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“He’ll paw and prance to hear your praise,
Because he’s learnt 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.”

Again I applauded, handing the old man still another of his poems, and the last received. “Ah!” said he, as his gentle eyes bent on the title; “this-here’s the cheerfullest one of ’em all. This is the one writ, as I wrote you about–on that glorious October morning two weeks ago–I thought your paper would print this-un, shore!”

“Oh, it will print it,” I said eagerly; “and it will print the other two as well! It will print anything that you may do us the honor to offer, and we’ll reward you beside just as you may see fit to designate.–But go on–go on! Read me the poem.”

The old man’s eyes were glistening as he responded with the poem entitled

“WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN”

“When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’ of the guineys, and the cluckin’ of the hens,
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O, it’s then’s the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

“They’s something kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here–
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees,
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock–
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

“The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries–kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A-preachin’ sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below–the clover overhead!–
O, it sets my hart a-clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

“Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’ ‘s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With theyr mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage,
too!…
I don’t know how to tell it–but ef sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me —
I’d want to ‘commodate ’em–all the whole-indurin’ flock–
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!”

That was enough! “Surely,” thought I, “here is a diamond in the rough, and a ‘gem,’ too, ‘of purest ray serene’!” I caught the old man’s hand and wrung it with positive rapture; and it is needless to go further in explanation of how the readers of our daily came to an acquaintance through its columns with the crude, unpolished, yet most gentle genius of Benj. F. Johnson, of Boone.