Poems of Childhood/The Bench-Legged Fyce
THE BENCH-LEGGED FYCE
SPEAKIN' of dorgs, my bench-legged fyceHed most o' the virtues, an' nary a vice.Some folks called him Sooner, a name that aroseFrom his predisposition to chronic repose;But, rouse his ambition, he couldn't be beat—Yer bet yer he got thar on all his four feet!
Mos' dorgs hez some forte—like huntin' an' such,But the sports o' the field didn't bother him much;Wuz just a plain dorg, an' contented to beOn peaceable terms with the neighbors an' me;Used to fiddle an' squirm, and grunt "Oh, how nice!"When I tickled the back of that bench-legged fyce!
He wuz long in the bar'l, like a fyce oughter be;His color wuz yaller as ever you see;His tail, curlin' upward, wuz long, loose, an' slim—When he didn't wag it, why, the tail it wagged him!His legs wuz so crooked, my bench-legged pupWuz as tall settin' down as he wuz standin' up!
He'd lie by the stove of a night an' regretThe various vittles an' things he had et;When a stranger, most likely a tramp, come along,He'd lift up his voice in significant song—You wondered, by gum! how there ever wuz spaceIn that bosom o' his'n to hold so much bass!
Of daytimes he'd sneak to the road an' lie down,An' tackle the country dorgs comin' to town;By common consent he wuz boss in St. Joe,For what he took hold of he never let go!An' a dude that come courtin' our girl left a sliceOf his white flannel suit with our bench-legged fyce!
He wuz good to us kids—when we pulled at his furOr twisted his tail he would never demur;He seemed to enjoy all our play an' our chaff,For his tongue 'u'd hang out an' he'd laff an' he'd laff;An' once, when the Hobart boy fell through the ice,He wuz drug clean ashore by that bench-legged fyce!
We all hev our choice, an' you, like the rest,Allow that the dorg which you've got is the best;I wouldn't give much for the boy 'at grows upWith no friendship subsistin' 'tween him an' a pup!When a fellow gits old—I tell you it's niceTo think of his youth and his bench-legged fyce!