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Title: Down To The Capital
Author: James Whitcomb Riley [
More Titles by Riley]
I' be'n down to the Capital at Washington, D. C.,
Where Congerss meets and passes on the pensions ort to be
Allowed to old one-legged chaps, like me, 'at sence the war
Don't wear their pants in pairs at all--and yit how proud we are!
Old Flukens, from our deestrick, jes' turned in and tuck and made
Me stay with him whilse I was there; and longer 'at I stayed
The more I kep' a-wantin' jes' to kind o' git away,
And yit a-feelin' sociabler with Flukens ever' day.
You see I'd got the idy--and I guess most folks agrees--
'At men as rich as him, you know, kin do jes' what they please;
A man worth stacks o' money, and a Congerssman and all,
And livin' in a buildin' bigger'n Masonic Hall!
Now mind, I'm not a-faultin' Fluke--he made his money square:
We both was Forty-niners, and both bu'sted gittin' there;
I weakened and onwindlassed, and he stuck and stayed and made
His millions; don't know what _I'm_ worth untel my pension's paid.
But I was goin' to tell you--er a-ruther goin' to try
To tell you how he's livin' now: gas burnin' mighty nigh
In ever' room about the house; and ever' night, about,
Some blame reception goin' on, and money goin' out.
They's people there from all the world--jes' ever' kind 'at lives,
Injuns and all! and Senators, and Ripresentatives;
And girls, you know, jes' dressed in gauze and roses, I declare,
And even old men shamblin' round a-waltzin' with 'em there!
And bands a-tootin' circus-tunes, 'way in some other room
Jes' chokin' full o' hothouse plants and pinies and perfume;
And fountains, squirtin' stiddy all the time; and statutes, made
Out o' puore marble, 'peared-like, sneakin' round there in the shade.
And Fluke he coaxed and begged and pled with me to take a hand
And sashay in amongst 'em--crutch and all, you understand;
But when I said how tired I was, and made fer open air,
He follered, and tel five o'clock we set a-talkin' there.
"My God!" says he--Fluke says to me, "I'm tireder'n you!
Don't putt up yer tobacker tel you give a man a chew.
Set back a leetle furder in the shadder--that'll do;
I'm tireder'n you, old man; I'm tireder'n you.
"You see that-air old dome," says he, "humped up ag'inst the sky?
It's grand, first time you see it; but it changes, by and by,
And then it stays jes' thataway--jes' anchored high and dry
Betwixt the sky up yender and the achin' of yer eye.
"Night's purty; not so purty, though, as what it ust to be
When my first wife was livin'. You remember her?" says he.
I nodded-like, and Fluke went on, "I wonder now ef she
Knows where I am--and what I am--and what I ust to be?
"That band in there!--I ust to think 'at music couldn't wear
A feller out the way it does; but that ain't music there--
That's jes' a' _imitation_, and like ever'thing, I swear,
I hear, er see, er tetch, er taste, er tackle anywhere!
"It's all jes' _artificial_, this-'ere high-priced life of ours;
The theory, it's sweet enough, tel it saps down and sours.
They's no _home_ left, ner _ties_ o' home about it. By the powers,
The whole thing's artificialer'n artificial flowers!
"And all I want, and could lay down and sob fer, is to know
The homely things of homely life; fer instance, jes' to go
And set down by the kitchen stove--Lord! that 'u'd rest me so,--
Jes' set there, like I ust to do, and laugh and joke, you know.
"Jes' set there, like I ust to do," says Fluke, a-startin' in,
'Peared-like, to say the whole thing over to hisse'f ag'in;
Then stopped and turned, and kind o' coughed, and stooped
and fumbled fer
Somepin' o' 'nuther in the grass--I guess his handkercher.
Well, sence I'm back from Washington, where I left Fluke a-still
A-leggin' fer me, heart and soul, on that-air pension bill,
I've half-way struck the notion, when I think o' wealth and sich,
They's nothin' much patheticker'n jes' a-bein' rich!
[The end]
James Whitcomb Riley's poem: Down To The Capital
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