'Bout them plague-gone hounds at night
Howlin' fit to wake the saints,
Clean from dusk tel plum day-light!
But to "Coon-dog Wess" them-thare
Howls was "music in the air"!
Fetched his pelts to Gilson's Store--
Newt he shipped fer him, and said,
Sence _he'd_ cooned thare, he'd shipped more
Than three hunderd pelts!--"By Ned!
Git shet of my _store_," Newt says,
"I'd go in with 'Coon-dog Wess'!"
And the feller 'peared to be
Makin' best and most he could
Of his rale prospairity:--
Bought some household things--and _good_,--
Likewise, wagon-load onc't come
From wharever he'd moved from.
But pore feller's huntin'-days,
'Bout them times, was glidin' past!--
Goes out onc't one night and _stays!_
... Neghbors they turned out, at last,
Headed by his wife and one
Half-starved hound--and search begun.
Boys said, that blame hound, he led
Searchin' party, 'bout a half
Mile ahead, and bellerin', said,
Worse'n ary yearlin' calf!--
Tel, at last, come fur-off sounds
Like the howl of other hounds.
And-sir, shore enugh, them signs
Fetched 'em--in a' hour er two--
Whare the _pack_ was;--and they finds
"Coon-dog Wess" _right thare_;--And you
Would admitted he was right
_Stayin'_, as he had, _all night!_
Facts is, cuttin' down a tree,
The blame thing had sorto' fell
In a twist-like--_mercy me!_
And had ketched him.--Couldn't tell,
Wess said, _how_ he'd managed--yit
He'd got both legs under it!
Fainted and come to, I s'pose,
'Bout a dozen times whilse they
Chopped him out!--And wife she froze
To him!--bresh his hair away
And smile cheerful'--only when
He'd faint.--Cry and kiss him _then_.
Had _his_ nerve!--And nussed him through,--
Neghbors he'pped her--all she'd stand.--
Had a loom, and she could do
Carpet-weavin' railly grand!--
"'Sides," she ust to laugh and say,
"She'd have Wess, now, _night_ and day!"
As fer _him_, he'd say, says-ee,
"I'm resigned to bein' lame:--
They was four coons up that tree,
And hounds got 'em, jest the same!"
'Peared like, one er two legs less
Never worried "Coon-dog Wess"!
LINES TO
PERFESSER JOHN CLARK RIDPATH
A. M., LL. D. T-Y-TY!
[Cumposed by A Old Friend of the Fambily sence 'way back in the
Forties, when they Settled nigh Fillmore, Putnam County, this State,
whare John was borned and growed up, you might say, like the wayside
flower.]
Your neghbors in the country, whare you come from, hain't fergot!--
We knowed you even better than your own-self, like as not.
We profissied your runnin'-geers 'ud stand a soggy load
And pull her, purty stiddy, up a mighty rocky road:
We been a-watchin' your career sence you could write your name--
But way you writ it _first_, I'll say, was jest a burnin' shame!--
Your "J. C." in the copybook, and "Ridpath"--mercy-sakes!--
Quiled up and tide in dubble bows, lookt like a nest o' snakes!--
But _you_ could read it, I _suppose_, and kindo' gloted on
A-bein' "_J. C. Ridpath_" when _we_ only called you "_John_."
But you'd work 's well as fool, and what you had to do was _done_:
We've watched you at the woodpile--not the _woodshed_--wasent none,--
And snow and sleet, and haulin', too, and lookin' after stock,
And milkin', nights, and feedin' pigs,--then turnin' back the clock,
So's you could set up studyin' your 'Rethmatic, and fool
Your Parents, whilse a-piratin' your way through winter school!
And I've heerd tell--from your own folks--you've set and baked your face
A-readin' Plutark Slives all night by that old fi-er-place.--
Yit, 'bout them times, the blackboard, onc't, had on it, I _de_-clare,
"Yours truly, _J. Clark_ Ridpath."--And the teacher--left it thare!
And they was other symptums, too, that pinted, plane as day,
To nothin' short of _College_!--and _one_ was the lovin' way
Your mother had of cheerin' you to efforts brave and strong,
And puttin' more faith in you, as you needed it along:
She'd pat you on the shoulder, er she'd grab you by the hands,
And _laugh_ sometimes, er _cry_ sometimes.--They's few that understands
Jest _what_ theyr mother's drivin' at when they act thataway;--
But I'll say this fer _you_, John-Clark,--you answered, night and day,
To ev'ry trust and hope of hers--and half your College fame
Was battled fer and won fer her and glory of her name.
