Ben King's Verse

Introduction

So Far as we know, this young man, now so suddenly dead, was the drollest mimic and gentlest humorist of our region. He existed as the welcome and mirthful shadow of conventional and tiresome things.

He began as the expositor of " The Maiden's Prayer" on the piano, where each accented note was flat or sharp, and the music flowed rapidly, or over great difficulties, as the score might determine. He arose, and looking half-witted, recited with unapproachable modesty the stammering delight which he would feel "if he could be by Her!" He frosled his hair and became Paderewski, who forthwith fell upon the piano tooth and nail, tore up the track, derailed the symphony, went down stairs and shook the furnace, fainted at the pedals, and was carried out rigid by supers--the greatest pianist of any age. He wrote "If I Should Die To-night"--a parody that was accepted as the true original, the sun, the center of the great If-I-should-die-to-night system of thought and poetry. He wrote the poet's lament--that there was nothing to eat but food, and nowhere to come but off. The artists of the newspaper world generously sprang to his side; they placed him pictorially before the people, and determined, with almost prophetic spirit, that our small circle should not alone dwell with undiminishing laughter upon the gambols of Ben King. He was coldly, then not coldly, then warmly received by the church fairs, the clubs, and the Elks, where he got a supper--if any were left. At last he charged a small sum for appearing publicly, and this sum was rapidly enlarging and his fortune was in sight, when the hotel porter found him dead in his room at Bowling Green, Kentucky.

During the years we knew him, he never spoke to us in a disparaging way concerning any other person, and unless Paderewski's comb was ruffled by Ben's exhibition of hair and haste in piano-playing, no parody, or perk, or prank of Ben King ever depended for its success upon the wounding of another creature's feelings.

We all accounted him a genius, and while we could not guess what he would do next, we awaited his performances with complacence, laughing as if we owned him and had ourselves ordered his latest jeu d'esprit. We deplored the untimely moment of his end; we held beautiful, solemn and impressive memorial services over his body, with music by the sweet singers whom he had loved when he was alive, and touching words by ministers of the gospel; we buried him affectionately, as one who could least be spared from our circle; and as we were the witnesses of what he did, we now charge ourselves to be the testimonies of his rare talents.

John McGovern.

Biography

Benjamin Franklin King, Jr., was born at St. Joseph Michigan, March 17, 1857, and died at Bowling Green, Kentucky, April 7, 1894. He was married Nov. 27, 1883, to Aseneth Belle Latham, of St. Joseph Michigan, by Professor David Swing at his residence in Chicago. The wife and two sons, Bennett Latham King and Spencer P. King, survive him.

While yet a child, music came to Ben King as an inspiration. His infant fingers touched the keys of a piano and a ripple of notes, strange and sweet, startled his parents into the consciousness that a great talent had been given unto him. How odd a boy he was--no one understood him. On the edge of the marsh he would sit during hours at a time, under the spell of the weird music amid the rushes. As he grew up, lacking the instincts that make men successful in business, he was pronounced a failure--not by those who had warmed themselves in the glow of his poetic nature, but by the man who believed that to turn over a dime and thereby to make a dollar of it was the most gracious faculty that could be bestowed upon a member of the human family. But when Ben King died, St. Joseph became more widely known in one day than hundreds of excursions and a thousand orchards had served to advertise it in the past. On that April morning, people living in the far East and the far West asked the question: "Where is St. Joseph?"

Ben King was not only a man of music; he was a poet, a gentle satirist, and a humorist of the highest order. Every company was brightened by his coming, every man felt better for having heard his quaint remarks. There was about him a droll, a charming irresponsibility--a Thomas Hood from Michigan.

I find, as I have found for the fiftieth time while striving to write these lines, that I am still too much under the shock caused by his death to write dispassionately of him. My judgment, the common sense that one should bring to bear upon such a subject, is obscured by the vivid picture of an early morning; and down a dark hallway I still hear a violent knocking--and then comes a throbbing silence, and out of that silence comes an excited whisper--"Ben King is dead."

Opie Read.

If I Should Die

If I should die to-night And you should come to my cold corpse and say, Weeping and heartsick o'er my lifeless clay-- If I should die tonight, And you should come in deepest grief and woe-- And say: "Here's that ten dollars that I owe," I might arise in my large white cravat And say, "What's that?"

