A Poet-farmer in a Fix
Long Island has a poet named Bloodgood H. Cutter, who, when an infant, “lisped in numbers.” He is a member of the agricultural profession, a practical farmer, and alternates between cultivation of his extensive family manor and his favorite muse monthly. One day the Long Island Byron, when on the way to the New York market, had the misfortune to break his tackling through the antics of his spirited team, that was drawing a big load.
Just at this moment, as the poet was in the road lugubriously viewing his ruptured tackling and broken traces, there appeared on the spot a wagon-load of his neighbors on their way home. “By Jove!” said S., “there is our rhyming neighbor Cutter, broke down; bet you the dinners all round at Tony’s that when we stop he will tell his trouble in good rhythm.” “Done,” said B. “I take that bet. Drive up and decide it.” Bloodgood looked around, saw a chance of relief, and his countenance radiating like an Edison lamp, opened his lips thusly:
“Glad to see your smiling faces;
I’ve broke down and want relief;
Come and help me mend these traces,
Or my trip will come to grief.
I’ve a load of pink-eyed beauties,
Rare potatoes—sure to sell—
Don’t forget your Christian duties,
Pious work, you know, pays well.”
A roar went up that could have been heard a mile. “All right, Bloodgood, that Christian duty shall be ‘did.’” They fixed him up and he went on his way rejoicing. In due time Tony Miller’s elegant dinner for four was partaken of, and B. footed the bill.