The likes of _you_ at _College_! But you went thare. How you paid
Your way nobody's astin'--but you _worked_,--you hain't afraid,--
Your _clothes_ was, more'n likely, kindo' out o' style, perhaps,
And not as snug and warm as some 'at hid the other chaps;--
But when it come to _Intullect_--they tell me yourn was dressed
A _leetle_ mite _superber_-like than any of the rest!
And there you _stayed_--and thare you've made your rickord, fare and square--
Tel _now_ its _Fame_ 'at writes your name, approvin', _ev'rywhare_--
Not _jibblets_ of it, nuther,--but all John Clark Ridpath, set
Plum at the dashboard of the whole-endurin' Alfabet!
A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS
Oh! tell me a tale of the airly days--
Of the times as they ust to be;
"Piller of Fi-er" and "Shakspeare's Plays"
Is a' most too deep fer me!
I want plane facts, and I want plane words,
Of the good old-fashiond ways,
When speech run free as the songs of birds
'Way back in the airly days.
Tell me a tale of the timber-lands--
Of the old-time pioneers;
Somepin' a pore man understands
With his feelin's well as ears.
Tell of the old log house,--about
The loft, and the puncheon flore--
The old fi-er-place, with the crane swung out,
And the latch-string thrugh the door.
Tell of the things jest as they was--
They don't need no excuse!--
Don't tetch 'em up like the poets does,
Tel theyr all too fine fer use!--
Say they was 'leven in the fambily--
Two beds, and the chist, below,
And the trundle-beds that each helt three,
And the clock and the old bureau.
Then blow the horn at the old back-door
Tel the echoes all halloo,
And the childern gethers home onc't more,
Jest as they ust to do:
Blow fer Pap tel he hears and comes,
With Tomps and Elias, too,
A-marchin' home, with the fife and drums
And the old Red White and Blue!
Blow and blow tel the sound draps low
As the moan of the whipperwill,
And wake up Mother, and Ruth and Jo,
All sleepin' at Bethel Hill:
Blow and call tel the faces all
Shine out in the back-log's blaze,
And the shadders dance on the old hewed wall
As they did in the airly days.
"MYLO JONES'S WIFE"
"Mylo Jones's wife" was all
I heerd, mighty near, last Fall--
Visitun relations down
T'other side of Morgantown!
Mylo Jones's wife she does
This and that, and "those" and "thus"!--
Can't 'bide babies in her sight--
Ner no childern, day and night,
Whoopin' round the premises--
_Ner no nothin' else_, I guess!
Mylo Jones's wife she 'lows
She's the boss of her own house!--
Mylo--consequences is--
Stays whare things seem _some_ like _his_,--
Uses, mostly, with the stock--
Coaxin' "Old Kate" not to balk,
Ner kick hoss-flies' branes out, ner
Act, I s'pose, so much like _her_!
Yit the wimmern-folks tells you
She's _perfection_.--Yes they do!
Mylo's wife she says she's found
Home hain't home with _men-folks_ round
When they's work like _hern_ to do--
Picklin' pears and _butchern_, too,
And a-rendern lard, and then
Cookin' fer a pack of men
To come trackin' up the flore
_She's_ scrubbed _tel_ she'll scrub no _more_!--
Yit she'd keep things clean ef they
Made her scrub tel Jedgmunt Day!
Mylo Jones's wife she sews
Carpet-rags and patches clothes
Jest year _in_ and _out_!--and yit
Whare's the livin' use of it?
She asts Mylo that.--And he
Gits back whare he'd ruther be,
With his team;--jest _plows_--and don't
Never sware--like some folks won't!
Think ef _he'd cut loose_, I gum!
'D he'p his heavenly chances some!
Mylo's wife don't see no use,
Ner no reason ner excuse
Fer his pore relations to
Hang round like they allus do!
Thare 'bout onc't a year--and _she_--
She jest _ga'nts_ 'em, folks tells me,
On spiced pears!--Pass Mylo one,
He says "No, he don't chuse none!"
