cafay when our daily hike was done,
And sip his beer, and chin with the lads, the crabby son-of-a-gun;
He'd growl if you asked him to hold the light, he'd snarl if you
asked for a butt,
Till at last the gang was 'most ready to put Jim down for a mutt.

About the first time that our mail came in, we all felt as high as
a king;
"What luck?" somebody hollers to Jim: he says, "Not a dad-blamed
thing."
And then he goes off in his end o' the shack, and Tom Breed swears
'at he cried;
But when somebody went and repeated it, Jim swore, by gad, Tom lied.

We were gettin' our mail, irregular-like, for about a month or two;
But Jim? He never drew anything, and blooey! but he was blue!
Not only blue, but surly; he was off'n the whole darn shop,
And once he was put onto "heavy" for talkin' back to the Top.

'Twas a day or two before New Year's, when the postal truck came in;
The orderly fishes one out for Jim; he takes it, without a grin,
And then, as he opens the envelope--eeyow! How that man did yell:
"A letter from James J., Junior, boys! the youngster has learnt to
spell!"

So nothin' would do but the bunch of us had to read the letter through;
'Twas all writ out by that kid of his, and a mighty smart kid, too,
For it isn't every six-year-old at school as can take a prize,
(Like the boy wrote Jim as he had done): and you oughter seen Jim's
eyes!

Well, Jim had a mighty good New Year's; he stood the squad a treat,
And now, 'stead o' turnin' out sloppy, he's always trim and neat;
Fact is, the lieutenant passed the word that if Jim keeps on that way
He'll be wearing little stripes on his arm and drawin' a bit more pay.

Don't it beat hell how a little thing will change a man like that?
Now Jim's as cheerful as anything instead o' mum as a bat.
An' the reason? Why, it's easy! A guy is bound to fail
Of bein' a proper soldier if he don't get no fambly mail!

If all of those post office birds was wise to the change they made
in Jim,
They'd hustle a bit on our letters, for they's lots that's just like
him;
It may be a kid, or it may be a girl; a mother, a pal, a wife,--
And believe me, this hearin' from 'em--why, it's half o' the joy o'
life!

Chartered 1822

The Farmers' Lo