses, which he says that he Could not intrest except by fear: Wes makes this claim while standing here Before his boys now teaching school, Who can’t remember such a rule.
Now Wes, he’s awful in his speech: He says I “seed” and “done” and “haint,”
And lots of things that’s wrong and quaint; But many’s them who pray and preach And go to school and learn to teach And wear a darned sight better clothes, Still never learn what Wesly knows.
Well, Wes ain’t much at inst.i.tutes; Don’t like to make a public talk, And demonstrate with board and chalk.
No, he ain’t much on sich disputes; But Wes at school gits down and roots: Up here Wes Banks is jist a wag, With striped candy in a bag.
Old Wes is poor as money goes, But rich in love and charity; His heart goes out in sympathy To barefoot boy with bleeding toes, And girls in torn and tattered clothes; And with his heart goes Wes’s coin, To heal the wound and gird the loin.
And this is why tonight I rise To speak how Wesly Bank’s life Through forty years of schoolroom strife By living truth has conquered lies, And made his students good and wise: You can’t size Wes by looks or speech, No more than some by what they preach.
PHILOSOPHY AT A BANQUET
Old Socrates who thought he knew A philosophic thing or two, Believed that man was made to walk Or lounge about the streets and talk Of life and death and virtues true, And what a fellow ought to do; While poor Xantippe, so I’m told, Remained at home to drudge and scold.
But Epicurus seemed to think That man was made to eat and drink, A doctrine quite as orthodox, I sometimes think, as old man Soc’s; For what philosophy’s complete That can not take an hour to eat?
I like old Socry, to be sure, But here I’m just an Epicure.
ANENT HALLEY’S COMET
Oh, how sick of Halley’s comet!
Almost makes me want to vomit.
Can’t pick up a magazine, Halley’s comet isn’t seen.
When the weary day is done, Still no peace unless you shun Every living soul you meet Talking comet on the street.
Should you occupy the pews, See the Hipp or read the news, Fall asleep and chance to dream, Halley’s comet still the theme.
Dust to-day got in my eye,– Halley’s comet pa.s.sing by.
Both the sense of sound and sight, Suffering from this comet’s blight.
When the days were hot and dry, Halley’s comet in the sky.
All through April frost and rain, Halley’s comet raising Cain.
Whoso seeks for faith or knowledge Goes to church or enters college, Hears naught else but this discussed.– Shooting stars and comet dust.
Taft and Teddy’s well be dead, Like Old England’s monarch _Ed_,– Just as well as be forgot Midst this meteoric rot.
Automobile pa.s.ses by, Like a comet in the sky.
Leaving in its awful trail, Wreaths of smoke just like a tail; See a fellow sniff the air, Stop, turn pale, and trembling, swear: “Wonder now has science lied?
That gas smells like cyanide.”
Learned, ign’rant, rich and poor, All are full of comet lore.
Life had charms that once were sweet; Earth, hast now no safe retreat?
If this talk will not abate, Lord, I pray this be our fate; May this globe dissolve or fail, Pa.s.sing through the comet’s tail!