Part 3

“Years ago, forty odd, wild hogs was ez thick In these ’ere Skillet bottoms ez ‘cats’ in the crick. They follered the mast (tho’ I ain’t meanin’ shippin’), An’ ’long in the Fall got ez fat ez a pippin.

My Paw uster hunt ’em with dawgs on the run, So ’z ter git us our pork ’fore the Winter begun; An’ many’s the time I’ve heerd ’im tell how He hed fit with or run from a perky ol’ sow.

Fer them pigs was mean custumers, give ’em a chance, An’ a boar with ’is tushes could rip up yer pants A dum sight more quicker ’n a pirate crew, An’ ’e’d take a hull lot o’ yer leg with it tew.

One time they’s a feller was huntin’ ’is pork Somewhar over yender not fur from the Fork. Now they’s fokes ’at’s still livin’ ’at ’ll tell ye they know Thet what I’m a-tellin’ ye reely was so.

Wal, night come along an’ ’e hedn’t shot nuthin’, An’ ’e got kind o’ scary an’ tho’t ’e heerd suthin’; So ’e turned an’ ’e run like a stampeded steer Till ’is breathin’ give out an’ ’is legs felt queer.

They was only one thing fer the poor cuss ter dew, An thet was ter shin up a tree by the ‘slew’ Whar ’e happened ter be; an’ thet’s what ’e done When ’e’d got ’is wind back an’ hed throwed down ’is gun.

He grabbed a young hick’ry with both han’s an’ feet, An’ ’e clumb an’ ’e clumb till ’e found a good seat. Thar ’e rested a hour a-huggin’ the tree Till at last ’e decided ’twas safe ter work free.

But ’e couldn’t giddown—stuck right whar ’e was A-wond’rin’ wottell ’s ailin’ graverty’s laws! He shoved an’ ’e squeezed an’ ’e sweat with a will, An’ ’is legs was woun’ tight round thet hickory, till—

Dog tater my black cat’s kittens!—he found He hed be’n settin’ thar all the while on the ground!”

