Farmer Tootlejohn

One day in the heat of March, a soggy hobo drifter decided to rest on a stretch of open field. But lo, after sleeping a few minutes he was abrutly awoken by a hard blow to the head. He looked up to see a herculean figure in stylish overalls holding a rake.
"Say hey!" said the hobo. "Why'd you strike me?"
"My name," said the imposing figure, "is Farmer Tootlejohn, and I'll not have my granpappy's field tainted with the stink of an itinerant drunkard."
"Why, I'm sorry, sir," said the hobo, who was indeed very sorry.
"The Lord may know mercy," said Farmer Tootlejohn, "but I do not."
The hobo drifter, in his final moments before being savagely beaten beyond the point of recovery, thought on his beautiful wife and the children he would never see off to college.

The End.