He always dodged ’round in a ragged old

coat,

With a tattered, blue comforter tied on his

throat.

His dusty old cart used to rattle and bang

As he yelled through the village, “Gid dap!”

and “Go ’lang!”

You’d think from his looks that he wa’n’t wuth

a cent;

—Was poorer than Pooduc, to judge how he

went.

But back in the country don’t reckon on style

To give ye a notion of anyone’s pile.

When he died and they figgered his pus’nal

estate,

He was mighty well-fixed—was old “Squeal-

in’ Jim” Waite.

But say, I’d advise ye to sort of look out

How ye say “Squealin’ Jim” when the’s

widders about.

They’re likely to light on ye, hot tar and pitch,

And give ye some points as to what, where and

which;

For if ever a critter was reckoned a saint

By the widders’round here, I’ll be dinged if he

ain’t.

For please understand that the widders call

him,

—Sheddin’ tears while they’re sayin’ it,—

“Thanksgivin’ Jim”.

He was little—why,

Wa’n’t scarce knee high

To a garden toad. But was mighty spry!

He was all of a whew

If he’d things to do!

’Twas a zip and a streak when Jim went

through.

But his voice was twice as big as him

And the boys all called him “Squealin’ Jim”.

He was always a-hurryin’ all through his life

And said there wa’n’t time for to hunt up a

wife.

So he kept bach’s hall and he worked like a

dog,

—Jest whooped right along at a trottin’ hoss

jog-

There’s a yarn that the fellers that knew him

will tell

If they want to set Jim out and set him out

well:

He was bound for the city on bus’ness one day

And whoosh! scooted down to the depot, they

say.

The depot-man says, “Hain’t no rush, Mr.

Waite,

For the train to the city is ten minutes late

Off flew Squealin’ Jim with his grip, on the

run,

And away down the track he went hoofin’ like

fun.

When he tore out of sight, couldn’t see him

for dust

And he squealed, “Train be jiggered! I’ll git

there, now, fust!”

—So nervous and active he jest wouldn’t wait

When they told him the train was a leetle dite

late.

Now that was Jim!

He was stubby and slim

But it took a spry critter to step up with him.

His height when he’d rise

Made ye laugh, but his eyes

Let ye know that his soul wasn’t much under-

size.

And some old widders we had in town

Insisted, reg’lar, he wore a crown.

As he whoopity-larruped along on his way,

There were people who’d turn up their noses

and say

That Squealin’ Jim Waite wasn’t right in his

head;

He was cranky as blazes, the old growlers said.

I can well understand that some things he

would do

Seemed loony as time to that stingy old crew.

For a fact, there was no one jest like him in

town,

He was most always actin’ the part of a clown;

He would say funny things in his queer,

squealin’ style,

And he talked so’s you’d hear him for more

than a mile.

But ev’ry Thanksgivin’ time Waite he would

start

And clatter through town in his rattlin’ old

cart,

And what do ye s’pose? He would whang

down the street,

Yank up at each widder’s; from under the seat

Would haul out a turkey of yaller-legged chick

And holler, “Here, mother, h’ist out with ye,

quick!”

Then he’d toss down a bouncer right into her

lap

And belt off like fury with, “G’long, there!

Gid dap!”

Didn’t wait for no thanks—couldn’t work ’em

on him,

—Couldn’t catch him to thank him—that

Thanksgivin’ Jim.

’Twas a queer idee

’Round town that he

Was off’n his balance and crazy’s could be.

They’d set and chaw

And stew and jaw,

And projick on what he did it for.

But prob’ly in Heaven old Squealin’ Jim

Found lots of crazy folks jest like him.