XIX

Bill on Tobacco

I lit my pipe, an’ set with Bill a spell Out on the porch. The sun hed jes’ went down; The hens an’ chickens, ’thout no ’parent aim, Was gravitatin’ towards the hen-house door; The poults was floppin’ int’ the apple tree, An’ Zony come acrost the dewy yard A-bringin’ in the evenin’ mess o’ milk. ’Twas peaceful like, an’ I was tuckered out, An’ thet thar corn-cob tasted pow’ful good. I hedn’t hed a smoke sence noon, an’ co’se I’d be’n a-cravin’ on’t sence supper’s over, An’ kind o’ grudged ter hev ter gwout an’ feed The colts ’fore settin’ down an’ lightin’ up. But now the work was done, an’ thar I was Ez comf’tabul an’ ca’m ez I could be, Suckin’ an’ blowin’ great big gobs o’ smoke, An’ strangulatin’ three four hundred flies Thet got the’rsel’s all settled fer the night. Bill picked ’is teeth ez quiet ez a lamb, An’ didn’t make no sound, ’cept ’cazhnully, When one my puffs would veer agin ’is face, He’d cough an’ bresh the smoke off with ’is hand. I’d never saw Bill smoke, or chaw, or “dip,” Sence I hed knowed ’im, tho’ I’d offen wondered Jes’ why it was thet he denied hisself About the bigges’ comfort they is goin’. I blowed a bunch o’ smoke rings threw the screen, An’ watched ’em melt away in bluish mist. Then I inhaled, an’ filled my chist up full Till I could feel the nickerteen soak in Clean to my toes, an’ brace me up all over. I fairly wallered in thet smoke, by jing! At last—’twas gittin’ right smart darkish, ’n’ we Could hear the snipe a-callin’ in the fiel’, An’ all the western sky was brownish pink— Bill ups an’ sez—an’ I could see ’is grin— “’Pears like y’er’ gittin’ sight o’ comfort out O’ thet thar shag, an’ I aint blamin’ on ye, Tho’ onct ’n a while it sort o’ turns my stummick. What is’t, ‘_Farmer’s Delight_’?” “Nope, ‘_Dago’s Joy_’”, I sez, a-rammin’ in another charge. I got it goin’, an’ after while he sez: “Looks like it might be; ’f yew kin smoke thet stuff, I reckin yew’re a smoker, an’ would stand Fer ennything from burdock ter hoss-redish, Or tan-bark, blacksmith’s parin’s, stable sweepin’s, An’ sich like stuff they put in them thar kind O’ boxes ’t yew got thar.” “Aw, quit yer josh,” I sez, “I’ve smoked all them one time or ’nother, An’ know the diff’runce. This ’ere smoke is reel Terbacker; guess I know.” “Terbacker nuthin’”, Sez ’e; “smells more ter me like some ol’ buf’- Lo robe hed ketched afire.” An’ then ’e laffed. Ef ennybody else but Bill hed poked Thet kind o’ fun at me, I might o’ got A leetle riled; but somehow ’r ’nuther ’taint No use ter let yerself git hot around Yer neck when Bill throws in his leetle hooks. Yew _hev_ ter laff in spite o’ ev’ry thing. An’ so I cooled ri’ down an’ sez reel quiet: “Ef yew knowed ennything about terbacker, Ef yew’s a smoker, ’n’ hed the feelin’ on ’t, Yew’d quit remarkin’ things like that ’a’ one. I bet yew never even smoked corn-silk, Rattan, hay-seed, sweet fern, an’ baby stuff Like that, thet cubs begins on when they’re smart. I tell ye yew do’ know nuthin’ about it.” I tho’t I’d fixed ’im, fer a spell at least, Fer ’e kep’ still, an’ hummed reflective like. Bimeby he went ’t the door an’ hawked an’ spit, Come back, an’ set, an’ coughed—fer I hed puffed A lot o’ smoke right towards ’is empty cheer— An’ kind o’ choky sez: “I s’pose yew think Yew’ve sized me up correc’. I’ll tell ye suthin’: Yew do’ know no more ’n nuthin’ what yer sayin’; A rabbit knows more ’bout terbacker ’n yew Compared ter me.” “W’y, Bill, I never seen Ye smoke,” I sez, “nor chaw, in all these years.” “Wal, that don’t mean,” he sez, “’t I never did. When I was a young feller, I begun Ter smoke an’ chaw like all the other han’s, Only I done it more ’n they did. I’d hev Ter hev my chaw ez soon ez I was out O’ bed, an’, ’cept at meals, I chawed all day An’ part the night, an’ smoked the rest the time. I’ve woke up many nights an’ lit a pipe. Ez time went on I kep’ a-gittin’ wuss. Laury, she said my mouth was like a sewer When ’t wa’n’t a fact’ry chimbley; an’ I noticed The things I et wa’n’t relishin’; I couldn’t Tell pepper-grass from pie, or Woostersheer From coffee; eatin’ wa’n’t no fun no more. An’ then I found I couldn’t git terbacker Nowheres near strong enough. I tried all kinds From fine-cut down ter _Black Twist Nigger Head_, A leetle mite o’ which will make a hog So sick he cain’t eat nuthin’ fer a week, An’ like enough he’ll die. I give a mule A piece onct, I remember, jes’ fer fun, The handiest feller with ’is heels we hed. Say! Soon’s the pizen got ter work inside, Thet cuss begun ter ram around an’ beller Like he was givin’ birth t’ a pair o’ twins, A thing no or’nary mule aint s’posed ter dew. An’ then ’e up an’ kicked the barn door out, Le’pt over coupla gates an’ started off Like them thar Gadarenian swine yew’ve heerd About in Scriptur’. Reck’n he’s runnin’ yit, Leastways we never seen ’im ar’terwards. Wal, I begun ter color up, until I looked some ’ut like summer crook-necks dew Dead-ripe in August. Appetite ’bout gone, An’ nervous ez a new-broke colt hitched up Ter plow. An’ still I chawed an’ smoked an’ chawed, An’ couldn’t seem ter git enough. _Black Twist_ Ter me was like a peece o’ straw ter yew. I scoured the kentry stores; the strongest brands Would satisfy no more ’n molasses would. O’ co’se yew understand I wa’n’t no _slave_ Ter thet thar weed; I only _hed_ ter _hev_ it, That’s all. (They’s fokes ’at thinks they ain’t no diff’runce Atween them two idees; _we_ know they is.) One day a pedlar come along, an’ Laury She bought a coupla packages o’ pills ’T the feller said was ‘guaranteed’ ter knock Terbacker habits higher ’n wheat, an’ cure The most ‘invertebrate’—or some sich word— Terbacker user in the world. She kep’ It dark, an’ fed them pellets on the sly Ter me in stuff I et. But ’twa’n’t no use; I kep’ on chawin’ more an’ more. It might ’A’ made some diff’runce, p’raps, ef I hed knowed What she was up tew. Ginally yew hev Ter _know_ about sich things ter hev ’em dew Ye enny good at all. Wal, things was thet ’A’ way when yew fust come. Yew ’member when I met ye up ’t the deepo yew was smokin’ Thet thar same shag stuff yew’re a-smokin’ now; I ketched a whiff or tew—I never told Ye ’bout it ’fore—but ’twas enough; it done What nuthin’ else hed done fur thirty year. I haint bit off a single chaw sence that, Or smoked a whiff, so help me Moses Pratt!”

