The
Cortland Democrat, Friday,
July 1, 1887.
Mullins
the Agnostic.
(as told by
Deacon Stillwater)
His name was William Mullins, and
He had a sneerin' way
Of turnin' his proboscis up,
At everything you'd say.
"Wall, now, how do you know?" said he;
"Humph, now, how do you
know?"
The way it closed the argument
It wasn't by no means slow.
You might be talkin' social like
With fellows at the store
On war or politics and sich,
And you might have the floor
And be a-gittin' it down fine,
Provin' that things was so.
When Mullins would stick his long nose in
With "Humph, now, how do you
know?"
I seen that critter set in church
And take a sermon in.
And turn his nose up in a sneer
At death and grace and sin.
With no regard for time or place
With realms of endless woe.
He'd rise and burst the whole thing up
With "Humph, now, how do you
know?"
He cut his grass whenever it rained,
He shocked his wheat up green,
He cut his corn behind the frost,
His hogs was allus lean.
He built his stacks the big end up,
His corn cribs big end down;
"Crooked as Mullin's roadside fence"
Was a proverb in our town.
"The older he got the wuss he grew,
and crookeder day by day;
The squint of his eyes would wind a clock,
His toes turned out each way.
His boots and shoes were both of them lefts,
The rheumatiz twisted so;
But if you said he didn't look well
He'd growl, "Now, how do
you know?"
And that darned grit led to his death--
He was on the railroad track
Crossin' a bridge; I heard the train
And yelled, "Mullins, come
back!
The train's round the curve in sight!"
Says he, "Humph, how do you
know?"
I helped to gather him up in a pail
The engine scattered him so.
I think it's best to have more faith
In every-day concerns,
And not be allus a snoopin' round
To get behind the returns.
A plain statement will do for me,
A hint instead of a blow;
A coroner's jury may fetch out facts,
But its rather
late to know.
A. T. Worden.
A. T. Worden.
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