Thanksgivin' Jim

He always dodged 'round in a ragged old coat,
With a tattered, blue comforter tied on his throat.
His dusty old cart used to rattle and bang
As he yelled through the village, "Gid dap!" and "Go 'lang!"
You'd think from his looks that he wa'n't wuth a cent;
--Was poorer than Pooduc, to judge how he went.
But back in the country don't reckon on style
To give ye a notion of anyone's pile.
When he died and they figgered his pus'nal estate,
He was mighty well-fixed--was old "Squealin' Jim" Waite.
But say, I'd advise ye to sort of look out
How ye say "Squealin' Jim" when the's widders about.
They're likely to light on ye, hot tar and pitch,
And give ye some points as to what, where and which;
For if ever a critter was reckoned a saint
By the widders'round here, I'll be dinged if he ain't.
For please understand that the widders call him,
--Sheddin' tears while they're sayin' it,--
"Thanksgivin' Jim".
He was little--why,
Wa'n't scarce knee high
To a garden toad. But was mighty spry!
He was all of a whew
If he'd things to do!
'Twas a zip and a streak when Jim went through.
But his voice was twice as big as him
And the boys all called him "Squealin' Jim".
He was always a-hurryin' all through his life
And said there wa'n't time for to hunt up a wife.
So he kept bach's hall and he worked like a dog,
--Jest whooped right along at a trottin' hoss jog-
There's a yarn that the fellers that knew him will tell
If they want to set Jim out and set him out well:
He was bound for the city on bus'ness one day
And whoosh! scooted down to the depot, they say.
The depot-man says, "Hain't no rush, Mr.
Waite,
For the train to the city is ten minutes late
Off flew Squealin' Jim with his grip, on the run,
And away down the track he went hoofin' like fun.
When he tore out of sight, couldn't see him for dust
And he squealed, "Train be jiggered! I'll git there, now, fust!"
--So nervous and active he jest wouldn't wait
When they told him the train was a leetle dite late.
Now that was Jim!
He was stubby and slim
But it took a spry critter to step up with him.
His height when he'd rise
Made ye laugh, but his eyes
Let ye know that his soul wasn't much undersize.
And some old widders we had in town
Insisted, reg'lar, he wore a crown.
As he whoopity-larruped along on his way,
There were people who'd turn up their noses and say
That Squealin' Jim Waite wasn't right in his head;
He was cranky as blazes, the old growlers said.
I can well understand that some things he would do
Seemed loony as time to that stingy old crew.
For a fact, there was no one jest like him in town,
He was most always actin' the part of a clown;
He would say funny things in his queer, squealin' style,
And he talked so's you'd hear him for more than a mile.
But ev'ry Thanksgivin' time Waite he would start
And clatter through town in his rattlin' old cart,
And what do ye s'pose? He would whang down the street,
Yank up at each widder's; from under the seat
Would haul out a turkey of yaller-legged chick
And holler, "Here, mother, h'ist out with ye, quick!"
Then he'd toss down a bouncer right into her lap
And belt off like fury with, "G'long, there!
Gid dap!"
Didn't wait for no thanks--couldn't work 'em on him,
--Couldn't catch him to thank him--that
Thanksgivin' Jim.
'Twas a queer idee
'Round town that he
Was off'n his balance and crazy's could be.
They'd set and chaw
And stew and jaw,
And projick on what he did it for.
But prob'ly in Heaven old Squealin' Jim
Found lots of crazy folks jest like him.