If I should die to-night And you should come to my cold corpse and kneel, Clasping my bier to show the grief you feel, I say, if I should die to-night And you should come to me, and there and then Just even hint 'bout payin' me that ten, I might arise the while, But I'd drop dead again.

Say Wen, And Say It

Write me a poem that hasn't been writ, Sing me a song that hasn't been sung yet, String out a strain that hasn't been strung, And ring me a chime that hasn't been rung yet.

Paint me a picture but leave out the paint, Pile up a pile of old scenes of my schoolery, Leave me alone; I would fain meditate And mourn o'er the moments I lost in tomfoolery.

Tell me a tale that dropped out of a star, Push me a pun that is pungent, not earthy. I must have something sharp, strident, and strong To eke out a laugh or be moderately mirthy.

Give me a love that has never been loved, Not knowing the glance of the bold and unwary, A cherup abreast with the saints up above, And I'll get along and be passably merry.

But come on the fly to me, come on the jump, Don't hang around on the outskirts and walk to me; Throw out your cest well, and hold up your head; Say when, and say it, or else don't you talk to me.

Gettin' Inter Shape

Reckon de angel what rolled 'way de stone, An' let de good shepherd escape, Some day 'll fly down to dis prison ob sin An lib'rate all dat's prepahed to come in; So I'se gittin' my soul inter shape, Gittin' my soul inter shape, fo' yo' see Hit's a mighty big stone dat's layin' on me, Mighty big stone! Yes, indeedy!

I hope de good angel will hab heaps o' strength, Or else bring old Samson along, Kase the sin on my soul's mo' 'en fo'ty foot deep; Yo' see, I bin one ob dese wanderin' sheep, An' hit's gwine ter need somebody strong, Gwine ter need somebody strong, doan yo' see; Hit's a mighty big weight dat's a restin' on me. Pow'ful big weight! Yes, indeedy!

I'se gittin' my soul inter shape fo' de day When Peter 'gins takin' 'is toll; Ready ter lay down my burden an' rest, Ready ter take up de cross ob de blest, Ready ter entah de fol'. Gittin' my soul inter shape, doan yo' see; Dar's a big load ob sin bin restin' on me, Big load ob sin! Yes, indeedy! Yes, indeedy!

Evolution

We seem to exist in a hazardous time, Driftin' along here through space; Nobody knows just when we begun Or how fur we've gone in the race. Scientists argy we're shot from the sun, While others we're goin' right back, An' some say we've allers been here more or less, An' seem to establish the fact. O' course 'at's somepin' 'at nobody knows, As far as I've read or cun see; An' them as does know all about the hull scheme, Why, none of 'em never agree.

Now, why I think it's a perilous time,-- What do we know 'bout them spots Up there on that glorious orb of the day? Smart men has argyed an' lots Of the brainiest folks has been cypherin' out, An' all sorts of stories has riz 'Bout what the sun's made of or how it's composed, An' lots of 'em think that it is. O' course 'at's somepin' 'at nobody knows-- Nobody under the sun; Nary a body or bein', I s'pose; Nary a bein but One.

Take Eva Lution, an' what does she say 'Bout how we all sprung from a ape? An' there's the goriller and big chimpanzee, Patterned exactly our shape. An' I've seen some folks, an' I guess so have you, An' it ain't non of our bizness neither, That actually looked like they sprung from a ape, And didn't have fur to spring either. Course 'at's somepin 'at every one knows; I don't see how you folks can doubt it; S'posin' they have some resemblance to us, No use in a-writin' about it.

If a feller'll take a geology book An' not go a rushin' long through it, But jes' sort o' figger the thing out hisself-- What I mean is: 'ply hisself to it-- He'll see we've dug up folks ten thousand years old, Built on a ponderous plan; Somehow this knocks Mr. Moses all out, An' Adam, the biblical man. O' course 'at's somepin' 'at nobody knows, Nobody under the sun; Nary a body or bein' I s'pose, Nary a bein' but One.

Gedder in Yo' Grain

De ole plow hoss is busy Breshin' flies off wid his tail, De ole dog's got a move on him Dat's zackly like a snail. De meddeh grass is noddin' En off yondah in de lane I kin hyar de tree toads warnin' "Bettah gedder in yo' grain."