Workin' men like Mylo they
'D ort to have _meat_ ev'ry day!
Dad-burn Mylo Jones's wife!
Ruther rake a blame caseknife
'Crost my wizzen than to see
Sich a womern rulin' _me_!--
Ruther take and turn in and
Raise a fool mule-colt by hand!
_Mylo_, though--od-rot the man!--
Jest keeps ca'm--like some folks _can_--
And 'lows sich as her, I s'pose,
Is _Man's he'pmeet_!--Mercy knows!
ON A SPLENDUD MATCH
[On the night of the marraige of the foregoin' couple, which shall be
nameless here, these lines was ca'mly dashed off in the albun of the
happy bride whilse the shivver-ree was goin' on outside the residence.]
He was warned against the _womern_--
She was warned aginst the _man_.--
And ef _that_ won't make a weddin',
W'y, they's nothin' else that can!
OLD JOHN CLEVENGER ON BUCKEYES
Old John Clevenger lets on,
Allus, like he's purty rough
Timber.--He's a grate old John!--
"Rough?"--don't swaller no sich stuff!
Moved here, sence the war was through,
From Ohio--somers near
Old Bucyrus,--loyal, too,
As us "Hoosiers" is to _here_!
Git old John stirred up a bit
On his old home stompin'-ground--
Talks same as he lived thare yit,
When some subject brings it round--
Like, fer instunce, Sund'y last,
Fetched his wife, and et and stayed
All night with us.--Set and gassed
Tel plum midnight--'cause I made
Some remark 'bout "buckeyes" and
"What was buckeyes good fer?"--So,
Like I 'lowed, he waved his hand
And lit in and let me know:--
"'What is Buckeyes good fer?'--What's
_Pineys_ and _fergitmenots_?--
Honeysuckles, and sweet peas,
And sweet-williamsuz, and these
Johnny-jump-ups ev'rywhare,
Growin' round the roots o' trees
In Spring-weather?--what air _they_
Good fer?--kin you tell me--_Hey?_
'Good to look at?' Well they air!
'Specially when _Winter's_ gone,
Clean _dead-certin!_ and the wood's
Green again, and sun feels good's
June!--and shed your blame boots on
The back porch, and lit out to
Roam round like you ust to do,
Bare-foot, up and down the crick,
Whare the buckeyes growed so thick,
And witch-hazel and pop-paws,
And hackberries and black-haws--
With wild pizen-vines jis knit
_Over_ and _en-nunder_ it,
And wove round it all, I jing!
Tel you couldn't hardly stick
A durn _caseknife_ through the thing!
Wriggle round through _that_; and then--
All het-up, and scratched and tanned,
And muskeeter-bit and mean-
Feelin'--all at onc't again,
Come out suddent on a clean
Slopin' little hump o' green
Dry soft grass, as fine and grand
As a pollor-sofy!--And
Jis pile down thare!--and tell _me_
_Anywhares_ you'd ruther be--
'Ceptin' _right thare_, with the wild-
Flowrs all round ye, and your eyes
Smilin' with 'em at the skies,
Happy as a little child!
Well!--right here, _I_ want to say,
Poets kin talk all they please
'Bout 'wild-flowrs, in colors gay,'
And 'sweet blossoms flauntin' theyr
Beauteous fragrunce on the breeze'--
But the sight o' _buckeyes_ jis
Sweet to me as _blossoms_ is!
"I'm _Ohio-born_--right whare
People's _all_ called 'Buckeyes' _thare_--
'Cause, I s'pose, our buckeye crap's
Biggest in the world, perhaps!--
Ner my head don't stretch my hat
Too much on account o' _that_!--
'Cause it's Natchur's ginerus hand
Sows 'em broadcast ore the land,
With eye-single fer man's good
And the gineral neghborhood!
So _buckeyes_ jis natchurly
'Pears like _kith-and-kin_ to _me_!
'Slike the good old sayin' wuz,
'Purty _is_ as purty _does_!'--
We can't eat 'em, cookd er raw--
Yit, I mind, _tomattusuz_
Wuz considerd pizenus
_Onc't_--and dasent eat 'em!--_Pshaw_--
'Twouldn't take _me_ by supprise,
Someday, ef we et _buckeyes_!
