A Teamster Emeritus, and: The New Generation, and: "Hants", and: The Silver-Piece

Four Poems by ann cobb A TEAMSTER EMERITUS Teaming hain't nowise what hit used to be Away back yander, when the county-seat And railroad lay apart full fifty mile'. Nary a road but the creek-bed, or else Rockeldy little strips scrouged off the hill, Whar, if your critters slipped, they'd hit the trees Glistering in the valley far below. Gee-oh, hit shore does tickle me a sight To hear folks quarrel at the Tearful Trip." Call eighteen mile' a trip! Pore simple souk! Proper quare loads I've hauled, too, in my time, Humans and stuff .... Bottles, eh? I might. Thar's several kinds of bottles that get hauled. When I set in, I never follered much Tiring my team for fancy stuff or folks. All hereabouts we mostly ate an' wore Things we could raise, and jest forgot the rest. Later, when I was growed, the county growed, And I'd haul household plunder . . . Window-lights, (Gee-oh! how Rocky Fork did bust them lights!) Crackers and orange-apples, coffins and hats. I sot most store by hauling humans, though, And after the quare, fotched-on women came, (That's how we called the College Ladies then,) Thar was a sight of passing in and out. Fathers would come to satisfy theirselves Their gals wa'nt sleeping in a lonelie grave; Preachers and doctors, teachers and timber-men; And women—old and young, puny and stout. Times I would sull up like a possum while The travelers would yagger to theirselves. (Gee-oh! the brash those lamed ones tolled out!) Times I would coax 'em up to question me: T was then I'd see my fun. The Scripter says, "Answer a fool according to his folly," so Maybe, I gonnies, ole Solomon had a call To be right proud of me a time or two! 124 Long ago days those were. Railroads have crope So nigh we're main alike, us mountain folks And level-landers. Better thataway Fer colleges and hats and sech-like gear, So long as humans keep their differing ways Enough to pleasure one another some. They might. There's shorely signs Almighty used More than one pattern, 'way back yander, when He made the world and saw that hit was good. THE NEW GENERATION I Yes, my pappy slew your uncle, He did so. Seven men they lost between them, Let 'em gol My kin called your old great-grandsire Hard as nails, Said his boundaries made the troubleSorry talesl Honey, don't let pore dead ghostes Hant us two, Each one gets his generation, Then he's through. Reckon they've a better vision Up above, Reckon God A'mighty turns their Hate to love. Honey, say we bury bygones J'ining hands? Make one family of the King and Howard bands. ? A signal-shot through the quivering night; A lifted latch, and a flutter of whiteRocky Fork is astir with flight. Horsemen holding the crossways four; A starlit ride to the preacher's door . . . "Kings and Howards hev quit their War." 125 "HANTS" Last Friday week ole Brother Singleton, From out Virginny way a piece, rid in To take the night with us. Maw flaxed about And cooked him up a snack of meat and bread. Then atter he had eat, they sat around ?-swapping hant tales—him and Granny Dale And Uncle Nathe—till 'way up in the night. The babes and Maw drapped off to sleep, but I Jest wrapped my head up in the kivers good And listened at 'em tell. Hit were a sightl We thought we had a right smart bit of hants, But Gee-oh, boy! they shore looked puny 'side Of ole man Singleton's. He told about The headless hand that names yore day of doom, The big, saft, woolly hant that leaps up in Yore saddle, riding in the darksome woods, And wrops hits arm all choky round yore neck. Yes, and the hant that creeps from graveyards off, To charm a man, and kneels down by the bed, With candle in hits hand. I heared hit creep, And lit right out of bed, and scrouged in...