Doan yo' hyar de frogs a-gurglin' Dar out yondah in de pond? What's de mattah wid de catbird, Doan yo' hyar his voice respond? Ain't de hull of 'em a-tellin' yo' In language mighty plain, "Doan be frivlin' way yo' moments, Bettah gedder in yo' grain/"

Ain't de bumble bee a-hummin' 'Mongst de clovah tops an' flowahs, Whilst de ole clock am a-tickin' 'way De minutes an de houahs? Chile, yo's got to be a-hus'lin' To ketch de wisdom train. Doan waste no opportunities, But gedder in yo' grain.

Jane Jones

Jane Jones keeps talkin' to me all the time, An' says you must make it a rule To study your lessons 'nd work hard 'nd learn, An' never be absent from school. Remember the story of Elihu Burritt, An' how he clum up to the top, Got all the knowledge 'at he ever had Down in a blacksmithing shop? Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! Mebbe he did-- I dunno! O' course what's a-keepin' me 'way from the top, Is not never havin' no blacksmithing shop.

She said 'at Ben Franklin was awfully poor, But full of ambition an' brains; An' studied philosophy all his hull life, An' see what he got for his pains! He brought electricity out of the sky, With a kite an' a bottle an' key, An' we're owing him more'n any one else For all the bright lights 'at we see. Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! Mebbe he did-- I dunno! O' course what's allers been hinderin' me Is not havin' any kite, lightning, er key.

Jane Jones said Abe Lincoln had no books at all An' used to split rails when a boy; An' General Grant was a tanner by trade An' lived way out in Ill'nois. So when the great war in the South first broke out He stood on the side o' the right, An' when Lincoln called him to take charge o' things, He won nearly every blamed fight. Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! Mebbe he did-- I dunno! Still I ain't to blame, not by a big sight, For I ain't never had any battles to fight.

She said 'at Columbus was out at the knees When he first thought up his big scheme, An' told all the Spaniards 'nd Italians, too, An' all of 'em said 'twas a dream. But Queen Isabella jest listened to him, 'Nd pawned all her jewels o worth, 'Nd bought him the Santa Maria 'nd said, "Go hunt up the rest o' the earth!" Jane Jones she honestly said it was so! Mebbe he did-- I dunno! O' course that may be, but then you must allow They ain't no land to discover jest now!

Elopement

I'm out at the home of my Mary, Mary so young and so fair, But her father and mother And sister and brother And all of the family are there.

I'm now on the sofa with Mary, Mary with bright, golden hair; But her father and mother And sister and brother And all of the family are there.

I'm way up the river with Mary, Picnicking in the cool air; But her father and mother And sister and brother And all of the family are there.

I'm in the surf bathing with Mary; Her form is beyond compare; But her father and mother And sister and brother And all of the family are there.

I'm down at the parson's with Mary; It's rather a private affair; But her father and mother And sister and brother Well--none of the family is there.

Her Folks An' Hiz'n

He maird her 'cause she had money an' some Property left from 'er husband's income; But both of the families was awfully stirred, An' said the worst things 'at the town ever heard. En her folks an' hiz'n, Er hiz'n an' her'n, Never spoke to each other, From what I can learn.

His folks begun it an' jest said 'at she Was the worst actin' thing they ever did see; An' out to be ashamed fer bein' so bold, 'Cause her husband he hadn't had time to get cold. En her folks an' hiz'n, Er hiz'n an' her'n, Never spoke to each other, From what I can learn.

Her folks they all set up 'at he was no good, An' if 'twasn't for her--well, he'd have to saw wood. Then all of her kin, every blased relation, Said she'd lowered herself in their estimation. So her folks an' hiz'n, Er hiz'n an' her'n, Never spoke to each other, From what I can learn.

The sisters they told--this is 'tween you and I-- 'At they thought she wanted her husband to die: An' they whispered around--but don't you lisp a word-- The awfulest things that a soul ever heard. So her folks an' hiz'n, Er hiz'n an' her'n, Never spoke to each other, From what I can learn.

They said that a travelin' man er a drummer, Who stopped at the hotel a long time last summer, That he--no it wasn't that now--let me see-- That she--er something like that, seems to me. Well, her folks an' hiz'n, Er hiz'n an' her'n, Never spoke to each other, From what I can learn.

I hear 'at the families keep up the old fight, A-roastin' each other from mornin' till night; But the young maird couple they've moved to the city, Where gossip don't go; but I think it a pity That her folks an' hiz'n, An' hiz'n an' her'n, Never spoke to each other, From what I can learn.

