"I was born in Indiany," said a stranger lank and slim,As us fellers in the restaurant was kind o' guyin' him,And Uncle Jake was slidin' him another pun'kin pieAnd a extra cup o' coffee, with a twinkle in his eye,—"I was born in Indiany, more'n forty year ago;And I hain't been back in twenty, and I'm workin' back'ards slow;"But I've et in every restarunt 'twixt here and Santa Fee,And I want to state, this coffee tastes like gittin' home to me!"Pour us out another, daddy," says the feller, warmin' up,A-speakin' 'crost a saucerful, as uncle tuck his cup."When I seed yer sign out yender," he went on to uncle Jake,—"'Come in and git some coffee like your mother used to make,'—I thought of my old mother and the Posey-county farm,And me a little kid agin', a-hangin' on her arm;And she set the pot a-bilin', broke the eggs, and poured 'em in"—And the feller kind o' halted with a trimble in his chin.And uncle Jake he fetched the feller's coffee back, and stoodAs solemn, for a minute, as a undertaker would.Then he sort o' turned, and tiptoed to'rds the kitchen-door; and next,Here comes his old wife out with him, a-rubbin' of her specs;And she rushes for the stranger, and she hollers out, "It's him!Thank God, we've met him comin'! Don't you know your mother, Jim?"And the feller, as he grabbed her, says, "You bet I hain't forgot."But, wipin' of his eyes, says he, "Your coffee's mighty hot."James Whitcomb Riley, in New-York Mercury.
"I was born in Indiany," said a stranger lank and slim,As us fellers in the restaurant was kind o' guyin' him,And Uncle Jake was slidin' him another pun'kin pieAnd a extra cup o' coffee, with a twinkle in his eye,—"I was born in Indiany, more'n forty year ago;And I hain't been back in twenty, and I'm workin' back'ards slow;"But I've et in every restarunt 'twixt here and Santa Fee,And I want to state, this coffee tastes like gittin' home to me!"Pour us out another, daddy," says the feller, warmin' up,A-speakin' 'crost a saucerful, as uncle tuck his cup."When I seed yer sign out yender," he went on to uncle Jake,—"'Come in and git some coffee like your mother used to make,'—I thought of my old mother and the Posey-county farm,And me a little kid agin', a-hangin' on her arm;And she set the pot a-bilin', broke the eggs, and poured 'em in"—And the feller kind o' halted with a trimble in his chin.And uncle Jake he fetched the feller's coffee back, and stoodAs solemn, for a minute, as a undertaker would.Then he sort o' turned, and tiptoed to'rds the kitchen-door; and next,Here comes his old wife out with him, a-rubbin' of her specs;And she rushes for the stranger, and she hollers out, "It's him!Thank God, we've met him comin'! Don't you know your mother, Jim?"And the feller, as he grabbed her, says, "You bet I hain't forgot."But, wipin' of his eyes, says he, "Your coffee's mighty hot."James Whitcomb Riley, in New-York Mercury.
"I was born in Indiany," said a stranger lank and slim,As us fellers in the restaurant was kind o' guyin' him,And Uncle Jake was slidin' him another pun'kin pieAnd a extra cup o' coffee, with a twinkle in his eye,—"I was born in Indiany, more'n forty year ago;And I hain't been back in twenty, and I'm workin' back'ards slow;"But I've et in every restarunt 'twixt here and Santa Fee,And I want to state, this coffee tastes like gittin' home to me!"Pour us out another, daddy," says the feller, warmin' up,A-speakin' 'crost a saucerful, as uncle tuck his cup."When I seed yer sign out yender," he went on to uncle Jake,—"'Come in and git some coffee like your mother used to make,'—I thought of my old mother and the Posey-county farm,And me a little kid agin', a-hangin' on her arm;And she set the pot a-bilin', broke the eggs, and poured 'em in"—And the feller kind o' halted with a trimble in his chin.And uncle Jake he fetched the feller's coffee back, and stoodAs solemn, for a minute, as a undertaker would.
Then he sort o' turned, and tiptoed to'rds the kitchen-door; and next,Here comes his old wife out with him, a-rubbin' of her specs;And she rushes for the stranger, and she hollers out, "It's him!Thank God, we've met him comin'! Don't you know your mother, Jim?"And the feller, as he grabbed her, says, "You bet I hain't forgot."But, wipin' of his eyes, says he, "Your coffee's mighty hot."
James Whitcomb Riley, in New-York Mercury.