TWO OLD PALS 
I called him John, he called me Jim, 
Nigh fifty years that I knowed him 
And he knowed me; and he was square 
An’ honest all that time, an’ fair. 
I’d pass him mornings goin’ down 
Th’ road or drivin’ into town, 
An’ we’d look up the same old way 
An’ wave a hand an’ smile an’ say: 
“Hello, John.” 
“Hireya, Jim.” 
I guess you don’t real often see 
Such kind of friends as him an’ me: 
Not much at talkin’ big; but, say, 
Th’ kind of friends that stick an’ stay. 
Come rich, come poor, come rain, come shine, 
Whatever he might have was mine and 
Mine was his’n, an’ we both knowed it 
When we’d holler on the road: 
“Howdy, John.” 
“Howdy, Jim.” 
An' when I got froze out one year 
He dropped in on me with that queer 
Big smile, upon his way to town 
An’ laid two hundred dollars down, 
An’ says: “No int’rust, understand, 
Er note.” And he took my hand 
An’ squeezed it an’ he druv away 
’Cause there wa’n’t nothin’ more to say: 
“S’long, John.” 
“S’long, Jim.” 
An’ when John’s boy came courtin’ Sue 
John smiled an’—well, I smiled some, too, 
As though things was a cornin’ out 
As if we’d fixed ’em just about. 
An’ when Sue blushed an’ told me—why, 
I sat and chuckled on the sly; 
An’ so did John—put out his hand— 
No words but these, y’ understand? 
“Shake, John.” 
“Shake, Jim.” 
An’ when Sue’s mother died, John come 
An’ set with me, an’ he was dumb 
As fur as speech might be concerned; 
But in them eyes of his there burned 
A light of love and sympathy 
An’ friendship you don’t often see. 
He took my hand in his that day 
An’ said—what else was there to say? 
“H’lo, John.” 
“H’lo, Jim.” 
Somehow the world ain’t the same 
Today. Th’ trees are all aflame 
With autumn, but there;’s something gone— 
Went out of life, I guess, with John. 
He nodded that old grizzled head 
On the pillow of his bed, 
An’ lifted up the helpin’ hand 
An’ whispered: “Sometime,—understand?” 
“ ’By, John.” 
“ ’By, Jim.” 
—James W. Foley. 