The Yaller Jackets' Nest

If I could only wander back To boyhood jest one day, So'st' I could have my chice agin Of games we used to play, I'd let the kites an' marbles go, An' say, "Come on, boys! let's All go out a-huntin' fer The yaller jackets' nest."

Jest to lay up in the shadder Of the fence once agin Of the old vacant lot 'At the cows pastured in, Where the dandelions were bloomin', 'N there take a rest, While you listen to the music 'Round the yaller jackets' nest.

There was one 'at allers went along An' romped with us 'n raced, With her sun-bonnet a-hangin' back 'N curls down to 'er waist, In the checkered little frock she wore Of gingham,--what a pest She was to us when huntin' fer The yaller jackets' nest.

It's the prime of the blossms 'At's a-hangin' from the trees An' the music of the buzzin' 'At brings lonesome memories, Fer it seems as if I heerd her say "You better look out, lest They all swarm out and sting yeh From the yaller jackets' nest."

Sometimes I think I hear 'er voice An' see 'er eyes of blue, That borried all their color from The sky 'at peeks at you Between the clouds in summer After rain has fell an' blessed The flowers an' openin' blossoms 'Round the yaller jackets' nest.

How Hank Died

"Mother, the shadows are gatherin' in, Shadows o' sunshine and shadows o' sin, Shadows o' sorrow and shadows o' gloom, All of 'em gatherin' now in my room. See over there near the mantel-place wall Is the darkest shadow. What's that--a call? Oh, let in the light, keep that shadow away, The one with the sickle that cuts to-day, And far over there in the sunlands' West I'll work in the pastur' after I rest.

"Oh, to get out o' this valley o' sin Up in the cool o' the hillside agin! Where are the boys? All away? Where's M'liss? Who's holdin' my hand, an' whose arm is this? Oh, here comes the shadow that beckons--what pain! It must not come near me! Hear that? That rain On the windows? See, down by the foot-board, where The curtain moves! A shadow is there, Comin' on tiptoe! It's after the light. Oh, don't give it welcome, that shadow of night!

"Don't leave me waitin' here now in the dark The shadows are entering. What--music? Hark! Can that be the soft winds of summer that send Their sighs o'er the fields for the loss of a friend? So cold? I am getting so cold, so cold. Oh, why are the shadows so bold, so bold? Here comes the grim shadow, the shadow of Death; The cavern-eyed shadow that asks for my breath." * * * * * "Good-bye," said the toiler; "good-bye every one." Then somebody whispered: "The reaper is done." His head fell back, and down by his side His white hand dropped. That's how Hank died.

How Often

They stood on the bridge at midnight, In a park not far from town; They stood on the bridge at midnight Because they didn't sit down.

The moon rose o'er the city Behind the dark church spire; The moon rose o'er the city And kept on rising higher.

How often, oh! how often They whispered words so soft; How often, oh! how often, How often, oh! how oft.

Benton Harbor, Mich.

Sometimes I ain't a thing to do, an' so jist for the nonce, I think of things I didn't see out on Midway Plaisance. Although they claimed 'at every tribe an' nation, seems to me, Was represented, yit there's some I simply didn't see. I went all through the Cairo Street, an' saw the Luxor great, I saw the South Sea Islanders an' them from Congo State, I saw the Patagonians, but, durn it all, my wish Was more to see them funny folks from Benton Harbor, Mich.

I took in all the bildin's that was prom'nent on the grounds, Got in with a C'lumbian guard and we jist went the rounds. I says to him, "I'm here this week to take the hull thing in; I might not git a chance to go against the thing agin. Outside o' horterculture an' some o' the smaller fruits I want to see them Wolverines at's still a-wearin' boots. So don' show me no minin' er animals er fish, I'd rather see them curios from Benton Harbor, Mich.

What d' I care for foreign folks 'at come from pagan lands? I've heerd an' read enough of Paig, an' heerd the tom-tom bands. I've seen enough of Egypt, 'n Algiers, 'nd ancient Rome, An' now I'm jist a-spilin' for somepin' right 'round home. Why, gosh all Friday! Take yer Turks an' all yer foreign kit, I want to see them Wolverines, an' I ain't seen 'em yit; Old Michigan I'm after; seems as if I heerd the swish Of breakers like I used to in Benton Harbor, Mich.

