AN ARKANSAS IDYL

IN a half decayed log cabin, on the shore of Apple Lake,
Dwelt a lank, ill-favored squatter by the name of Poker Jake,
(Which his real name was Likens), and he raised a motley crew
Of tow-headed sons and daughters, as such fellows mostly do,
Without culture or good manners, and with no regard for law,
Trained to loafing, drinking, fighting, and to fish and shoot and chaw.

Seven miles below Old Likens, by a marshy, muddy sloo,
At the turning of the river, lived Old Simmons and his crew;
And as between the fathers or the sons of either gang,
It would be very hard to say which most deserved to hang.
And yet, though they were ornery, it must be freely owned,
They were exceeding chivalric—surprisingly high-toned
One of them might abstract a horse, or rob the mail by night—
But just insinuate he lied—he’d slice you up on sight.

Now, old man Likens had a mule, a spike-tailed smoky gray,
Which Ikey Simmons found at large, and claimed it as a stray,
And took it off and sold it, and pocketed the dust,
Which filled the tribe of Poker Jake with anger and disgust.
Then Yancey Likens took his gun and sallied out alone,
And soon the tribe of Simmons had a funeral of their own.

Such summary proceedings in a rural neighborhood
Produce unpleasant feelings, and result in nothing good.
For David Simmons took his gun, and lay for Poker Jake,
And shot him, catching catties, in a dugout on the lake.

Then all the neighbors felt that this had gone too deep for fun,
And that a deadly quarrel had undoubtedly begun.
For Yancey Likens at the grave was heard to swear aloud,
He’d lay for every Simmons and exterminate the crowd!
It was a rash expression, and could only be condoned
By the fact that he was fiery, and uncommonly high-toned.
Likewise he was the coolest man, and hardest shot by odds—
He had been known to hit a deer at five and forty rods.

The Simmons cabin faced the sloo, with just a path between,
And on the other side came down the forest, dense and green.
And just within the forest’s edge, beside a sycamore,
Did Yancey Likens take his stand, to watch the cabin door.
And when he saw old Simmons come meandering round the sloo,
He took a rest across a log, and bored him through and through!

Old Simmons had a daughter—Martha Washington by name,
A round-limbed, blue-eyed, handsome jade, of most decided game.
And she had loved this Yancey—but that was over now—
She took a shotgun from its hooks, and registered a vow.
She loaded up both barrels with the biggest kind of shot,
And went gunning after Yancey. Yancey, he got up and got.
He was as brave in single fight as any man unhung,
But could he harm the girl he loved, so brave, so fair and young?

And so, although she prowled around, and hid beside the road,
And bushwhacked every cowpath that led to his abode,
And though Ma’am Likens got a charge of bird shot in a place
That caused her to repose at night by lying on her face,
And though old granny Simmons, picking chips beside her door,
Got hit just where Ma’am Likens had been hit the week before,
And though Andrew Jackson Likens got a bullet in his thigh,
She could get no shot at Yancey. Yancey held his hand too high.
Perhaps if Yancey chose to tell, he might explain just how
It happened no one shot at her in all this precious row.

But, anyway, she had her way, and played the Indian scout,
Until one afternoon, when strength and pluck were giving out,
She sought a quiet spot, and scraping leaves into a heap,
But meaning still to keep awake, dropped calmly off to sleep,
And dreamed her love dream o’er again, and that ’twas early spring,
And Yancey Likens came to her, and brought the wedding ring.
But when he strove to put it on, she saw it, with alarm,
Expand, and slip above her hand, and rest upon her arm.
And then the ring began to shrink, until it grew so tight,
The sharp compression caused her pain, and woke her in a fright.
And then she saw, with sudden fear, a pair of brawny fists,
That most uncompromisingly imprisoned both her wrists!

She fought like any mountain cat, and in her struggles swore
She never had been so misused by any man before.
She wrenched herself as she had been an acrobat on show,
And shrieked, “You low-down, ornery pup, how dar you squeeze me so!”
But still the iron grip remained, and o’er her shoulders fell
The steady gaze of steel-gray eyes—the eyes she knew so well!
A laughing face looked down on hers, and all in vain she tried
To free herself, and then—and then she wilted down and cried.

Ma’am Likens, with a water-gourd, went hobbling to the spring.
She was too old and lame to dance—too cussed mad to sing.
She crooned and grumbled in her wrath, until she met her son,
A-galivanting down the path, with Martha Washington!

No matter how they compromised each ugly word and deed—
Young Yancey had the leading mind—and leading minds will lead.

They sent young Thomas Benton Likens off to bring a priest,
Likewise, a keg of applejack—ten gallons at the least.
The tribe of Simmons all came up—the Likenses were there,
The neighbors swore they ne’er before had seen a bride so fair.^*
Young Yancey led the festive dance, with Martha at his side,
While Montagues and Capulets pranced after them with pride.
Ma’am Likens, primed with applejack, went halting thro’ a reel,
While Granny Simmons in her chair kept time with toe and heel.

They smoked the fragrant cob of peace, they drank their toddy hot,
They swore an everlasting truce and sealed it on the spot
By digging underneath a tree a narrow grave and deep,
And burying the tomahawk where Martha went to sleep

^*This was written years before Joaquin Miller’s “William Brown, of Oregon,” saw the light.