Rubáiyát of Doc Sifers. Riley James Whitcomb

times, Doc jes mianders round, in that old rig o' his:

      And hain't no tellin' where he's bound ner guessin' where he is;

      He'll drive, they tell, jes thataway fer maybe six er eight

      Days at a stretch; and neighbers say he's bin clean round the State.

      XVII

      He picked a' old tramp up, one trip, 'bout eighty mile'd from here,

      And fetched him home and k-yored his hip, and kep' him 'bout a year;

      And feller said – in all his ja'nts round this terreschul ball

      'At no man wuz a circumstance to Doc! – he topped 'em all! —

      XVIII

      Said, bark o' trees 's a' open book to Doc, and vines and moss

      He read like writin' – with a look knowed ever' dot and cross:

      Said, stars at night wuz jes as good 's a compass: said, he s'pose

      You couldn't lose Doc in the woods the darkest night that blows!

      XIX

      Said, Doc'll tell you, purty clos't, by underbresh and plants,

      How fur off warter is, – and 'most perdict the sort o' chance

      You'll have o' findin' fish; and how they're liable to bite,

      And whether they're a-bitin' now, er only after night.

      XX

      And, whilse we're talkin' fish, – I mind they formed a fishin'-crowd

      (When folks could fish 'thout gittin' fined, and seinin' wuz allowed!)

      O' leadin' citizens, you know, to go and seine "Old Blue" —

      But hadn't no big seine, and so – w'y, what wuz they to do?..

      XXI

      And Doc he say he thought 'at he could knit a stitch er two —

      "Bring the materials to me – 'at's all I'm astin' you!"

      And down he sets – six weeks, i jing! and knits that seine plum done —

      Made corks too, brails and ever'thing – good as a boughten one!

      XXII

      Doc's public sperit – when the sick 's not takin' all his time

      And he's got some fer politics – is simple yit sublime: —

      He'll talk his principles– and they air honest; – but the sly

      Friend strikes him first, election-day, he'd 'commodate, er die!

      XXIII

      And yit, though Doc, as all men knows, is square straight up and down,

      That vote o' his is – well, I s'pose – the cheapest one in town; —

      A fact 'at's sad to verify, as could be done on oath —

      I've voted Doc myse'f —And I was criminal fer both!

      XXIV

      You kin corrupt the ballot-box– corrupt yourse'f, as well —

      Corrupt some neighbers, – but old Doc's as oncorruptible

      As Holy Writ. So putt a pin right there! – Let Sifers be,

      I jucks! he wouldn't vote agin his own worst inimy!

      XXV

      When Cynthy Eubanks laid so low with fever, and Doc Glenn