Essentials of MIS 12th Edition Laudon Solutions Manual
Essentials of MIS 12th Edition Laudon Solutions Manual
Essentials of MIS 12th Edition Laudon Solutions Manual
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26. This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United
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eBook.
Title: Tar-Heel Tales in Vernacular Verse
Author: J. E. P. Doyle
Illustrator: Bonar
Release date: July 4, 2017 [eBook #55042]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024
Language: English
Credits: Produced by MFR, Paul Marshall and the Online
Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file
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The
Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TAR-HEEL TALES
IN VERNACULAR VERSE ***
28. Tar-Heel Tales
IN VERNACULAR VERSE.
BY MAJOR JEP JOSLYNN.
NEW YORK:
M. Doolady, 98 Nassau Street.
1873.
“LITTLE BOOTS.”
MY RERLIGION.
THE BUZZIN’ BEES OF BERKS.
BOB MUNN OF CAPE COD.
31. Tar-Heel Tales IN Vernacular Verse.
BY MAJOR JEP JOSLYNN.
ILLUSTRATED BY BONAR.
NEW YORK:
M. DOOLADY, 98 Nassau Street.
1873.
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1873,
BY J. E. P. DOYLE,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
32. Author’s Preface.
The author of this little volume, in presenting it for the
amusement of the reader, and the criticism of his co-laborers on the
press, feels it proper that he should state the circumstances of its
production. While serving as a staff officer with Sherman’s army in
North Carolina, often has he listened for hours to the recitals of
adventures on the part of the Tar-Heel refugees from the pineries,
who crowded our camps in search of food. Having studied with
interest the habits and quaint dialect of this poor, but honest class,
the author has created Major Jep Joslynn, and permitted him to
weave some of these “Tales” into verse. The incident described in
“The Buzzin’ Bees of Berks” were actually witnessed by him while on
the advance of Hambright’s brigade of the Fourteenth corps,
assisting in the prevention of pillage. Two or three of these Tales
have been published in the press over Major Joslynn’s signature.
With these explanations the author will take a back seat and request
silence from pit to dome while the veracious Tar-Heel entertains you
with his Vernacular Verses.
34. Hush! a nation’s pulse stands still!
Through it is flashed a thrill
Of genuine grief!
Grief for the Great and Good—
Grief for the one who stood
In strong relief,
And half a century braved
Opinion for the enslaved,
To find his name engraved
On Life’s clear leaf!
A rustic child of ours,
Who in Green Mountain bowers
Was born to earth,
Attained a giant life
’Mid scenes of bitter strife
That prov’d his worth!
And, dying, leaves behind him,
In hearts that have enshrined him
Affection’s links that bind him
To every hearth!
Let the solemn church bell toll
For the passing of a soul
To peaceful rest:
Let tender tears be shed
For the illust’rous dead
Who’s hand we’ve prest!
For hearts to-day are riven—
A Light went out at even
To glow anew in Heaven
Among the Blest!
—New York Evening Telegram.
35. To
FREDERIC HUDSON,
THE TALENTED JOURNALIST AND COURTEOUS GENTLEMAN,
WHOSE
FRATERNAL INTEREST IN YOUNG WRITERS, AND WHOSE
CONSIDERATE AND PATIENT TREATMENT OF ALL WITH
WHOM HE HAS HAD BUSINESS RELATIONS, HAVE
ENDEARED HIM TO THEM, THIS VOLUME IS
DEDICATED, BY HIS LATE SUBORDINATE AND SINCERE ADMIRER,
The Author.
36. CONTENTS.
PAGE.
The Curse of Pedergogue Scott 9
Bob Munn of Cape Cod 16
My Rerligion 24
Little Boots 32
The Buzzin’ Bees of Berks 39
That Little Black Pet of Our’n 49
Old Tom Gin 57
The Sign of Joe Ball 66
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Planting the Thistles 13
Bob Munn’s Transfiguration 21
Deacon Sparling’s Devotion 26
The Tar Heel’s Return 35
A Mule’s Baptism 46
Jonah’s Landlord 50
40. HAT’S a question I don’t like ter speak of:
How these pesky thistles come here;
But, boys, if ye will listen attentervely,
I will breathe a strenge tale in yer ear.
But afore I bergin I would warn ye,
Ye may fix yer faces ter blush;
So jist let thar be silence all around
And I’ll spin the yarn with a rush.
Ha! ha! ha! I larf when I think of it—
The days when a youngster I sat
On a rough pine bench in the lorg school house,
And din’d orf the rim of my hat!
The other boys war bigger than I war,
And studied thar lesson right well,
While I ermus’d myself as I wish’d ter
In quar tricks on which I’ll not dwell.
