# THE WHITTLER
## A Story

Roll, turbulence, roll! Mister Dickens, Esquire,
Has condescended to come and see
The barbarous folks of Amerikee,
Tobacco-spitting, profane and free
And rousing Dickens' ire.

Flow, broad river, flow, through the truly fabulous West,
Past the cut-over swamps of O-hi-o
Where feverish pioneers spitting go; creeping slow;
Then Bobtail City to Dickens show,
In London broadcloth dressed.
Bobtail, the beautiful, will entice;
Two hundred shacks and a den of vice
With rotgut whisky and loaded dice
And a buzzard's rotting nest.

## II

The scornful Ohio River packet halted
To take on wood, at Bobtail, Illinois.
The passengers' ears were mangled and assaulted
By howling hounds and jeering tattered boys.

The captain called, "Run, boys! Tell every yahoo
To grab a quid of baccy and come down.
We've got a famed galoot aboard here. Ah, who?
Charley Dickens, Esquire, of London Town!

"Him as composed them elegant scenes of fashion
And made us all to weep at Nelly's grave.
He's touring of Americay -- in a passion.
Let's try his good opinion for to save."

The Bobtail social leaders skip and hustle
To grab a glimpse of the great celebritee:
The barkeep, with his wife in a Baptist bustle,
The editor, Colonel J. Lycurgus Slee

In a blue tail-coat with noble sliver buttons
And unpolished boots as big as the packet boat;
Nine trappers' wives; a judge with fists like muttons;
Sixty-nine dogs, three hens, and a friendly shoat;

The storekeeper's daughter and the female teacher --
The only elevated souls in town;
And a loafer called "The Whittler"; partly preacher,
Partly laborer, lawyer, farmer, clown,

Partly arguefying politician,
This Whittler, one that Dickens would abhor,
Lazy and drawling, hopeless of condition,
A contented backwoods failure at thirty-four.

The Whittler -- 2

#

Such were the sterling patriots whom the skipper
Now summoned Mr. Dickens out to greet:
"Charley, b'God, they've gathered, every nipper.
The flower of Americay is at your feet!"

The tremendous Mr. Dickens took the stage,
His beard immaculate as Prince Albert's soul,
His green-gold waistcoat quite the London rage,
His bow to Bobtail a small and frosty dole.

Boston he'd liked, a green-white pleasant village;
New York half liked, with the red brick of the Dutch,
The rest of the land demanded fire and pillage.
And this savage, fetid Bobtail was too much.

The Barber Shop Chorus hailed the famous tourist
With a harmonizing Illinois ballad,
But the learned Dickens, moralist and purist,
Hearkened as though he thought it almost bad:

Rooster in the haystack, rooster in the straw,
Old Ohio is the State for law.
But the willingest of ladies and the most tremendous lies
Are found along the riverbank in Southern Illinize.
We hate the East like pizen, and particular we hate
Them prissy female pedagogues from old Bay State.
Hallelujah, wear your Sunday go-to-meeting vest
And show the Frogs and English Dogs the glory of the West.

While Dickens stood at the rail and coldly listened,
Editor Slee gave forth his welcoming speech.
His whisky tenor shook, his wet eyes glistened,
But Dickens sucked the praise like a weary leech:

"Colonel Dickens, the Garden of Eden greets you,
These smiling skies, this wealth of wood and field,
Where rich abundance and flowery plenty meets you,
With a forty-bushel annual wheat-crop yield.

"Here, men are men, and females beautiful ladies,
With every virtue, tender hearts and true
Here, valor chases British troops to Hades
And the eagle screams to the lion, 'Thither, you!'

"General Dickens, thy puissant pen
Holds us enchanted, humble at thy feet.
Why, I can safely say that six in ten
Of Bobtail citizens con thy offerings sweet.

"High honors knowest thou; duke and millionaire
Have given thee parties and the choicest joys.
Now, higher than England's honors, you'll need a return
As messenger from Bobtail, Illinois.

The Whittler -- 3

#

that

"Tell them they have their lords, their serving maids,
Their stores and palaces of munificence.
Their silk-dressed Queen, their daily street parades,
But not no future in their hog-tight fence!

"Go back, Sir Dickens; bid your Limeys flee
From the crowded English streets, the noise, the muss,
Come out here, get a nice job and be free.
The future, tell 'em, is patented by us!"

When he stopped choking, Dickens, the foe of pomp,
Politely answered Slee, "You are a knave!
A future here, in this ague-ridden swamp?
There is no future here, but in the grave!

"No man around here for a hundred mile
Will ever come to knowledge, fame, or power,
Ever be mentioned save with scornful smile,
Or ever recalled beyond his dying hour!

"I'm messenger not to England, but to you,
To every empty boastful Yankee zed!
You're doomed to rot! That is your future true,
As the simple, honest English have always said.
For every man and woman, every child,
Now hearing me speak will creep to death defiled."

Silence. The fingering of a bowie knife.
A perilous scowl. Then, lanky, stooping, tall,
The lounging Whittler saved the Titan's life,
By setting them laughing with his acid drawl:

"Naow, Deacon Dickens, mebbe you are wrong.
One man raound here for wide-spread honor bids.
He spits two rods while singing a gospel song,
And he's had seven wives and twenty kids."

Red-faced, glaring at the whooping crew,
Charles Dickens stamped his foot and pettishly went,
With the statement, "Sir, I scorn to answer you!
My good man, you have been impertinent!"
You, most of all, shall see my prophecy true.
Whoever conquers, it will not be you!"

Yelling, the crowd approved the Whittler's jest.
Only the schoolma'am, English-novel fed,
Screeched at the Whittler, "Dickens must know best!
How grievous are them things that sweet soul said,
And true! We are unschooled, by ignorance lamed,
Destined to die unknown, unloved, unnamed.
And you, Abe Lincoln, you ought to be ashamed!"

Souillac. June 1950.