Only page of title Very Easy
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curious how sometimes we find a great, big, awkward man who loves sech
things? Bill had the biggest feet in the township, but I'll bet my wallet
that he never trod on a violet in all his life. Bill never took no slack
from enny man that wuz sober, but the children made him play with 'em, and
he'd set for hours a-watchin' the yaller-hammer buildin' her nest in the
old cottonwood.
I kin say one way or t'other is goin' to make enny difference now; Bill's
dead 'nd buried, 'nd the folks is discussin' him 'nd wond'rin' whether his
immortal soul is all right. Sometimes I _hev_ worried 'bout Bill, but
I don't worry 'bout him no more. Uv course Bill had his faults, -- I never
liked that drinkin' business uv his'n, yet I allow that Bill got more good
out'n likker, and likker got more good out'n Bill, than I ever see before
or sence. It warn't when the likker wuz in Bill that Bill wuz at his best,
but when he hed been on to one uv his bats 'nd had drunk himself sick 'nd
wuz comin' out uv the other end of the bat, then Bill wuz one uv the
meekest 'nd properest critters you ever seen. An' po'try? Some uv the most
beautiful po'try I ever read wuz writ by Bill when he wuz recoverin'
himself out'n one uv them bats. Seemed like it kind uv exalted an'
purified Bill's nachur to git drunk an' git over it. Bill c'u'd drink more
likker 'nd be sorrier for it than any other man in seven States. There
never wuz a more penitent feller than he wuz when he wuz soberin'. The
trubble with Bill seemed to be that his conscience didn't come on watch
quite of'n enuff.
know whar he come from; seemed like he didn't want to talk about his past.
I allers suspicioned that he had seen trubble -- maybe, sorrer. I reecollect
that one time he got a telegraph, -- Mr. Ivins told me 'bout it
afterwards, -- and when he read it he put his hands up to his face 'nd
groaned, like. That day he got full uv likker 'nd he kep' full uv likker
for a week; but when he come round all right he wrote a pome for the
paper, 'nd the name uv the pome wuz "Mary," but whether Mary wuz his
sister or his wife or an old sweetheart uv his'n I never knew. But it
looked from the pome like she wuz dead 'nd that he loved her.
but he had a kind er pleasin' way uv dishin' things up. He c'u'd be mighty
comical when he sot out to be, but his best holt was serious pieces.
Nobody could beat Bill writing obituaries. When old Mose Holbrook wuz
dyin' the minister sez to him: "Mr. Holbrook, you seem to be sorry that
you're passin' away to a better land?"
'bout their old dog Towze when he wuz run over by Watkins's hay-wagon
seven years ago. I'll bet that pome is in every scrap-book in the county.
You couldn't read that pome without cryin', -- why, that pome w'u'd hev
brought a dew out on the desert uv Sary. Old Tim Hubbard, the meanest man
in the State, borrered a paper to read the pome, and he wuz so 'fected by
it that he never borrered anuther paper as long as he lived. I don't
more'n half reckon, though, that the Higginses appreciated what Bill had
done for 'em. I never heerd uv their givin' him anythink more'n a basket
uv greenin' apples, and Bill wrote a piece 'bout the apples nex' day.
the little ones that died, I mean. Seemed like Bill had a way of his own
of sayin' things that wuz beautiful 'nd tender; he said he loved the
children because they wuz innocent, and I reckon -- yes, I know he did, for
the pomes he writ about 'em showed he did.
all; he jest reached me his hand, and he took my hand and seemed like in
that grasp his heart spoke many words of comfort to mine. And nex' day he
had a piece in the paper about our little girl; we cut it out and put it
in the big Bible in the front room. Sometimes when we get to fussin',
Martha goes 'nd gets that bit of paper 'nd reads it to me; then us two
kind uv cry to ourselves, 'nd we make it up between us for the dead
child's sake.
our hearts, -- there's nothin' like sympathy after all. Bill's po'try hed
heart in it; it didn't surprise you or scare you; it jest got down in
under your vest, 'nd before you knew it you wuz all choked up. I know all
about your fashionable po'try and your famous potes, -- Martha took Godey's
for a year. Folks that live in the city can't write po'try, -- not the real,
genuine article. To write po'try, as I figure it, the heart must have
somethin' to feed on; you can't get that somethin' whar there ain't trees
'nd grass 'nd birds 'nd flowers. Bill loved these things, and he fed his
heart on 'em, and that's why his po'try wuz so much better than anybody
else's.
best. When they told me that Bill died in a drunken fit I felt that his
end oughter have come some other way, -- he wuz too good a man for that. But
maybe, after all, it was ordered for the best. Jist imagine Bill
a-standin' up for jedgment; jist imagine that poor, sorrowful, shiverin'
critter waitin' for his turn to come. Pictur', if you can, how full of
penitence he is, 'nd how full uv po'try 'nd gentleness 'nd misery. The
Lord ain't a-goin' to be too hard on that poor wretch. Of course we can't
comprehend Divine mercy; we only know that it is full of compassion, -- a
compassion infinitely tenderer and sweeter than ours. And the more I think
on 't, the more I reckon that Bill will plead to win that mercy, for, like
as not, the little ones -- my Allie with the rest -- will run to him when they
see him in his trubble and will hold his tremblin' hands 'nd twine their
arms about him, and plead, with him, for compassion.
