THE FARMER'S PETITION 



A. L. VERMILYA. 



Now the autumn days are with us, and 

 the hunter's got his'gun 



Sighted fine for every object from a grizzly 

 to a bun ; 



And we farmers have been humping to de- 

 vise some kind of plan, 



So that when the season's 'Over we'll still 

 have the form of man, 



'Stead of being mossback angels, wobbling 

 lonesome in the skies, 



Wearing overalls and whiskers and a look 

 of pained surprise. 



For the blithesome city sportsman is a 

 most peculiar cuss ; 



He will shoot a feller's head off, and then 

 say, "Glad it is no wuss." 



He will shoot with all the rashness that at 

 home he shoots the chutes, 



And he'll fill us full of bullets from our 

 scalp-lock to our boots ; 



But it's really quite annoying, when the 

 hunting season's gone, 



To go limping round on crutches, with 

 our features kinder drawn 



And our systems out of kilter, having most 

 too many holes, 



Which let in the chilly weather onto our 

 immortal souls. 



So we've got up a petition — listen, sports- 

 men, here it is — 



It's a very mild production, and the read- 

 ing runs like this : 



''We, the farmers of the backwoods, most 

 respectfully do pray 



That you hunter chaps won't shoot us when 

 we happen in your way. 



And believe us, we are sorry — mighty sor- 

 ry — that we're here 



Just when all you city fellers want to shoot 



the moose and deer ; 

 But you see our farms are scattered round 



the country hereabout, 

 And 'twould seem most awful cruel for to 



drive us farmers out, 

 Course, we know we look like 'critters,' 



from our trousers to our hair, 

 'Cause you say, whene'er you shoot us. 



'Thought it was a deer or bear !' 

 But we can't help, looking wildish, living 



careless-like and loose, 

 And a second glance would tell you that a 



farmer ain't a moose. 

 Shoot our chickens and our turkeys ; shoot 



our horses and our calves ; 

 Shoot the atmosphere and, landscape i-nto 



quarters, thirds and -halves; 

 Shoot the sheep within the pasture; shoot 



the piglet in the pen ; 

 Shoot the cows around the straw-stack; 



shoot our oxen now and then ; 

 But while all the game you're shooting— 



everything both low and high — 

 We do beg most blamed respectful that 



you'll kindly pass us by. 

 For a bullet in the liver or a buckshot in 



the back 

 Is most cussed inconvenient, and it puts 



us out of whack. 

 We ain't what you might call anxious to 



get riddled like a sieve, 

 For, you see, it's kinder nat'ral for us 



chaps to want to live ; 

 Therefore, if you come a-hunting while 



the autumn breezes blow, 

 Though you shoot up all our live stock, 



let the busy farmer go." 



Mother — What ! Have you been fight- 

 ing again, Johnnie? Good little boys 

 don't fight. 



Johnnie — Yes, f know that. T thought 

 he was a good little boy, but after I hil 

 him once I found he wasn't. — Somerville 

 Journal. 



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