Old John Clevenger On Buckeyes

Old John Clevenger lets on, Allus, like he's purty rough Timber.--He's a grate old John!-- "Rough?"--don't swaller no sich stuff! Moved here, sence the war was through, From Ohio--somers near Old Bucyrus,--loyal, too, As us "Hoosiers" is to here! Git old John stirred up a bit On his old home stompin'-ground-- Talks same as he lived thare yit, When some subject brings it round-- Like, fer instunce, Sund'y last, Fetched his wife, and et and stayed All night with us.--Set and gassed Tel plum midnight--'cause I made Some remark 'bout "buckeyes" and "What was buckeyes good fer?"--So, Like I 'lowed, he waved his hand And lit in and let me know:-- "'What is Buckeyes good fer?'--What's Pineys and fergitmenots?-- Honeysuckles, and sweet peas, And sweet-williamsuz, and these Johnny-jump-ups ev'rywhare, Growin' round the roots o' trees In Spring-weather?--what air they Good fer?--kin you tell me--Hey? 'Good to look at?' Well they air! 'Specially when Winter's gone, Clean dead-certin! and the wood's Green again, and sun feels good's June!--and shed your blame boots on The back porch, and lit out to Roam round like you ust to do, Bare-foot, up and down the crick, Whare the buckeyes growed so thick, And witch-hazel and pop-paws, And hackberries and black-haws-- With wild pizen-vines jis knit Over and en-nunder it, And wove round it all, I jing! Tel you couldn't hardly stick A durn caseknife through the thing! Wriggle round through that; and then-- All het-up, and scratched and tanned, And muskeeter-bit and mean- Feelin'--all at onc't again, Come out suddent on a clean Slopin' little hump o' green Dry soft grass, as fine and grand As a pollor-sofy!--And Jis pile down thare!--and tell me Anywhares you'd ruther be-- 'Ceptin' right thare, with the wild- Flowrs all round ye, and your eyes Smilin' with 'em at the skies, Happy as a little child! Well!--right here, I want to say, Poets kin talk all they please 'Bout 'wild-flowrs, in colors gay,' And 'sweet blossoms flauntin' theyr Beauteous fragrunce on the breeze'-- But the sight o' buckeyes jis Sweet to me as blossoms is!

"I'm Ohio-born--right whare People's all called 'Buckeyes' thare-- 'Cause, I s'pose, our buckeye crap's Biggest in the world, perhaps!-- Ner my head don't stretch my hat Too much on account o' that!-- 'Cause it's Natchur's ginerus hand Sows 'em broadcast ore the land, With eye-single fer man's good And the gineral neghborhood! So buckeyes jis natchurly 'Pears like kith-and-kin to me! 'Slike the good old sayin' wuz, 'Purty is as purty does!'-- We can't eat 'em, cookd er raw-- Yit, I mind, tomattusuz Wuz considerd pizenus Onc't--and dasent eat 'em!--Pshaw-- 'Twouldn't take me by supprise, Someday, ef we et buckeyes! That, though, 's nuther here ner thare!-- Jis the Buckeye whare we air, In the present times, is what Ockuppies my lovin' care And my most perfoundest thought! ... Guess, this minute, what I got In my pocket, 'at I've packed Purt'-nigh forty year.--A dry, Slick and shiny, warped and cracked, Wilted, weazened old buckeye! What's it thare fer? What's my hart In my brest fer?--'Cause it's part Of my life--and 'tends to biz-- Like this buckeye's bound to act-- 'Cause it 'tends to Rhumatiz!

"... Ketched more rhumatiz than fish, Seinen', onc't--and pants froze on My blame legs!--And ust to wish I wuz well er dead and gone! Doc give up the case, and shod His old boss again and stayed On good roads!--And thare I laid! Pap he tuck some bluegrass sod Steeped in whisky, bilin'-hot, And socked that on! Then I got Sorto' holt o' him, somehow-- Kindo' crazy-like, they say-- And I'd killed him, like as not, Ef I hadn't swooned away! Smell my scortcht pelt purt'-nigh now! Well--to make a long tale short-- I hung on the blame disease Like a shavin'-hoss! and sort O' wore it out by slow degrees-- Tel my legs wuz straight enugh To poke through my pants again And kick all the doctor-stuff In the fi-er-place! Then turned in And tuck Daddy Craig's old cuore-- Jis a buckeye--and that's shore.-- Hain't no case o' rhumatiz Kin subsist whare buckeyes is!"