The Passing of a Hero
Nat Jones had been a-readin' 'bout the novelists of late
That made enough to corner half the country's real estate;
'Bout the hundred thousand copies that the sufferin' public took,
An' says he: “I've 'bout decided I wuz born to write a book!
“It 'll help to paint the homestead, send the children all to school,
Buy Sally a pianner, take the mortgage off the mule.
Too long I've hid my talents, jest encumberin' the groun'
They'll be runnin' me fer congress ef I keep a-loafin' 'roun'!”
So, without no more considerin', says he: “I'll jest begin.”
Bought a quart of ink, an' pens enough to fence the cattle in;
An' he turned out blotted pages worse than “moon-shine” from the stills,
An' 'twuz jest a benediction to the busy paper mills.
But his family got anxious, an' 'twuz noticed 'roun' the town
Whatever he wuz writin' up, he kept a-thinnin' down:
With the sorrow of the ages showin' solemn in his face
He went around as mournful as a sinner lost to grace.
“I tell you, I'm in trouble”—the same wuz plain to see—
“That everlastin' hero is a-gittin' 'way with me!
In the middle o' the story, when I had him safe an' soun',
He took a dost o' pizen, an' I jest can't bring him 'roun'!”
An' the sympathizin' citizens would tell him, with a sigh,
“Perhaps the thing wuz Providence: It wuz his time to die.”
An' at that he'd leave 'em, scowlin', an' sit him down again
An' resurrect that hero with one splutter o' the pen!
An' next day, when they'd meet him, with “How's yer hero's health?”
He'd smile, an' tell 'em: “Old man died an' left him lots o' wealth;
But the thing that sorter puzzles me, an' circumscribes his glory,
Is, where the old man come from—fer there warn't none in the story!
“I've got to make a place for him, but how it's to be done
Is more'n I kin tell you, 'less I start where I begun!
An' hang this novel writin'! it's a-turnin' of me gray,
An' that miserable hero'll be the death o' me some day!”
His case wuz gittin' desperate: He jest thinned down until
Doctors an' undertakers said he'd shortly fill the bill.
Some said his mind wuz failin', but the wise an' the elect
Said it couldn't be affected, since he had none to affect.
At last he seen a specialist, who told him plump an' plain
He wuz born fer exercisin' of his muscles—not his brain;
An' he listened to that sayin', an' quit a-writin' tales:
Jest throwed his hero overboard an' went to splittin' rails.
That made enough to corner half the country's real estate;
'Bout the hundred thousand copies that the sufferin' public took,
An' says he: “I've 'bout decided I wuz born to write a book!
“It 'll help to paint the homestead, send the children all to school,
Buy Sally a pianner, take the mortgage off the mule.
Too long I've hid my talents, jest encumberin' the groun'
They'll be runnin' me fer congress ef I keep a-loafin' 'roun'!”
So, without no more considerin', says he: “I'll jest begin.”
Bought a quart of ink, an' pens enough to fence the cattle in;
An' he turned out blotted pages worse than “moon-shine” from the stills,
An' 'twuz jest a benediction to the busy paper mills.
But his family got anxious, an' 'twuz noticed 'roun' the town
Whatever he wuz writin' up, he kept a-thinnin' down:
With the sorrow of the ages showin' solemn in his face
He went around as mournful as a sinner lost to grace.
“I tell you, I'm in trouble”—the same wuz plain to see—
“That everlastin' hero is a-gittin' 'way with me!
In the middle o' the story, when I had him safe an' soun',
He took a dost o' pizen, an' I jest can't bring him 'roun'!”
An' the sympathizin' citizens would tell him, with a sigh,
“Perhaps the thing wuz Providence: It wuz his time to die.”
An' at that he'd leave 'em, scowlin', an' sit him down again
An' resurrect that hero with one splutter o' the pen!
An' next day, when they'd meet him, with “How's yer hero's health?”
He'd smile, an' tell 'em: “Old man died an' left him lots o' wealth;
But the thing that sorter puzzles me, an' circumscribes his glory,
Is, where the old man come from—fer there warn't none in the story!
“I've got to make a place for him, but how it's to be done
Is more'n I kin tell you, 'less I start where I begun!
An' hang this novel writin'! it's a-turnin' of me gray,
An' that miserable hero'll be the death o' me some day!”
His case wuz gittin' desperate: He jest thinned down until
Doctors an' undertakers said he'd shortly fill the bill.
Some said his mind wuz failin', but the wise an' the elect
Said it couldn't be affected, since he had none to affect.
At last he seen a specialist, who told him plump an' plain
He wuz born fer exercisin' of his muscles—not his brain;
An' he listened to that sayin', an' quit a-writin' tales:
Jest throwed his hero overboard an' went to splittin' rails.
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