Chapter V: Laury at the ’Phone

Will’s drove ter Keene’s fer ’nockerlated seed;
Queer, ain’t it, ’bout thet nitrigin—_Down Rover!_
Will sez we git mos’ twict ez much o’ feed
Fer growin’ them thar teeny warts on clover....

Uh huh.... We’re limin’ tew; Will sez the sile
Hez soured bad an’ needs a “alkali”....
I do’ know what ’tis—never heerd it—I’ll
Ax him; on sich like words I’m kind o’ shy....

Malviny? Reely? Throwed anuther fit?
Yew better call, I reckon, Docter Mott;
Seems like she’s gittin’ old enuff ter quit—
Will sez he ’lows it’s jes’ plain fits she’s got.

Our Duroc “Iphijeny” ’s littered ... eight....
Jes’ walkin’ cherries! My, but how they’ll grow!
Will’s figg’rin’ now on what’ll be the’r weight
Come Fall; he sez our corn’s a-runnin’ low....

D’yew say it’s yaller? Prob’ly got “damp feet”;
Will sez alfalfy’ll do thet when’t’s tew wet....
The way it gits ter rain _is_ hard ter beat;
But then, Will sez it ain’t no use ter fret....

No, couldn’t go las’ night—set up fer Nell;
Vern Rowell druv ’er out—seemed like all night;
’Twas nine afore they come.... He means reel well,
But Will he sez the Rowells ain’t quite right....

She _was_? She’s led the singin’ awful good;
I never tho’t she’d be baptized; Will sez—
_O Willie! Git right off!_—He’s clum the wood
Pile; that ’ar’ way he’ll _fall_—Lan’ sakes, he _hez_!

_Four Mile
Creek_
]