Explore "The Widder Clark" by Joseph C. Lincoln on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
It's getting on ter winter now, the nights are crisp and chill, / The wind comes down the chimbly with a whistle sharp and shrill, / The dead leaves rasp and rustle in the corner by the shed, / And the branches scratch and rattle on the skylight overhead. / The cracklin' blaze is climbin' up around the old backlog, / As we set by the fireplace here, myself and cat and dog; / And as fer me, I'm thinkin', as the fire burns clear and bright, / That it must be mighty lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night.
It's bad enough fer me, b'gosh, a-pokin' round the place, / With jest these two dumb critters here, and nary human face / To make the house a home agin, same as it used ter be / While mother lived, for she was 'bout the hull wide world ter me. / My bein' all the son she had, we loved each other more -- / That's why, I guess, I'm what they call a "bach" at forty-four. / It's hard fer _me_ to set alone, but women folks -- 't ain't right, / And it must be mighty lonesome fer the Widder Clark ter-night.