B. Brown — Hoss Orator
I’ve heerd of Demosthenes—b’longed down in
Greece,
—And Cicero, too!
But ’course, never knew
A great deal about ’em except through my niece,
Who’s tended the ’cademy,—lets on to know
’Bout most of the critters who lived years ago,
—Who’d talk to a standstill the chaps of their day
With a broadside of words like a gatling, they say.
And folks knuckle down, and praise up, and kow-tow
To those hefty old tongue-lashing chaps even now.
So I’m ready for brickbats, and hollers, and howls,
From the folks of the schools, and from hide-
bound old owls,
When I shin the high flag-staff of Fame to tear down
All colors that flop there for rival renown,
And string up the banner of Bennington Brown.
Don’t think I’ll assert
What he knew ever hurt!
He was mostly considered an ornery squirt.
He traded old hosses, and cattle, and such,
And the sayin’ ’round town was: “Oh, Brown, he ain’t much!”
But I read t’other day, in a volyum called
“Hints,”
That a speaker is gauged by his gifts to convince.
So I stand on that statement and solemnly swear
That as a star-actor convincer, I’d dare.
Back Bennington Brown up against the best man
That ever tongue wrassled, grab holts, catch as can.
Give Cicero Pointer, Directum, or Hanks,
And Brown an old pelter with wobbly shanks,
—Just leave ’em an hour, no odds, a clear field,
No matter how Cicero sputtered and spieled,
I’ll bet he would find himself talked to a stop,
And Brown would unload the old rip, even swap!
I can see how he’d look
When he carefully took
Old Cic by the gallus with “come-along” hook
Of that gnurly forefinger. And there Cic would stand,
For he wouldn’t be yankin’ away from that hand,
Unless in his desperate efforts to skip
Cic dodged from his toga, and gave Brown the slip.
And it’s likely that Brown would talk something like this:
I ain’t at all anxious to shift with you, Cic.
Your hoss, I’ll admit, has got plenty of speed,
But you know, Cic, you know that he ain’t what you need.
Outside of a show piece to stand in the barn,
That hoss he ain’t worth, Cic, a tinker’s gol-
darn.
What you want is that hoss of mine—want him blame bad,
He don’t need no whip, crackers, cudgel, or gad.
’Thout strap, boot, or toeweights, he’s gone out and showed
His quarters in thirty. He stands lots of road,
And I swow I dunno what I’m sellin’ him for,
—I need him myself. But I’ll sell! Have a chaw?
And as I was sayin’, he’s just what you want;—
Oh, yes, have to own he’s a leetle dite gaunt!
Been a-drivin’ him hard, for he’ll stand lots of work,
Never had a sick day, never shows the least quirk.
He’s young: look yourself; jest you roll up his lip;
By the way, ever smile? I’ve some stuff on my hip.
Now as I was sayin’”—and on, and so on,
Till Cicero’d put his suspenders in pawn,
Hand oyer his steed for a wind-broken brute,
And sling in some golden sestertia to boot.
I tell you again,
That of all of the men
Who can slat the King’s English, I swear by old Ben!
And you’ll never appreciate half of my praise
Till you’ve stood there yourself in the beller and blaze
Of his thirteen-inch barker, and fust thing you know
Discover you’ve bought an old bone yard or so,
I hardly expect, O ye hurrying throng,
Ye’ll bow to my hero, applaud my rude song,
But sling, if ye will, all your bouquets and praise
At the cut-and-dried speakers of pod-auger days,
I’ll go by myself and I’ll tenderly crown
With bay the bald brows of old Bennington;
Brown.