That, though, 's nuther here ner thare!--
_Jis the Buckeye_ whare we air,
In the present times, is what
Ockuppies my lovin' care
And my most perfoundest thought!
... Guess, this minute, what I got
In my pocket, 'at I've packed
Purt'-nigh forty year.--A dry,
Slick and shiny, warped and cracked,
Wilted, weazened old _buckeye_!
What's it _thare_ fer? What's my hart
In my _brest_ fer?--'Cause it's part
Of my _life_--and 'tends to biz--
Like this _buckeye's_ bound to act--
'Cause _it_ 'tends to _Rhumatiz_!
"... Ketched more _rhumatiz_ than _fish_,
Seinen', onc't--and pants froze on
My blame legs!--And ust to wish
I wuz well er _dead and gone_!
Doc give up the case, and shod
His old boss again and stayed
On good roads!--_And thare I laid!_
Pap he tuck some bluegrass sod
Steeped in whisky, bilin'-hot,
And socked _that_ on! Then I got
Sorto' holt o' him, _somehow_--
Kindo' crazy-like, they say--
And I'd _killed_ him, like as not,
Ef I hadn't swooned away!
_Smell my scortcht pelt purt'-nigh now!_
Well--to make a long tale short--
I hung on the blame disease
Like a shavin'-hoss! and sort
O' wore it out by slow degrees--
Tel my legs wuz straight enugh
To poke through my pants again
And kick all the doctor-stuff
In the fi-er-place! Then turned in
And tuck Daddy Craig's old cuore--
_Jis a buckeye_--and that's _shore_.--
Hain't no case o' rhumatiz
Kin subsist whare buckeyes is!"
THE HOSS
The hoss he is a splendud beast;
He is man's friend, as heaven desined,
And, search the world from west to east,
No honester you'll ever find!
Some calls the hoss "a pore dumb brute,"
And yit, like Him who died fer you,
I say, as I theyr charge refute,
"'Fergive; they know not what they do!'"
No wiser animal makes tracks
Upon these earthly shores, and hence
Arose the axium, true as facts,
Extoled by all, as "Good hoss-sense!"
The hoss is strong, and knows his stren'th,--
You hitch him up a time er two
And lash him, and he'll go his len'th
And kick the dashboard out fer you!
But, treat him allus good and kind,
And never strike him with a stick,
Ner aggervate him, and you'll find
He'll never do a hostile trick.
A hoss whose master tends him right
And worters him with daily care,
Will do your biddin' with delight,
And act as docile as _you_ air.
He'll paw and prance to hear your praise,
Because he's learn't to love you well;
And, though you can't tell what he says,
He'll nicker all he wants to tell.
He knows you when you slam the gate
At early dawn, upon your way
Unto the barn, and snorts elate,
To git his corn, er oats, er hay.
He knows you, as the orphant knows
The folks that loves her like theyr own,
And raises her and "finds" her clothes,
And "schools" her tel a womern-grown!
I claim no hoss will harm a man,
Ner kick, ner run away, cavort,
Stump-suck, er balk, er "catamaran,"
Ef you'll jest treat him as you ort.
But when I see the beast abused,
And clubbed around as I've saw some,
I want to see his owner noosed,
And jest yanked up like Absolum!
Of course they's differunce in stock,--
A hoss that has a little yeer,
And slender build, and shaller hock,
Can beat his shadder, mighty near!
Whilse one that's thick in neck and chist
And big in leg and full in flank,
That tries to race, I still insist
He'll have to take the second rank.
And I have jest laid back and laughed,
And rolled and wallered in the grass
At fairs, to see some heavy-draft
Lead out at _first_, yit come in _last_!
Each hoss has his appinted place,--
The heavy hoss should plow the soil;--
The blooded racer, he must race,
And win big wages fer his toil.
I never bet--ner never wrought
Upon my feller-man to bet--
And yit, at times, I've often thought
Of my convictions with regret.
I bless the hoss from hoof to head--
From head to hoof, and tale to mane!--
I bless the hoss, as I have said,
From head to hoof, and back again!
I love my God the first of all,
Then Him that perished on the cross,
And next, my wife,--and then I fall
Down on my knees and love the hoss.