So comin' out from there I says, "We'll take another route; Course you may know your bizness, but I know what I'm about. I'm on a hunt fer friends jist now, not Japs er Javanese, Or sore-eyed Esquimaux, er Coons, er bias-eyed Chinese. I've heerd enough of 'Hot! hot! hot!' got frightened at the roar 'Round Hagenbeck's, an' shook hands with the Sultan of Johore Until I'm simply tired out, an' now my only wish Is jist to see them old-time folks from Benton Harbor, Mich."

I walked till I got dusty an' thought I'd like to wash, When lookin' up I saw a tower--'twas Michigan, by gosh! "Come on," I says, "I'll show you now some folks you never saw, Human bein's from Muskegon, Dowagiac, an' Sagi- naw; Them folks 'at raises celery 'way out in Kal'mazoo, Cassopolis, an' Globeville, an' Ypsilanti, too-- St. Joe an Berrien Centre." I guess I got my wish, I jined the jays an' we went back to Benton Harbor, Mich."

Asphodel

Carest thou naught for me, lone Asphodel? Oh, flower! Shall all the summer days long gone Roll into space remembered not? What spell, Nay, more, what dream, what fantasy is this? E'en one small hour to gaze and love. 'Tis bliss Like Gyges knew behind the chamber door In days of old. Those mellow days of yore.

Ah, no, sweet flower, say not farewell, I pray; But let thine odor loiter yet a while, And linger thou beside my lonely way, Spreading thy perfume. And each tender leaf, Sparkling with dew, like tears in eyes of grief; Eager am I to pluck thee from thy stem, To have thee near, and in thy fragrance dwell, Trusting thee ever, fairy Asphodel.

The Flowers' Ball

There is an olden story, 'Tis a legend, so I'm told, How the flowers gave a banquet, In the ivied days of old; How the posies gave a party once That wound up with a ball, How they held it in a valley, Down in "Flowery Kingdom Hall."

The flowers of every clime were there, Of high and low degree, All with their petals polished, In sweet aromatic glee. They met down in this woodland In the soft and ambient air, Each in its lolling loveliness, Exhaled a perfume rare.

An orchestra of Blue Bells Sat upon a mossy knoll And pealed forth gentle music That quite captured every soul. The Holly hocked a pistil Just to buy a suit of clothes, And danced with all the flowerets But the modest, blushing Rose.

The Morning Glory shining Seemed reflecting all the glow Of dawn, and took a partner; It was young Miss Mistletoe. Miss Maggie Nolia from the South Danced with Forget-me-not; Sweet William took Miss Pink in tow And danced a slow gavotte.

Thus everything went swimmingly 'Mongst perfumed belles and beaux, And every floweret reveled save The modest, blushing Rose. Miss Fuchsia sat around and told For floral emulation, That she had actually refused To dance with A. Carnation.

The Coxcomb, quite a dandy there, Began to pine and mope, Until he had been introduced To young Miss Heliotrope. Sir Cactus took Miss Lily, And he swung her so about She asked Sweet Pea to Cauliflower And put the Cactus out.

Miss Pansy took her Poppy And she waltzed him down the line Till they ran against old Sunflower With Miss Honeysuckle Vine. The others at the party that Went whirling through the mazy Were the Misses Rhodo Dendron, Daffodil and little Daisy.

Miss Petunia, Miss Verbena, Violet, And sweet Miss Dahlia Came fashionably late, arrayed In very rich regalia. Miss Begonia, sweet Miss Buttercup, Miss Lilac and Miss Clover; Young Dandelion came in late When all the feast was over.

The only flower that sent regrets And really couldn't come, Who lived in the four hundred, was The vain Chrysanthemum. One floweret at the table Grew quite ill, we must regret, And every posy wondered, too, Just what Miss Mignonette.

Young Tulip chose Miss Orchid From the first, and did not part With her until Miss Mary Gold Fell with a Bleeding Heart. But ah! Miss Rose sat pensively Till every young bud passed her; When just to fill the last quadrille, The China Aster.

De Sun's Comin' Back

Hush! chillun, hush! Kase de sun's done come back agin, Back agin a-shinin' on de ole cypress tree; Hush! chillun, hush! Hit shuahly am a fac' agin, De sun's done come back agin, Back agin to me.