I war ter young ter learn my letters,—
They let me ’tend school for all that;
And then when I run short of ermusement
I jerk’d at the tail of the cat!
As I increas’d in years and mischief,
Sich as hazin’ our neighbor’s pig,
Pourin’ ink on the floor, or applyin’
Powder’d chalk ter the master’s wig—
Richard Scott—that war the pedergogue’s name—
Declar’d in wrath he’d be killin’
Me, if I did not be quiet and sit
Bertween ter gals—I war willin’!
41. Young as I war I lik’d that ye may swar
On the hilts of yer bowie knives;
And though but eight years I bergun ter sigh
For a plurality of wives!
Now, Tip Tracey, ye may smile over thar
At the picter I’ve painted you;
But that gal-punershment of Richard Scott
War a pleasure ter them gals, too!
By-an’-by I had master’d my letters,
And bergun on my b i bi’s;
From that I prergress’d to somethin’ better—
Admirin’ my companions’ eyes.
Nearly every day I got the ferule
Jist for winkin’ at Sue Minals;
But very soon I had so far prergress’d
I war plighted ter sev’ral gals!
I had not been ter school quite a twelvemonth
When I’d whal’d each boy in the class,
Kiss’d and hugg’d every gal, eaten Scott’s lunch,
And ten rivals had sent ter grass!
I put toads in Scott’s pockets, and dead mice
Scatter’d everywhar in his desk,
Till he froth’d at the mouth in his madness,
And cuss’d me for a little pest.
All this tuk place over in Canada,
Whar my gov’ner had gone ter preach
The Gospel of Jesus ter them sinners,
As successor ter Elder Beech.
But don’t tire at th’ length of my story:
I’m drawin’ erlong ter the close,
42. Whar I gather’d the seeds that have blarsted,
And fill’d a whole nation with woes.
43. One day when I’d been worse than usual,—
Put snuff in the master’s whistle—
Old Scott tuk me out berhind the rear wall,
And sot me down on a thistle!
An hour and a half he held me thar,
While the barbs pen’trated the skin!
Havin’ planted the crop, the pedergogue,
With my trousers harrer’d it in!
That harrerin’ event I can’t forget,
For it fairly set me rantin’:
I wood not car’d had the agricult’rist
Chosen higher soil ter plant in!
But that war cruel, and for months I felt
Them bull thistle seeds takin’ root,
And creepin’ about in the tender flesh
From hat crown ter toe of my boot.
After that I went back on old Dick Scott,
And lit out for York State ye bet;
But each Spring I war sowin’ the thistles,
No rest anywhar could I get.
I have toted them thistles all over,
And planted ’em in every field,
Whar I’ve halted ter rest; but dog on it!
Thar seems a ter bounterful yield!
Now, neighbors, that is a right true story
I’ve told ye, and is it not queer
That I cannot get shut of ’em? That is
How Canada thistles reached here!
So whenever ye cut down yer thistles
D ’t t t M I t
44. Don’t cuss me ter strong. May I rot
In a roadside ditch if I can help it!
They are the curse of Richard Scott!
47. BERLIEVE it’s cornceeded on all sides
That of all the cute bipeds made
Since the world war created, the Yankee
Allers gets the best in a trade!
It’s a boast that no race can match ’em
In expedients sure ter win:
And all others must get up right early
If they would n’t be taken in!
As a proof of this ere declaration
They tell of one up at Cape Cod,
Who’s so all-fir’d smart he endeavor’d
Ter play a trump kerd at his God!
He’s a fisherman by occerpation,
Is this feller they call Bob Munn;
And ter dry his fish he ask’d mandamus
Ter sercure more light from the sun!
The court would not listen ter the motion,
But this action did not appall:
He fix’d up a merchine ter uterlize
The rerfulgent rays of old Sol.
With powerful glasses he center’d
The rays on his cargoes of cod,
And chuckl’d right smart at his success
In stealin’ the smiles of his God!
For a time his merchine work’d ter a charm,
And his sackerlege war endur’d;
While his rivals in trade war astonish’d
At the many quintals he cur’d.
48. But Bob Munn, he grew bold in his averice,
And the splendid march he had stole
Upon his Creator and his rivals,
E’en at the expense of his soul.
He had read in the Scripters of Lot’s wife
Who ter salt war chang’d in a night,
As a punershment for diserbedience
And exercizin’ wimin’s right—
(A right ter pry inter other’s affa’rs
By evesdroppin’ if she’s inclin’d,
For which each one of ’em should be treated
As Lot’s mistress what look’d berhind.)