EZRA HOUSE
[These lines was writ, in ruther high sperits, jest at the close of
what's called the Anti Bellum Days, and more to be a-foolin' than
anything else,--though they is more er less facts in it. But some of
the boys, at the time we was all a-singin' it, fer Ezry's benefit, to
the old tune of "The Oak and the Ash and the Bonny Willer Tree," got it
struck off in the weekly, without leave er lisence of mine; and so
sence they's allus some of 'em left to rigg me about it yit, I might as
well claim the thing right here and now, so here goes. I give it jest
as it appeared, fixed up and grammatisized consider'ble, as the editer
told me he took the liburty of doin', in that sturling old home paper
THE ADVANCE--as sound a paper yit to-day and as stanch and abul as
you'll find in a hunderd.]
Come listen, good people, while a story I do tell,
Of the sad fate of one which I knew so passing well;
He enlisted at McCordsville, to battle in the South,
And protect his country's union; his name was Ezra House.
He was a young school-teacher, and educated high
In regards to Ray's arithmetic, and also Algebra:
He give good satisfaction, but at his country's call
He dropped his position, his Algebra and all.
"It's oh, I'm going to leave you, kind scholars," he said--
For he wrote a composition the last day and read;
And it brought many tears in the eyes of the school,
To say nothing of his sweetheart he was going to leave so soon.
"I have many recollections to take with me away,
Of the merry transpirations in the school-room so gay;
And of all that's past and gone I will never regret
I went to serve my country at the first of the outset!"
He was a good penman, and the lines that he wrote
On that sad occasion was too fine for me to quote,--
For I was there and heard it, and I ever will recall
It brought the happy tears to the eyes of us all.
And when he left, his sweetheart she fainted away,
And said she could never forget the sad day
When her lover so noble, and gallant and gay,
Said "Fare you well, my true love!" and went marching away.
But he hadn't been gone for more than two months,
When the sad news come--"he was in a skirmish once,
And a cruel Rebel ball had wounded him full sore
In the region of the chin, through the canteen he wore."
But his health recruited up, and his wounds they got well,
But whilst he was in battle at Bull Run or Malvern Hill,
The news come again, so sorrowful to hear--
"A sliver from a bombshell cut off his right ear."
But he stuck to the boys, and it's often he would write,
That "he wasn't afraid for his country to fight."
But oh, had he returned on a furlough, I believe
He would not, to-day, have such cause to grieve.
For in another battle--the name I never heard--
He was guarding the wagons when an accident occurred,--
A comrade who was under the influence of drink,
Shot him with a musket through the right cheek, I think.
But his dear life was spared; but it hadn't been for long,
Till a cruel Rebel colonel come riding along,
And struck him with his sword, as many do suppose,
For his cap-rim was cut off, and also his nose.
But Providence, who watches o'er the noble and the brave,
Snatched him once more from the jaws of the grave;
And just a little while before the close of the war,
He sent his picture home to his girl away so far.
And she fell into decline, and she wrote in reply,
"She had seen his face again and was ready to die";
And she wanted him to promise, when she was in her tomb,
He would only visit that by the light of the moon.
But he never returned at the close of the war,
And the boys that got back said he hadn't the heart;
But he got a position in a powder-mill, and said
He hoped to meet the doom that his country denied.
A PEN-PICTUR'
OF A CERTIN FRIVVOLUS OLD MAN
Most ontimely old man yit!
'Pear-like sometimes he jest _tries_
His fool-self, and takes the bitt
In his teeth and jest de-fies
All perpryties!--Lay and swet
Doin' _nothin'_--only jest
Sorto' speckillatun on
Whare old summertimes is gone,
And 'bout things that he loved best
When a youngster! Heerd him say
_Springtimes_ made him thataway--
Speshully on _Sund'ys_--when
Sun shines out and in again,
And the lonesome old hens they
Git off under the old kern-
Bushes, and in deep concern
_Talk-like to theyrselvs_, and scratch
Kindo' absunt-minded, jest
Like theyr thoughts was fur away
In some neghbor's gyarden-patch
Folks has tended keerfullest!
Heerd the old man dwell on these
Idys time and time again!--
Heerd him claim that orchurd-trees
Bloomin', put the mischief in
His old hart sometimes that bad
And owdacious that he "_had_
To break loose _some_way," says he,
"Ornry as I ust to be!"