Hush! chillun, hush! Foh de sun's done come back agin, Pushin' yaller glory roun' in ebbery spot it finds, Dancin' on de cradle An' old Chloe wid de ladle, An' coaxin' out de blossoms on De honeysuckly vines.

Hush! chillun, hush! Kase de sof' winds come back agin, Back agin, a-bringin' all de glory ob de spring; My heart's jes' a-throbbin' For off yondah is de robin, An' de blackbird am a-cluckin' An' I 'low I heerd 'im sing.

Hush! chillun, hush! Kase de sun's done come back agin, Bringin' back de fac' agin I'se gittin' mighty old; I often sit and pondah, An' I wondah, an' I wondah, How many times it's comin' back Befo' I reach de fold.

The River St. Joe

Where the bumblebee sips and the clover is red, And the zephyrs come laden with peach blow perfume, Where the thistle-down pauses in search of the rose And the myrtle and woodbine and wild ivy grows; Where the catbird pipes up and it sounds most divine Off there in the branches of some lonely pine; Oh, give me the spot that I once used to know By the side of the placid old River St. Joe!

How oft on its banks I have sunk in a dream, Where the willows bent over me kissing the stream, My boat with its nose sort of resting on shore, While the cat-tails stood gaurding a runaway oar; It appeared like to me, that they sort of had some Way of knowing that I would soon get overcome, With the meadow lark singing just over the spot I didn't care whether I floated or not-- Just resting out there for an hour or so On the banks of the tranquil old River St. Joe.

Where the tall grasses nod at the close of the day, And the sycamore's shadow is slanting away-- Where the whip-poor-will chants from a far distant limb Just as if the whole business was all made for him. Oh! it's now that my thoughts, flying back on the wings Of the rail and the die-away song that he sings, Brings the tears to my eyes that drip off into rhyme, And I live once again in the old summer time; For my soul it seems caught in old time's under-tow And I'm floating away down the River St. Joe.

Baby Up at Battenberg's

Heerd 'bout what's happened? Why o' course ye has; Baby up at Battenberg's Hope it tain't the las'!

Doctor come at eight o'clock, Rig all spleshed with clay; Dad a trampin' up the hall, Skeery?--I sh'd say!

Kind o' still 'roun' the house, Folk on tiptoe walk Tell the door is open An' we hear a squawk!

Doctor whispers suthin'-- Daddy hollers: "No!" Doctor says, "Twelve pounder!" Daddy whoops out: "Sho!"

Daddy--happier'n a clam! Mother doin' well; Baby up at Battenberg's, Haven't ye heerd tell?

No Harm Done

Excuse me, Mr. Handy, for a-droppin' you a line, But the fact is, I've arrived in town and feelin' mighty fine; I'm stoppin' at the Press Club, er that's where I take my meals, An' I must say I'm agitatin' some colossal deals; But what I want to ask you is, 'at seems a-botherin' me, Is your hippodrome at Jackson Park, that's what I want to see; I'd lay all careful pains aside an' wear a steady grin 'F I thought 'at you could work some scheme Of gittin' of me in. Course, if you say they isn't, I'll say I's just in fun, An' we'll just let it go at that-- They's no harm done.

Say, Handy, what I want is so's I can push my phiz All 'round the hull World's Fair grounds an see everything they is, An' when a C'lumbian guard comes up unmannerly and gruff, I'll flash the pass you give me, Handy, that'll be enough An' passin' on an' mirrorin' my face in the lagoon Where that fellow is a-standin'--now what's his name?--Neptune. I want to see you, Major, yes, I want to grasp your fin, 'Cause I know 'at you could work some scheme Of gittin' of me in. Course, if you say they isn't, I'll say I's just in fun, An' we'll just let it go at that-- They's no harm done.

I want to see the state buildin's an' all ther' is there, I want to see that queer machine that turns out com- pressed air, Th' Administration Buildin' an' th' Agricultural Hall-- I tell you, Major, hones'ly, I want to see it all. I'll be alone mos' of the time an' nothin' 's goin' to please Me better than to get acquainted with those Javanese. Don't say a word! Say, Handy, I must brace you agin: Is they any possibility Of gittin' of me in? Course, if you say they isn't, I'll say I's just in fun, An' we'll just let it go at that-- They's no harm done.