Feedin' the Stock

Hear the chorus in that tie-up, runch, gerrunch, and runch and runch!
--There's a row of honest critters! Does me good to hear 'em munch.
When the barn is gettin' dusky and the sun's behind the drifts,
--Touchin' last the gable winder where the dancin' hay-dust sifts,
When the coaxin' from the tie-up kind o' hints it's five o'clock--
Wal, I've got a job that suits me--that's the chore of feedin' stock.
We've got patches down to our house--honest patches, though, and neat,
But we'd rather have the patches than to skinch on what we eat.
Lots of work, and grub to back ye--that's a mighty wholesome creed.
--Critters fust, s'r, that's my motto--give the critters all they need. '
And the way we do at our house, marm and me take what is left,
And--wal,--we ain't goin' hungry, as you'll notice by our heft.
Drat the man that's calculatin' when he measures out his hay,
Groanin' ev'ry time he pitches ary forkful out the bay;
Drat the man who feeds out ruff-scuff, wood and wire from the swale,
'Cause he wants to press his herds'-grass, send his clover off for sale.
Down to our house we wear patches, but it ain't nobody's biz
Jest as long as them 'ere critters git the best of hay there is.
When the cobwebs on the rafters drip with winter's early dusk
And the rows of critters' noses, damp with breath as sweet as musk,
Toss and tease me from the tie-up--ain't a job that suits me more
Than the feedin' of the cattle--that's the reg'- lar wind-up chore.
When I grain 'em or I meal 'em--wal, there's plenty in the bin,
And I give 'em quaker measure ev'ry time I dip down in;
And the hay, wal, now I've cut it, and I own it and it's mine
And I jab that blamed old fork in, till you'd think I'd bust a tine.
I ain't doin' it for praises--no one sees me but the pup,
--And I get his apperbation, 'cause he pounds his tail, rup, rup!
No, I do it 'cause I want to; 'cause I couldn't sleep a wink,
If I thought them poor dumb critters lacked for fodder or for drink.
And to have the scufflin' barnful give a jolly little blat
When you open up o' mornin's, ah, there's comfort, friend, in that!
And you've prob'ly sometimes noticed, when his cattle hate a man,
That it's pretty sure his neighbors size him up on that same plan.
But I'm solid in my tie-up; when I've finished up that chore,
I enjoy it standin' list'nin' for a minit at the door.
And the rustle of the fodder and the nuzzlin' in the meal
And the runchin's of their feedin' make this humble feller feel
That there ain't no greater comfort than this
'ere--to understand
That a dozen faithful critters owe their comfort to my hand.
Oh, the dim old barn seems homelike, with its overhanging mows,
With its warm and battened tie-up, full of wellfed sheep and cows.
Then I shet the door behind me, drop the bar and drive the pin
And, with Jeff a-waggin' after, lug the foamin' milk pails in.
That's the style of things to our house--marm and me we don't pull up
Until ev'ry critter's eatin', from the cattle to the pup.
Then the biskits and the spare-rib and plum preserves taste good,
For we're feelin', me and mother, that we're actin''bout's we should.
Like as can be, after supper mother sews another patch
And she says the duds look trampy, 'cause she ain't got goods to match.
Fust of all, though, comes the mealbins and the hay-mows; after those
If there's any extry dollars, wal, we'll see about new clothes.
But to-night, why, bless ye, mother, pull the rug acrost the door;
--Warmth and food and peace and comfort-- let's not pester God for more.