Heerd him say one time--when I
Was a sorto' standin' by,
And the air so still and clear,
Heerd the bell fer church clean here!--
Said: "Ef I could climb and set
On the old three-cornerd rail
Old home-place, nigh Maryette',
Swop my soul off, hide and tale!"
And-sir! blame ef tear and laugh
Didn't ketch him half and half!
"Oh!" he says, "to wake and be
Bare-foot, in the airly dawn
In the pastur'!--thare," says he,
"Standin' whare the cow's slep' on
The cold, dewy grass that's got
_Print_ of her jest steamy hot
Fer to warm a feller's heels
In a while!--How good it feels!
Sund'y!--Country!--Morning!--Hear
Nothin' but the _silunce_--see
Nothin' but green woods and clear
Skies and unwrit poetry
By the acre!... Oh!" says he,
"What's this voice of mine?--to seek
To speak out, and yit _can't_ speak!
"_Think!_--the lazyest of days"--
Takin' his contrairyest leap,
He went on,--"git up, er sleep--
Er whilse feedin', watch the haze
Dancin' 'crost the wheat,--and keep
My pipe goin' laisurely--
Puff and whiff as pleases me,--
Er I'll leave a trail of smoke
Through _the house_!--no one'll say
'_Throw that nasty thing away!_'
'Pear-like nothin' sacerd's broke,
Goin' bare-foot ef I chuse!--
I _have fiddled_;--and dug bait
And _went fishin'_;--pitched hoss-shoes--
Whare they couldn't see us from
The main road.--And I've _beat_ some.
I've set round and had my joke
With the thrashers at the barn--
And I've swopped 'em yarn fer yarn!--
Er I've he'pped the childern poke
Fer hens'-nests--agged on a match
'Twixt the boys, to watch 'em scratch
And paw round and rip and tare,
And bust buttons and pull hair
To theyr rompin' harts' content--
And me jest a-settin' thare
Hatchin' out more devilment!
"What you s'pose now ort to be
Done with sich a man?" says he--
"Sich a fool-old-man as me!"
WET-WEATHER TALK
It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.--
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
Men ginerly, to all intents--
Although they're apt to grumble some--
Puts most theyr trust in Providence,
And takes things as they come--
That is, the commonality
Of men that's lived as long as me
Has watched the world enugh to learn
They're not the boss of this concern.
With _some_, of course, it's different--
I've saw _young_ men that knowed it all,
And didn't like the way things went
On this terrestchul ball;--
But all the same, the rain, some way,
Rained jest as hard on picnic day;
Er, when they railly _wanted_ it,
It mayby wouldn't rain a bit!
In this existunce, dry and wet
Will overtake the best of men--
Some little skift o' clouds'll shet
The sun off now and then.--
And mayby, whilse you're wundern who
You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to,
And _want_ it--out'll pop the sun,
And you'll be glad you hain't got none!
It aggervates the farmers, too--
They's too much wet, er too much sun,
Er work, er waitin' round to do
Before the plowin' 's done:
And mayby, like as not, the wheat,
Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat,
Will ketch the storm--and jest about
The time the corn's a-jintin' out.
These-here _cy-clones_ a-foolin' round--
And back'ard crops!--and wind and rain!--
And yit the corn that's wallerd down
May elbow up again!--
They hain't no sense, as I can see,
Fer mortuls, sich as us, to be
A-faultin' Natchur's wise intents,
And lockin' horns with Providence!
It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.--
When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
W'y, rain's my choice.
THOUGHTS ON A PORE JOKE
I like fun--and I like jokes
'Bout as well as most o' folks!--
Like my joke, and like my fun;--
But a joke, I'll state right here,
'S got some p'int--er I don't keer
Fer no joke that hain't got none.--
I hain't got no use, I'll say,
Fer a _pore_ joke, anyway!
F'rinstunce, now, when _some_ folks gits
To relyin' on theyr wits,
Ten to one they git too smart
And _spile_ it all, right at the start!
Feller wants to jest go slow
And do his _thinkin'_ first, you know.
'F I can't think up somepin' good,
I set still and chaw my cood!
'F you _think_ nothin'--jest keep on,
But don't _say_ it--er you're gone!
A MORTUL PRAYER