Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By James WhitcombRiley1144 A Man by the Name of Bolus
A
Of the stranger’s name, I reckon—and I ’m kindo’ glad it ’s so!)—
Got off here, Christmas morning, looked ’round the town, and then
Kindo’ sized up the folks, I guess, and—went away again!
The town turned out to see it, and cheered, and blocked the way;
And they dragged him ’fore the Mayor—fer he could n’t er would n’t walk—
And socked him down fer trial—though he could n’t er would n’t talk!
Laughed and testified ’at he fell up-stairs ’stid o’ down!
This man by the name of Bolus?—W’y, he even drapped his jaw
And snored on through his “hearin’”—drunk as you ever saw!
Little chunk o’ ice down his collar,—but he did n’t wake at all!
And they all nearly split when his Honor said, in one of his witty ways,
To “chalk it down fer him, ‘Called away—be back in thirty days!’”
Flat on the floor; and—drat my ears!—I hear ’em a-laughin’ yit!
Somebody fetched Doc Sifers from jest acrost the hall,—
And all Doc said was, “Morphine! We ’re too late!” and that ’s all!
“Your wife has lost her reason, and little Nathan’s dead—
Come ef you kin,—fergive her—but Bolus, as fer me,
This hour I send a bullet through where my heart ort to be!”
Fer the open air, ’peared like, to me, I heard a voice ’at spoke—
Man by the name of Bolus! git up from where you lay—
Git up and smile white at ’em with your hands crossed thataway!