When I’d collected all my senses back, Bill he hed slid away an’ gone ter bed.

XX

The New Year’s Turkey

We all hed come ter Bill’s ter spend the day, New Year’s it was, an’ Bill hed shaved, an iled ’Is hair, an’ greased ’is boots, an’ looked ez gay ’Z a feller kin in clo’es thet ain’t be’n siled.

“I reck’n I didn’t tell ye ’bout this fowl,” He sez, an’ stopped ’is carvin’ fer a bit, While Laury looked ez if she’s goin’ ter scowl, An’ tried by signs ter steer ’im off of it.

“This feller didn’t seem ter hev no sex; Ha’f hen, ha’f Tom he was; he’d go a-whangin’ Like Toms do, tails spread, wings a-draggin’, necks All druggled up, an’ great red beads a-hangin’;

“An’ then they’s other times he’d sneak away Hen fashun like, scratch up a nest, an’ set, Tho’ them kind cain’t lay aigs, ye know—whad say?”— He seen thet Laury ’peared ter be ’n a sweat

Ter hev ’im quit ’is talk an’ go on carvin’. He done a leg an’ wing, an’ sliced the breast, An’ got the stuffin’ ready fer the sarvin’, An’ then begun again: “I found ’is nest

“Las’ June—we’d missed ’im fer a month or so— Off in a ol’ forsooken suller; thar ’E set ez thin’s a rail. Bet yew dunno What he’d be’n settin’ on so long, by tar!”

“Will, won’t ye hurry up? The fokes is waitin’,” An’ then she tried ter start a line o’ talk. But ’t want no use; Bill sez: “Ez I was statin’, Each time we’d try ter shoo ’im off he’d balk,

“An’ wouldn’t stir; then I felt under ’im, Reel careful like, an’ say, yew wouldn’t b’leeve it, But”—Laury now was lookin’ kind o’ grim, An’ told ’im t’ either carve thet bird or leave it.

But Bill kep’ on regardless: “Next I see O’ him he’s leadin’ round a yeller goslin’! (We et it Chris’mas day).—Now what gits me, An’ sets my wits ter bilin’ an’ a sozzlin,’

“Is how the cuss from _this_ could hatch a goose!” An’ Bill held up a smooth, worn, chiny knob, Thet from some door hed long sence broken loose. “That’s what I took from under this ol’ squab!”

“A Happy New Year, Bill,” I sez; “D’ye mind ’F I ast ye fer thet ‘Pope’s Nose’ thing behind?”

XXI

The Picture

A pitchur of a feller hangin’ up In thet ’ar little room o’ mine at Bill’s Hez offen set my wond’rin’ works ter goin’. He’s stannin’ on a stun verandy like, A oldish sort o’ man with streaky hair, Up high whar ’e kin see some ways away, ’N’ ’is clo’es is suthin’ like the ones I seen In Bill’s ’lustrated fambly Bible, hung All over ’im in drapish kind o’ folds, An’ jes’ some in-soles fassen’d on ’is feet With funny strings a-runnin’ threw ’is toes. They’s trees an’ scen’ry out in front, green fiel’s, A rollin’ hill or so, a crick, a bunch O’ little houses whar they’s fokes at work, An’ things looks peeceful, like they do here’bouts In this ’ere Skillet deestric’ in Jooly. But back o’ all them things yew seem ter see A wall o’ clouds a-fencin’ on ’em in, An’ yew cain’t tell ’f they’s mount’ins, sea, or what A-layin’ off behind, it’s all so dim. Afore I’ve blowed the light out menny nights I’ve looked at thet thar chap, an’ almos’ tho’t I knowed what he was sensin’, ’cos I seen T’ ’e hed a far-off look, an’ sort o’ scrunched ’Is shoulders ’zif ’e’d clean fergot hisself. One night in early Joon Bill come t’ my room Ez I was goin’ ter bed, ’n’ I ast ’im, “Bill,” I sez, “thet feller up thar gits me goin’; Yew got a idee what ’e’s thinkin’? ’Pears Ter me he’s fig’rin’ what it’s all about, Same’s me an’ yew does sometimes when we’re ’lone.” Bill ’lows ’e ain’t no pote, but fust I knowed He ups an’ gits the foll’rin’ off ’is chist, An’ damfino ’f ’e made it up hisself, Or got it some’r’s outen readin’ books:

