An Understanding

Jacob Johnson Underhill,

Our long-gone friend, we miss him still,

For there’s none left to pester now

That he is dead; the old hay mow

Has no more mousetraps set to catch

Him with an unexpected snatch;

His cows remain un-tipped; the well

Where his hat “accidentally” fell

Is boarded up; the outhouse stays

Untroubled now for days and days

Where it was once (we’re sorry, Mom)

Deposit for a cherry bomb

And too, quite often (sorry, Dad)

Pushover to a farmer’s lad

And lass who hunted for a thrill,

Thanks to old farmer Underhill.

Now his old tractor has not seen

Us sugar up his gasoline

Or stuff a tater in its pipe

For ages, things that used to gripe

Old Jacob some, but he plowed on

With chuckling brown-toothed grin; he’s gone

And how we miss him now, old coot,

Who never bent to our pursuit

But took it all in patient stride,

The way we liked to chap his hide.

The fact is, he loved us until

He was no more, old Underhill.

It’s dull down on the farm these days,

Except when a peculiar haze

Will sometimes gather in the field

And there his shade may be revealed

To grin, complicit with us still,

Old Jacob Johnson Underhill.