Omaha Sunday Bee | [Poem on Autumn Waterfowl Hunt near Pawlet].

March 1, 1896. [Poem on fall waterfowl hunt near Pawlet.] Omaha Sunday Bee page 15.

[Poem on Autumn Waterfowl Hunt near Pawlet]

Pawlet, Feb. 4.-To the Editor of The Bee: The following poem I dashed off last night with one hand behind my back. It depicts, however, in realistic colors, and aroma, an event which occurred at Hamilton's lake a year ago last fall. I acted as a guide to the party referred to in verse, and you will confer a great favor on their sandhill friends by giving it a place in your valuable columns.

Draw your cheers a little closer,
Git aroun' the blazing log,
Fill them up again there, landlord,
Let us have a drop o' grog;
An' I'll tell yez all a story
'Bout a party of the boys,'
From the town of Omahaha
Who came out to make some noise,
With their nice, slick hunting breeches
An' their guns all polished up,
They was goin' to have some shooting
Be it quail, or "chick" or pup,
An' they had their ammunition,
Faith they knew just what to bring,
In a flask of glass and leather,
Stuff to set one's blood a-ting.
Well they see me standing near them
An' they'd heard o' me, they say,
So they hired me to go with 'em,
Said they weren't afraid to pay,
An' I promised that I'd fetch 'em
Where they'd get the best of game.
So we tramped around the sandhills
An' all we saw was mighty tame.
Well, there wasn't much use shootin'
When we'd nothing for a mark,
So we thought we'd make a cottage
For the night was getting dark.
An' they told me who they was, then
As we sat around the fire-
Lord! I mind it well this minute-
The thermometer was higher,
'Course tonight it's down past zero,
But that night it warn't so bad,
Tho' t'was cold enough, I'll bet you
And those fellows, they were glad
That they'd brought some "bitin' billy"
In their little leather flask.
Well, they emptied it and filled it,
An' I had all that I could ask.
One they said, was Sandy Griswold,
And a sport yez ought to see,
All the others said that Sandy
Wrote the sermons in The Bee,
He was kind o' church reporter,
'Cause he was so meek and good
But I never saw no churchman
Hit that flask as Sandy could.
One of them they all called Stocky
An' his maiden name was Heth,
But he felt a kind of rocky
'Cause he had some aching teeth,
Aching not because they hurt him,
But because he wanted game.
he was quite a hand at shootin',
And plain grub was kind of tame.
Hamilton, He was another,
But he didn't make much noise
And the others said that he was
Always Frank, when with the boys.
Well, he wasn't much on drinking,
For he was a quiet chap,
So he quietly retired and
Said he guesses he'd take a nap.
But, of course, I can't Skip Dundy,
He was with us, too, that night,
As we all turned in at bedtime,
Going to bed by pale moonlight.
Well, we hadn't been asleep yet
More'n an hour or so at most
When we heard a tap, tap, tappin'
At the door and window post.
And we wondered what the row was
Some one says, "It's a chip-munk;"
Others, it was something different;
And sez I, "Boy's, it's a skunk;"
Then up sprang the sturdy Sandy
Pale and trembling like a child,
With is teeth all set a-clinchin',
And his eyes a-startin' wild.
An' the one they all called Frankie
With abbreviated shirt
Looking like a naked scare-crow
Says, "Aw, now, is he good sport,"
Well, they shot at him and missed him,
An' they shivered like to freeze
In their low neck, short-sleeved clothing
Till they all began to sneeze.
The next morning found some bullets
Sticking in an old barn door,
But the target wasn't near there,
Mister Skunkie was no more.
Should you go to Omahaha
Anxious to get on a drunk
Ask these boys to come and tell you
How they didn't kill the skunk.