_“I’m speckerlatin’ on the drift O’ things I gotta face. Mos’ ginally they ain’t no rift In all them clouds o’ space Thet seems ter narrer in my view An’ shet the sky from me an’ yew._

_“They was one onct tho’—when I’s young, An’ never dreamt o’ trouble, Jes’ whissled, hollered, played, an’ sung, Nor knowed the hay from stubble. What was it ripped them clouds apart, An’ let the light shine on my heart?_

_“The kids they do’ know what it means Thet ray thet perkles threw, An’ makes ’em reely kings an’ queens, Like I was onct an’ yew. But ain’t it great ter feel thet way, An’ not know hearts mus’ break some day!”_

He quit, an’ then went on: “I reck’n yew might’s Well cut them thissels out termorrer south The barn. Goo’ night.” An’ never changed ’is voice.

XXII

The Letter from Lon

I.

I never seen a man more prouder ’n Bill The mornin’ Lon’s first letter come from France. He’d et ’is breakfas’ an’ was harnessin’, An’ I stood at the trough a-wat’rin’ Babe, When ’Viny come a-runnin’ from the road A-wavin’ suthin’ white an’ screamin’ like She’d be’n attackted by a bunch o’ bees. Co’se Laury heerd ’er bawlin’, dropped a pie Ri’t on the houn’ dawg layin’ by the door, An’ started like a rabbit fer the yard. The houn’ was scairt an’ come a-bell’rin’ out All plastered up with messy strawb’ry dough; The hens an’ geese an’ ducks got ri’t on aidge An’ nigh screeched all the’r haids off ez they run In ev’ry which way, ’n’ yew’d ’a’ tho’t the hull Dum works was bust. But Bill he only grinned; He knowed what ’Viny hed, fer he hed heerd The pos’man’s car come chuggin’ up an’ stop To our front gate. (Bill didn’t hev ter look, Fer he kin sense by lis’nen’ ev’ry car Thet goes by reg’lar—knows ’em by the’r rattle.) “... D’ye notice, Laury, ’pears ter me like this Envelop ’s be’n a-monkeyed with somehow; They’s suthin’ plastered over it that sez—” An’ then ’e eyed it closter, spellin’ out The letters ’e hed cut threw with ’is ’nife. When Laury heerd the words she fired ri’t up; “Now who’d ye s’pose would be so mean ez thet! He dassent give ’is reel name ’cos ’e’s ’feerd He’d git suppeenylized fer tamperin’ With other fokeses letters; so ’e ups An’ calls hisself thet or’n’ry Sensure thing! Caint see no sense ter thet; tho’ p’r’aps yew kin.” She laffed one them thar cuttin’ laffs o’ her’n, An’ sez ter Bill she’s gotta hurry back T’ the house an’ ’tend t’ some rewbarb she had left A-stewin’ on the stove, an’ will ’e fetch The letter in ez soon ’s ’e’s threw, an’ leeve It lay whar she kin find it on her burer. ’Fore Bill could ans’er she was runnin’ up The kitchin steps, an we could hear ’er tell The houn’ dawg what a newsunce he hed be’n Ter muss the floor all up with strawb’ry pie.

II.