But, endin’ he aposterphe, I must
Return ter the exploits of Munn,
Who ignor’d the bounty of Jerhover,
And corntiner’d ter steal the sun!
The story of Lot’s wife impress’d him
With a more avericious wish—
The diskivery of arter-fish-al means
For ter salt his catches of fish.
On the shores of Cape Cod in them days
Many old maids sigh’d alone
For the lips of a man ter caress ’em,
And the means ter sercure a home.
They had been doom’d ter sore diserpointment,
The girlish bloom had diserpear’d,
Leavin’ a shad-er of thar lost beauty
On the features so dry and sear’d.
Bob Munn, he long ponder’d on the subject
Of testin’ that ere recerpe,
49. What work’d ter a charm at old Gomorrer,
And set a poor hen-peck’d man free!
God had smil’d upon his undertakin’s,
And he felt he might tempt him still,
With a more ingenious expererment,
Ter bring a fresh grist ter his mill.
Then he sent out many invertations—
Corlected the maids at his board,
And while they war gossippin’ o’er thar tea
In his chamber he ask’d the Lord—
Ter merakerlously chenge ’em ter salt
The cheaper ter cure his fresh cod;
Then in faith he erose from his marrers,
And his sinful tamp’rin’ with God!
Now Bob Munn in his folly expected
On rejinin’ his guests ter find
The work he’d mapped out for the Master,
Perform’d by His Infernite mind.
51. But not so. On reachin’ the tea-drinkers,
Whar he trusted ter git his wish,
No pillars of salt war thar; but harf of
Munn’s carcass war cheng’d ter a fish!
Bob Munn soon diskiver’d it war wrongful,
And, chagrin’d tuk ter the water:
Becomin’ an amphibious anermal,
The first mermaid war his daughter.
Two centuries have pars’d away since then;
The mermaids have multerplied,
And, old mariners say, it all comes from
Lovin’ fish premerturely dri’d!
And, although I won’t vouch for it, they say
This is why the Yankees like cod,
Car’fully season’d, and salted and cur’d
By the means pervided by God.
But the moral—ye see it war sinful
Ter tempt the Almighty ter fast!
And this story will show ye how He got
The best of that Yankee at last!
Whenever ye hear tell of a mermaid
Be warn’d by the sin of poor Bob,
Who attempted ter stock the kerds upon
His Maker, but—botch’d the job!
54. DO not gamble much on Rerligion,
Nor show a sanctermonious look
Down here under my hat when they mention
The Bible—that spiritu’l book—
What’s a guide-board ter every stray traveler
In the pathway leadin’ ter God;
I do not clasp my hands in dervotion,
And at the church minister nod,—
Extollin’ his favorite utterances;
Nor jine in the fervent “Amen,”
That the folks in the meetin’ may think me
One of them most pious laymen.
Nor go down on my marrers durin’ pr’ar,
Raise my eyes ter Heaven and cry
Ter God ter pour out His Holy Spirit,
And bless me with grace from on High!
In meetin’ I do not yell out “Glory!”
“Bless the Lord who died for sinners!”
“Come down, dear Jesus; I’ll clasp ye right here!”
Nor ’nvite the parson ter dinners.
I’ve sarch’d from Gen’ses ter Reverlation
For a precerdent, but I can’t
Find that Christ and His Erpostles have spent
The Sabbath in boisterous rant!
The knees of my Sabbath mornin’ trousers
May not show same ermount of war’
As those of Deacon Horatio Sparling,
Who’s worn holes in his’n at pra’r.
56. I may not show the white of my eyes, like
The Deacon who looks for rerward
For countin’ the number of the rarfters,
When they pars the cup of the Lord!
I am not in the habit of tellin’
Sinners they’ll be left in the lurch,
In the last great day when Jerhover comes,
If thar not members of the church!
Or skeerin’ ’em with brimstone and fire,
And the vengeance of thar Maker,
If they turn thar backs on the Pascal Lamb,
And fail ter be a pertaker!
I do not prerclaim ter all my neighbors
Who’ve not bow’d down in corntrition
And jin’d the meetin’, that they’ve cartenly
A through ticket ter perdition!
That when the Lord shall come in His glory,
If thar not as pure as snow,
He will hurl His hot bolts of wrath at ’em,
And tell ’em ter git up and go!
That when the ran’som’d have enter’d in,
With the Lord ter thar final rest
In Heaven, and have put on the white robes
Emblermatical of the Blest—
The guilty sinner will be shunted orf
Ter lakes of sul-furious fires
Whar murderers, burgulars and drunkards
Pursue thar unlicens’d desires.
It is true I do not wrench from the poor
P t f th d f th t
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