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On the way back, Dick stops at Hickman's tavern. While he's pourin' in a gill of corn jooce, a wag who's present subtracts the pig an' puts in one of old Hickman's black Noofoundland pups.
They palms off mebby it's a quart of this jooce on Charlie, an' then he p'ints out for Wolfville. "That's the last of the pore drunkard. His pony is nickcrin' about the corral gates, pleadin' with the mules inside to open 'em, in the mornin', but no sign or smoke of Locoed Charlie. An' he never does show up no more.
I made verses one day, there not very nice, but there true I saw it: The little lams are beautiful, There cotes are soft and nice, The little calves have ringworm, And the 2-year olds have lice! Now I'm going' to make more; it seems to bad to leve it like that. It must be very nasty, But to worrie, what's the use; Better be cam and cheerfull, And appli tobaka jooce.
"Then why the jooce do you want me to go on the land?" said Andrew. "That ain't the point." "It's the most sticking out point to me," protested the lad. "I reckon bein' on the land is a mug's game; scrapin' like a fool when a feller could be sittin' in an office an' gettin' all they want twice as easy." "Here, you don't know what's good. It's more respectabler bein' on the land.
"Go," he sed "go, my son, and hog the public!" He put his withered han' tremblinly onto my hed, and went sadly into the house. I thought I saw tears tricklin down his venerable chin, but it might hav been tobacker jooce. He chaw'd. The "Atlantic Monthly," Betsy, is a reg'lar visitor to our westun home. I like it because it has got sense.
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