Bill set a minnit quiet-like, an’ then Begun t’ onfold the letter. Sich a mess O’ scraps, an’ holes, an’ long black blots an’ things Yew never seen. I couldn’t hardly keep From snik’rin’. Bill smiled tew, an’ ’lowed it must ’A’ took more time an’ trubble tew unwrite The letter ’n’ ’t did ter write it. Then ’e read, ’Thout skippin’ nuthin’ ’cept the blots and cuts: “Deer Paw: Wal, here we be at (blank), ’n’ I got Yoor letter ’n’ Maw’s, ’n’ I sure was mity glad Ter hear thet yew all’s well an’ gittin’ ’long Fust rate. Us boys is all a-feelin’ fine, An’ say, we’re goin’ ter stick ter this ’ere job Till some of us at enny rate sees thet Ol’ Potsdam Crocodile throw up the spunge....” (Thet’s Bill hisself all over ’gin, thinks I; Them Anjelo-Saxtons jes’ don’t never quit. Bill’s grate-grate-grampaw come from Summerset Some years ’fore Jorge the IIIst. was kingin’ it An’ riled us so ’t we hed ter revolute.) Bill mumbled on a spell, but said they wa’n’t No sense in’t ’cos’ so much hed be’n chopped out. “I jedge,” he sez, “it’s places they come threw, An’ ossifers he seen, an’ whar they’re goin,’ An’ sich.” Then he begun again: “They’s days, Paw, when I git ter thinkin’ ’bout the farm, Ol’ Whitey, Ben, the wood-lot whar me ’n’ yew Cu’ down the bee tree Fall ’fore last an’ got A ri’t smart mess o’ honey; ’simmon trees, Sunsets from our back porch, the furrers I Hev cut with our ol’ walkin’ plow—Oh Paw, Yew git me, don’t ye!—then I come ri’t back An’ look acrost ter whar them Boshes be, An’ think o’ all the things they done an’ still Ar’ doin’ ter make this airth a mizzery, Mad, desp’rit things drove on by them ez knows They’re in daid ’rong but never’ll give a dam ’Bout lyin’, killin’—then I know my job, ’N’ I’m glad I’m here, ’n’ I know yew be—” Bill run T’ the crib nigh whar we was, said he’d fergot Suthin,’ ’n’ I knowed ’e never would come back. I jes’ set thar an’ couldn’t move. He tho’t I must ’a’ gone an’ couldn’t hear; I did Tho’—God, how I did leg it out o’ thar! I went an’ watered all the hogs fi’ times; ’F’ they tasted salt in what they drunk, I know Whar’t come from. ’N’ all thet day I kep’ a-sayin: “_Them Anjelo-Saxtons jes’ don’t never quit!_”

XXIII

The Drouth

Buggosh I never seen it dryer ’n ’tis Ri’t now down this ’ere Skillet way; It’s scassly rained a drop sence ’long in Joon, An’ gittin’ dryer every day. We got our corn in early ’n May, an’ seen It mos’ly drownded out, an’ then We planted it onct more an’ watched it grow An’ stick out spiky leaves again. A little later Bill ’e sez ter me In one them joky little talks: “We’ll hev ter git a ladder when Fall comes Ter reach the ears on them thar stalks.” It shorely looked like that ’a’ way ontil The drouth begun ter hit us hard, An’ fennel, hog-weed, pusly, dock an’ sich, An’ even plantain in the yard— The sort o’ stuff ye jes’ cain’t kill ’f ye try— Was withered wisps o’ nothin’ ’t all. Ez time went on ’twas suthin’ pretty fierce: Pitch sizzled on the hoss barn wall; The road was jest a streak o’ smoky dust, An’ every time a lizzie passed The awf’lest clouds come rollin’ int’ the house, An’ made us feel like bein’ gassed; “Four Mile” was dry ’s a sermon, caked an’ cracked ’Cept here an’ thar a scummy pool, An’ even in the deepest woods ’twas hot An’ gaspy, stiflin’, never cool; The wallers all dried out, an’ flies was thick An’ noisy ez a swarm o’ bees; The cistern water got so brown an’ warm Ter drink it meant ter drink diseese; An’ all our corn—wal, git it straight—the corn Was like ol’ Zekel’s dream long sence, A valley full o’ rattlin’ skelertons Thet made ye skeered ter cross the fence!

“D’yew know what them thar sperrits sez?” ast Bill One moonlight night ez we was lookin’ At thet poor “fired” crop o’ ghosts without No reel intent o’ goin’ a-spookin’. “No, tell me, Bill,” I sez, an’ shivered some. “Wal, this tall yaller stalk ri’t here He sez the dice was loaded from the start, Thet ol’ Ma Nacher holds life dear Jest ez a whole; thet individyools aint No more account then knot-holes is. We plug ter drink o’ life ez deep ’s we kin, But what we git is mos’ly fizz.”

