The Stock in the Tie-Up

I'm workin' this week in the wood lot; a hearty old job, you can bet;
I finish my chores with a larntern, and marin has the table all set
By the time I get in with the milkin'; and after
I wash at the sink,
And marm sets a saucer o' strainin's for the cat and the kittens to drink.
Your uncle is ready for supper, with an appetite whet to an edge
That'll cut like a bush-scythe in swale-grass, and couldn't be dulled on a ledge.
And marm, she slats open the oven, and pulls out a heapin' full tin
Of the rippin'est cream-tartar biskit a man ever pushed at his chin.
We pile some more wood on the fire, and open the damper full blare,
And pull up and pitch into supper--and comfort--and taste good--wal, there!
And the wind swooshes over the chimbly, and scrapes at the shingles cross grain,
But good double winders and bankin' are mighty good friends here in Maine.

I look 'crost the table to mother, and marm she looks over at me,
And passes another hot biskit and says, "Won't ye have some more tea?"
And while I am stirrin' the sugar, I relish the sound of the storm.
For, thank the good Lord, we are cosy and the stock in the tie-up is warm.

I tell ye, the song o' the fire and the chirruping hiss o' the tea,
The roar of the wind in the chimbly, they sound dreadful cheerful to me.
But they'd harrer me, plague me, and fret me, unless as I set here I knew
That the critters are munchin' their fodder and bedded and comf'table too.
These biskits are light as a feather, but, boy, they'd be heavier'n lead
If I thought that my hosses was shiv'rin', if I thought that my cattle warn't fed.
There's men in the neighborhood 'round me who pray som'w'at louder than me,
They wear better clothes, sir, on Sunday--chip in for the heathen Chinee,
But the cracks in the sides o' their tie-ups are wide as the door o' their pew,
And the winter comes in there a-howlin', with the sleet and the snow peltin' through.
Step in there, sir, ary a mornin' and look at their critters! 'Twould seem
As if they were bilers or engines, and all o' them chock full o' steam.

I've got an old-fashioned religion that calkalates Sundays for rest,
But if there warn't time, sir, on week days to batten a tie-up, I'm blest
I'd use up a Sunday or such-like, and let the durned heathen folks go
While I fastened some boards on the lintel to keep out the frost and the snow.

I'd stand all the frowns of the parson before I'd have courage to face
The dumb holler eyes o' the critters hooked up in a frosty old place.
And I'll bet ye that in the Hereafter the men who have stayed on their knees
And let some poor, fuzzy old cattle stand out in a tie-up and freeze,
Will find that the heat o' the Hot Place is keyed to an extra degree
For the men who forgot to consider that critters have feelin's same's we.

I dasn't go thinkin' o' tie-ups where winter goes whistlin' through.
Where cattle are humped at their stanchions with scarcely the gumption to moo.
But I'm glad for the sake of Hereafter that mine ain't the sin and the guilt,
And I tell you I relish my feelin's when I pull up the big patchwork quilt.

I can laugh at the pelt o' the snowflakes, and grin at the slat o' the storm,
And thank the good Lord I can sleep now; the stock in the tie-up is warm.