From Cornfield Philosophy, by C. D. Strode, Illustrated, Chicago: The Blakely Printing Co., 1902; pp. 80-81.
BREWSTER JONES’ CHRISTMAS.
There was once a man named
Who lived in a melt of white
A likely man with a giant’s
And a giant’s strength, stal-
wart and limber.
He farmed some land and
worked like sin,
But the white oak soil was
And scarce returned what Jones
“It’s mighty hard lines,” said Brewster Jones
“Keepin’ the ends of things together,
Grubbin’ round ’mong stumps and stones
In every kind of wind and weather,
There’s a site for a saw mill over there,
And I’ll buy a saw mill, I declare,
And diamonds and rubies I will wear.”
He had a wife and children three,
And thought a great deal of them.
“And when I get a mill,” said he,
“I’m sure I’ll have more time to love them.”
But after Jones had bought his mill
He worked from break of day until
The moon went down, and there was more work
But there were the notes that must be paid —
Jones was not the man to shirk them.
He had a good many hands but none of them
Because of the way Jones had to work them.
But Jones was young and Jones was strong,
So he bowed his back and humped along,
Mingling cuss words with his song,
This Christmas the last of the notes came due,
And Jones had the money to pay it,
And a little money for Christmas, too —
He ought to be happy, but I can’t say it.
For alas! and alack! and well-a-day!
All the timber is cut away,
And you should hear what he has to say