* * * * *

“I reck’n they want us up ’t the house,” I sez, The hair a-risin’ from my neck, F’r I’d saw thet stalk wave all its arms an’ nod, An’ knowed Bill hed the dope correc.’

XXIV

The Labor Situation

“Don’t hardly seem fair,” said Bill with a hitch

Tew his gallus—the other was busted—

“Fer the papers an’ all, the public an’ sich”— An’ I seen he was kind o’ disgusted—

“Ter praise up the workers ter home an’ not fitin’ An’ gittin’ all kinds o’ big pay,

An’ ’en strikin’ fer more—_Whoa thar! Quit yer bitin’!_”—

He was combin’ an breshin’ ol’ Gray—

“When the boys ‘over thar’ give up all thet they hed

Ter fite fer thirty bones per”—

An’ I couldn’t ezzac’ly tell what ’e nex’ said, Fer ’is comb hed ketched in a burr.

XXV

“Killed in Action: Corporal Alonzo—”

The day ’fore thet thar awful telegram From Washin’ton fer Bill was brung t’ the house By Viny—she’d be’n up ter town; an’ Gene The operater, lookin’ kind o’ white Hed handed her the yeller envelope An’ sez: “It’s jes’ some bizness fer yer Paw”—— Me ’n’ Bill was talkin’ ’bout the Lib’ty bonds. We’d thrashed the matter over, ’n’ both agreed The only thing ter dew, ’f a feller hed The price, was git a bond, an’ ef ’e hedn’t, Ter git one ennyhow; an’ thet’s how ’twas. Bill he’d suscribed with Charlie Buck, who runs The Farmers’ Gild (an’ nuthin’ much besides), While I’d went up ter Sims’ an’ teched a chap I knowed fer five, an’ trusted Proverdunce Ter see me threw. (Bill sez thet Proverdunce Is mos’ly what ye dew yerself, with p’r’aps A dash o’ luck throwed in ter help along.) Then come the stunnin’ news.... Things wa’n’t the same, ’N’ I reckon never will be ’gain. The farm Seemed empty like, ’n’ I stopped good menny times Ter look whar Lon hed carved ’is ’nishuls on A crib door slat.... It give me ’n awful thump Inside ter see how sort o’ closter Bill An’ Laury was; she hed ter lean on him, An’—God, I tell ye he was suthin’ wuth A-leanin’ on, a human staff o’ oak. Yew ’member them blue little lakes or ponds— Most ev’r’y country deestric’ hez ’em—whar Fokes sez they ain’t no bottom tew ’em ’t all, Nobody never reeched it tho’ they’d tried Fer years an’ years with ev’ry kind o’ line? Wal, thet’s the way Bill’s eyes looked at ye then: Great dep’s o’ shinin’ feelin’, purplish blue; An’ dogged ef I could tell which from the t’other A father’s greef, or father’s pride. At five One mornin’ not long arterwards, ez I Was pitchin’ silage down ter feed the steers, I seen Bill ridin’ out the yard on Belle. He waved ’is hand an’ yelled he’d be ri’t back. At bre’kfas’ time he sez jes’ cazhool like: “I ketched thet ’ar Buck feller ’fore ’e’s up, An’ taken out another Lib’ty bond. ’Pears like I gotta back them boys that’s left In France jes’ twict ez strong now’t Lon has went.”

XXVI

November

Sich a mornin’ o’ glory I’ve rar’ly saw, Tho’ they tell me thet Winter is nigh; The sun’s fairly glary, an’ hez a reel carry, An’ I’m swattin’ a bothersome fly.

The sky was ez black ez one o’ Bill’s blots When over a letter he muddles; An’ the win’ blow’d a blast, an’ the rain fell fast, An’ the groun’ was a huddle o’ puddles.

Thet was yistiddy, pard; but terday, by Joel, It’s Aprul excep’ fer the leaves; They’re a copper an’ green with a pigeony sheen, An’ a red like our Heryford beeves.

Mos’ potes will all spring suthin’ on ye ’bout russet, An’ ox-blood, an’ fawn, an’ maroon; But they never was here in the “yeller an’ sere”, An’ reality aint in the’r toon.