Chapter 20
The Bench-Legged Vice From Love Songs of Childhood All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain For more information or to volunteer please visit L-I-B-R-I-V-O-X.O-R-G
Recording by Squid Vajolikova Love Songs of Childhood by Eugene Field The Bench-Legged Vice Speaking of d'orgs, my Bench-Legged Vice Had most of the virtues and nary of us
Some folks called him sooner, a name that arose from his predisposition to chronic repose. But Rouse's ambition he couldn't be beat. You bet yer he got thar on all his four feet. Most dogs has some forte, like hunting and such, but the sports of the field didn't bother him much.
Was just a plain dog, and contended to be on peaceable terms with the neighbors and me. Used to fiddle and squirm and grunt, oh, how nice, when I tickled the back of that bench-legged vice. He was long in the borrow, like a feist-otter bee. His collar was yaller, as ever you see.
His tail curling upward was long, loose, and slim. When he didn't wag it, why, the tail it wagged him. His legs were so crooked. My bench-legged pup was as tall setting down as he was standing up. He'd lie by the stove of a night and regret the various fiddles and things he had at.
When a stranger, most likely a tramp, came along, He'd lift up his voice in significant song. You wondered, by gum, how there ever was space in that bosom of his'n to hold so much bass.
Of daytimes he'd sneak to the road and lie down, and tackle the country dogs coming to town. By common consent he was boss in St. Joe, for what he took hold of he never let go. And a dude that came courting our girl
left a slice of his white flannel suit with our bench-legged vise. He was good to us kids when we pulled at his fur, or twisted his tail he would never demur. He seemed to enjoy all our play and our chaff,
for his tongue'd hang out, and he'd laugh and he'd laugh. And once, when the Hobart boy fell through the ice, he was drugged clean ashore by that bench-legged vice. We all have our choice, and you, like the rest, allow that the dog which you've got is the best.
I wouldn't give much for the boy that grows up with no friendship subsistin tween him an a pup when a fellow gets old i'd tell you what's nice to think of his youth an his bench-legged fice to think of the springtime way back in st joe of the peach trees a-bloomin an the daisies a-blow to think of the play in the medder an grove when little legs rassled and the little hands strove to think of the loyalty valour an truth of the friendships that hallow the season of youth end of the bench-legged fice
