John W. Jones

A sort of a double-breasted face had old John W. Jones,
Reddened and roughened by sun and wind, with angular high cheek-bones.
At the fair, one time, of the Social Guild he received unique renown
By being elected unanimously the homeliest man in town.
The maidens giggled, the women smiled, the men laughed loud and long,
And old John W. leaned right back and hohawed good and strong.
And never was jest too broad for him--for all of the quip and chaff
That assailed his queer old mug through life he had but a hearty laugh.
"Ho, ho", he'd snort, "haw, haw", he'd roar;
"that's me, my friends, that's me!
Now hain't that the most skew-angled phiz that ever ye chanced to see?"
And then he would tell us this little tale.
"'Twas one dark night", said he,
"I was driving along in a piece of woods and there wasn't a ray to see,
And all to once my cart locked wheels with another old chap's cart;
We gee-ed and backed but we hung there fast, and neither of us could start.
Then the stranger man he struck a match, to see how he'd git away,
And I vum, he had the homeliest face I've seen for many a day.
Wal, jest for a joke I grabbed his throat and pulled my pipe-case out,
And the stranger reckoned I had a gun, and he wrassled good and stout.
But I got him down on his back at last and straddled acrost his chest,
And allowed to him that he'd better plan to go to his last long rest.
He gasped and groaned he was poor and old and hadn't a blessed cent,
And almost blubbering asked to know what under the sun I meant.
Said I, 'I've sworn if I meet a man that's homelier 'n what I be,
I'll kill him. I reckin I've got the man.' Says he, 'Please let me see?'
So I loosened a bit while he struck a match; he held it with trembling hand
While through the tears in his poor old eyes my cross-piled face he scanned.
Then he dropped the match and he groaned and said, 'If truly ye think that I
Am ha'f as homely as what you be--please shoot! I want to die.'"
And the story always would start the laugh and Jones would drop his jaw,
And lean'way back and slap his leg and laugh,
"Ho, haw--haw--haw-w-w!"
That was Jones,
--John W. Jones,
Queer, Gothic old structure of cob-piled bones;
His droll, red face
Had not a trace
Of comeliness or of special grace;
But I tell you, friends, that candor glowed
In those true old eyes--those deep old eyes,
And love and faith and manhood showed
Without disguise--without disguise.
Though he certainly won a just renown
As the homeliest man we had in town.
He never had married--that old John Jones; he'd grubbed on his little patch,
Supported his parents until they died, and then he had lived "old bach".
We had some suspicions we couldn't prove: for years had an unknown man
Distributed gifts to the poor in town on a sort of a Santa Claus plan.
If a worthy old widow was needing wood-- some night would that wood be left,
There was garden truck placed in the barns of those by mishap or drought bereft.
And once when the night was clear and bright in the glorious month of June,
Poor broken-legged Johnson's garden was hoed in the light of the great white moon.
And often some farmer by sickness weighed, and weary, discouraged and poor,
Would find a wad of worn old bills tucked carefully under his door.
And the tracks in the sod of this man who trod by night on his secret routes
Were suspiciously like the other tracks that were left by John Jones' boots.
And the wheel-marks wobbled extremely like the trail of Jones' old cart,
But whatever his mercies he hid them all in the depths of his warm old heart.
For whenever the neighbors would pin him down, he'd lift his faded hat,
"Now, say", he'd laugh, "can a man be good with a physog such as that?"
Then came the days--the black, dread days when the small-pox swept our town,
With pest-house crowded from sill to eaves and the nurses "taken down."
And panic reigned and the best went wild and even the doctors fled,
And scarce was there one to aid the sick or bury the awful dead.
But there in that pest house day and night a man with quiet tones
And steady heart kept still at work--and that was old John Jones.
While ever his joke was, "What! Afraid?
Why, gracious me, I'm fine,
And if I weren't, a few more dents won't harm this face of mine".
But those who writhed and moaned in pain within that loathsome place
Saw beauty not of man and earth upon that gnarled old face.
And when he eased their pain-racked forms or brought the cooling draught,
They wondered if this saint could be the man at whom they'd laughed.
And thus he fought, unwearied, brave, until the Terror passed,
--And then, poor old John W. Jones, he had the small-pox last.
And worn by vigils, toil, and fast, the fate he had defied
Descended on him, stern and fierce,--he died, my friends, he died.
They held one service at the church for all the village dead.
The pastor, when he came to Jones, he choked a bit and said:
"If handsome is as handsome does--and now
I say to you
I verily--I honestly believe that saying true.
--If handsome is as handsome does, we had right here in town
A man whose beauty fairly shone--from
Heaven itself brought down.
At first, perhaps, we failed to grasp the contour of that face,
But now with God's own light on it we see its perfect grace.
And so I say our handsomest man"--the pastor hushed his tones,
With streaming eyes looked up and said, "was old John W. Jones Such was Jones,
--John W. Jones,
Queer, Gothic old structure of cob-piled bones;
His quaint, red face
Had not a trace
Of comeliness or of special grace.
But I tell you, friends, we drop this shell,
Just over There--just over There!
Good thoughts, good deeds, good hearts will tell
In moulding souls, serene and fair,
And Jones will stand with harp and crown,
The handsomest angel from our old town.