Prop yer eyes wide open, Joey,
Fur I've brought you sumpin' great.
Apples? No, a derned sight better!
Don't you take no int'rest? Wait!
Flowers, Joe--I know'd you'd like 'em--
Ain't them scrumptious? Ain't them high?
Tears, my boy? Wot's them fur, Joey?
There--poor little Joe--don't cry!
I was skippin' past a winder
W'ere a bang-up lady sot,
All amongst a lot of bushes--
Each one climbin' from a pot;
Every bush had flowers on it--
Pretty? Mebbe not! Oh, no!
Wish you could 'a seen 'em growin',
It was such a stunnin' show.
Well, I thought of you, poor feller,
Lyin' here so sick and weak,
Never knowin' any comfort,
And I puts on lots o' cheek.
"Missus," says I, "if you please, mum,
Could I ax you for a rose?
For my little brother, missus--
Never seed one, I suppose."
Then I told her all about you--
How I bringed you up--poor Joe!
(Lackin' women folks to do it)
Sich a imp you was, you know--
Till you got that awful tumble,
Jist as I had broke yer in
(Hard work, too), to earn your livin'
Blackin' boots for honest tin.
How that tumble crippled of you,
So's you couldn't hyper much--
Joe, it hurted when I seen you
Fur the first time with yer crutch.
"But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum,
'Pears to weaken every day";
Joe, she up and went to cuttin'--
That's the how of this bokay.
Say! it seems to me, ole feller,
You is quite yourself to-night--
Kind o' chirk--it's been a fortnit
Sense yer eyes has been so bright.
Better? Well, I'm glad to hear it!
Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe.
Smellin' of 'em's made you happy?
Well, I thought it would, you know.
Never see the country, did you?
Flowers growin' everywhere!
Some time when you're better, Joey,
Mebbe I kin take you there.
Flowers in heaven? 'M--I s'pose so;
Dunno much about it, though;
Ain't as fly as wot I might be
On them topics, little Joe.
But I've heerd it hinted somewheres
That in heaven's golden gates
Things is everlastin' cheerful--
B'lieve that's what the Bible states.
Likewise, there folks don't git hungry:
So good people, w'en they dies,
Finds themselves well fixed forever--
Joe my boy, wot ails yer eyes?
Thought they looked a little sing'ler.
Oh, no! Don't you have no fear;
Heaven was made fur such as you is--
Joe, wot makes you look so queer?
Here--wake up! Oh, don't look that way!
Joe! My boy! Hold up yer head!
Here's yer flowers--you dropped em, Joey.
Oh, my God, can Joe be dead?
_David L. Proudfit (Peleg Arkwright)._