Uncle Micajah Strout
Guess that more’n a dozen lawyers, off and on, from time to time,
Tried to settle down in Hudson, but they couldn’t earn a dime.
Never got a speck of business, never had a single case,
Said they never in their travels struck so blimmed-blammed funny place.
People did a lot of hustling, town was flourish-
ing enough,
—Everybody but the lawyers had his fingers full of stuff.
Lawyers stayed till they got hungry, then they’d pull their shingles down
And go tearing off to somewhere, damning right and left the town.
Told the lawyers round the county, “Hudson’s bound to starve you out
Till some patriot up and poisons one old cuss down there named Strout.
’Cause they won’t fork up a fee,
Long’s he’s round to referee.
’Case of difference or doubt
Folks say, 6 Wal, we’ll leave her out
To Uncle Micajah Strout.’”
If a farmer bought a heifer and she didn’t run to milk,
If a dickerer in horse trades struck a snag or tried to bilk,
If two parties got to haggling over what a farm was worth,
Or if breeders split in squabbling over weight or age or girth;
If a stubborn line-fence quarrel, right-of-way dis-
pute, or deed,
Claim of heirship or of debtor, honest error, biassed greed,
Rose to foster litigation, no one scurried to the law,
No one belched out objurgations, sputtered oaths, or threatened war,
For there was a ready resource in a certain plain old gent,
Unassuming, blunt, and honest. When he said a thing it went.
So there was no chance for wrangle, disputations, snarls, or fray,
When the people of the village universally could say,
“Oh, what’s the use to fuss?
We shall only make a muss.
We can fix it in about
Half a minute. Leave it out
To Uncle Micajah Strout.”
So no wonder all the lawyers banned and cursed the place, and left;
For contention was but fleeting and the town was never cleft
By a quarrel or dissension. Rows were always settled young
By the pacifying magic of. Micajah’s ready tongue.
When at last his days were ended and he passed
—well, now you bet
That he had the biggest funeral ever seen in Somerset.
Miss him? Guess we miss Micajah, but if ever dreams come true,
I’ve a sort of sneaking notion that he hasn’t yet got through
Settling things for us in Hudson; for I dreamed
—and this is straight—
That I died and went to Heaven, but was yanked up at the gate.
Peter showed me facts and figures, all the records, and allowed
That I’d have to take my chances down below with t’other crowd;
—Said the thing was pretty even, but he had to draw it fine,
Then commenced to hunt the index for the next shade in the line.
I protested, and we had it, this and that, and pro and con,
And I hung and begged and argued when he told me to move on.
Till at last he called a cherub, sent the little chap inside,
Owning up that he was bothered as to how he should decide.
“But I’ll give you all the show.
That I can,” said he. “You know,
I’ve arranged, in case of doubt,
—When it’s close,—to leave it out
To Uncle Micajah’s trout.”