What are yer askin', stranger, about that lock o' harThat's kep' so nice and keerful in the family Bible thar?Wal, then, I don't mind tellin', seein' as yer wants ter know.It's from the head of our baby. Yes, that's him.—Stand up, Joe.Joe is our only baby, nigh on ter six foot tall;And he'll be one-and-twenty comin' this next fall.But he can't yet beat his daddy in the hay-field or the swales,A-pitchin' on the wagon, or splittin' up the rails.For I was a famous chopper, jest eighteen year ago,When this strange thing happened, that came to me and Joe.Curly-head we called him then, sir—his hair is curly yet,But them long silky ringlets I never shall forget.Them was tough times, stranger, when all around was new,And all the kentry forests, with only "blazes" through.We lived in the old log-house then, Sally and me and Joe,In the old Black-river country, whar we made our clearin' show.Wal, one day I was choppin' nigh to our cabin door,—A day that I'll remember till kingdom come and more,—And Curly-head was playin' around among the chips;A beauty, if I do say it, with rosy cheeks and lips.I don't know how it happened; but quicker'n I can tell,Our Curly-head had stumbled, and lay thar whar he fellOn the log that I was choppin', with his yellow curls outspread;And the heavy axe was fallin' right on his precious head;The next thing, I knew nothin', and all was dark around.When I come to, I was lyin' stretched out thar on the ground;And Curly-head was callin', "O daddy, don't do so!"I caught him to my bosom, my own dear little Joe.All safe, sir. Not a sliver had touched his little head;But one of his curls was lyin' thar on the log outspread.It lay whar the axe was stickin', cut close by its sharpened edge;And what then was my feelin's, per'aps, sir, you can jedge.I took the little ringlet, and pressed it to my lips;Then I kneeled down and prayed, sir, right thar on the chips.We put it in the Bible, whar I often read to Joe,—"The hairs of your head are numbered;" and, sir, I believe it's so.B. S. Brooks.
What are yer askin', stranger, about that lock o' harThat's kep' so nice and keerful in the family Bible thar?Wal, then, I don't mind tellin', seein' as yer wants ter know.It's from the head of our baby. Yes, that's him.—Stand up, Joe.Joe is our only baby, nigh on ter six foot tall;And he'll be one-and-twenty comin' this next fall.But he can't yet beat his daddy in the hay-field or the swales,A-pitchin' on the wagon, or splittin' up the rails.For I was a famous chopper, jest eighteen year ago,When this strange thing happened, that came to me and Joe.Curly-head we called him then, sir—his hair is curly yet,But them long silky ringlets I never shall forget.Them was tough times, stranger, when all around was new,And all the kentry forests, with only "blazes" through.We lived in the old log-house then, Sally and me and Joe,In the old Black-river country, whar we made our clearin' show.Wal, one day I was choppin' nigh to our cabin door,—A day that I'll remember till kingdom come and more,—And Curly-head was playin' around among the chips;A beauty, if I do say it, with rosy cheeks and lips.I don't know how it happened; but quicker'n I can tell,Our Curly-head had stumbled, and lay thar whar he fellOn the log that I was choppin', with his yellow curls outspread;And the heavy axe was fallin' right on his precious head;The next thing, I knew nothin', and all was dark around.When I come to, I was lyin' stretched out thar on the ground;And Curly-head was callin', "O daddy, don't do so!"I caught him to my bosom, my own dear little Joe.All safe, sir. Not a sliver had touched his little head;But one of his curls was lyin' thar on the log outspread.It lay whar the axe was stickin', cut close by its sharpened edge;And what then was my feelin's, per'aps, sir, you can jedge.I took the little ringlet, and pressed it to my lips;Then I kneeled down and prayed, sir, right thar on the chips.We put it in the Bible, whar I often read to Joe,—"The hairs of your head are numbered;" and, sir, I believe it's so.B. S. Brooks.
What are yer askin', stranger, about that lock o' harThat's kep' so nice and keerful in the family Bible thar?Wal, then, I don't mind tellin', seein' as yer wants ter know.It's from the head of our baby. Yes, that's him.—Stand up, Joe.
Joe is our only baby, nigh on ter six foot tall;And he'll be one-and-twenty comin' this next fall.But he can't yet beat his daddy in the hay-field or the swales,A-pitchin' on the wagon, or splittin' up the rails.
For I was a famous chopper, jest eighteen year ago,When this strange thing happened, that came to me and Joe.Curly-head we called him then, sir—his hair is curly yet,But them long silky ringlets I never shall forget.
Them was tough times, stranger, when all around was new,And all the kentry forests, with only "blazes" through.We lived in the old log-house then, Sally and me and Joe,In the old Black-river country, whar we made our clearin' show.
Wal, one day I was choppin' nigh to our cabin door,—A day that I'll remember till kingdom come and more,—And Curly-head was playin' around among the chips;A beauty, if I do say it, with rosy cheeks and lips.
I don't know how it happened; but quicker'n I can tell,Our Curly-head had stumbled, and lay thar whar he fellOn the log that I was choppin', with his yellow curls outspread;And the heavy axe was fallin' right on his precious head;
The next thing, I knew nothin', and all was dark around.When I come to, I was lyin' stretched out thar on the ground;And Curly-head was callin', "O daddy, don't do so!"I caught him to my bosom, my own dear little Joe.
All safe, sir. Not a sliver had touched his little head;But one of his curls was lyin' thar on the log outspread.It lay whar the axe was stickin', cut close by its sharpened edge;And what then was my feelin's, per'aps, sir, you can jedge.
I took the little ringlet, and pressed it to my lips;Then I kneeled down and prayed, sir, right thar on the chips.We put it in the Bible, whar I often read to Joe,—"The hairs of your head are numbered;" and, sir, I believe it's so.
B. S. Brooks.