Hobos
According to Webster, a hobo is "a migratory worker, or a homeless and usually penniless vagrant, -a tramp".
I know very little about hobos, but when I was in high school, in about the year 1936, I worked for my room and board at a pastor's house. It seemed that every week one or more hobos stopped in for food. I remember that I often carried a plate of food out for them to eat. Maybe this house was frequented so often because it was located right next to a church. None of these hobos ever performed any work for their food.
I have at home a 78 record entitled "The Bum Song". This record has been in my husband's family for many years. As a child, he sang the song and was intrigued by it, his two sons loved it and could sing many parts of it from memory, and his grandson, Scott, goes around humming parts of it. They have really kept it alive. It tells of the life of one bum, which I believe is typical of many who rode the rails years ago. This bum certainly lived up to the definition of a hobo given by Webster. The song follows:
Come all you jolly jokers and listen while I hum
I've got some more to tell you of a great American bum,
On the highways and the railway tracks you'll find them everywhere
They're shooting snacks and smoking pipes, they're bummin' for a square,
Oh, some folks like their high class stuff, and lots of service too,
But gimme a shady jungle and a can of Mulligan stew.
There's lots of sky and sunshine wherever I chance to roam,
But how are you going to see them, if you always stay at home?
Oh, travelin' down the highway, gonna be gone so long,
If you don't think I'm goin', just count the days I'm gone.
Oh, once I met yon farmer, he stopped me on my way,
He said, "I've got some potaters, and I want them dug today."
"I can't dig no potaters, because I'm gettin' fat,
So hire the guy that planted them, 'cause he knows where they're at.
Oh, leave the work to the other guys, to honest workin' men,
But I don't want to dig no spuds, I'm on the bum again."
While I was sleeping in the shade to pass the time away,
A man came up and asked me to help him pitch some hay,
He said his land is rolling, I said, "Now if that's true,
Just roll it here to a shady spot, and I'll see what I can do."
Oh, sleepin' among the daisies after hikin' all the day,
Some folks like a feather bed, but give me the new mown hay.
(He stops and raps at a door. This is the conversation between the two.)
"Good mornin' mum."
"Good mornin' bum."
"I was just passin' by."
"Well, why didn't you keep on passin'?"
"I've walked 20 miles without a bite to eat."
"Well, walk 20 more and hang up a ricket."
"But listen lady. My wife hasn't seen me face in 10 years."
"Did you ever try takin' a shave?"
"Well, mum, I have a button here,
Could you sew a shirt on it for me?"
"Where's that broom? Outa here! On your way!
"I'm goin', Good-bye mum."
"Good-bye bum."
Oh, my clothes are gettin' ragged, my shoes are gettin' thin,
But what do I care, I get the air, I'm on the bum again.
The weather is gettin' chilly and soon we'll all be froze,
I got to go to a sunny state where the weather fits me clothes.
Oh, waitin' at the water tank for a freight train passin' by,
And if she doesn't stop here, I'll catch her on the fly.
I hear a whistle blowin', and yonder comes the train.
I'll see you in California, I'm on the bum again.