The Skillet I reck’n yew’ve never saw the Skillet? Wal, ye-e-es, they’s likelier streams; But when ye git ri’ daown to ’t, stranger, It kind o’ hants yer dreams. It pokes along through grayish bottoms, An’ ’s crookeder then worms, An’ the water’s sometimes green an’ scummy, An’ full o’ things thet squirms. All kinds o’ logs an’ sticks an’ driftin’s Hez here an’ thar got grounded, An’ almos’ everything thet’s in it Looks ’zac’ly like ’t was drownded. Fokes yuseter say it’s jes’ thet crooked Yew couldn’t cross the crick ’Thout findin’ yew was whar ye started— But thet’s lay’n ’t on tew thick. I wan’ ter tell ye tho’ they’s somepin’ ’Bout this ’ere Skillet “river” Right naow in Aprul time thet gives ye A reel poetic shiver. Them gums an’ water-oaks an’ hick’ries, Thet grows along its aidges, Is jes’ alive with leafy swellin’s, Fur Spring’s a-keep’n’ ’er plaidges! Yer see thet sassafras a-greenin’, Them voylets peekin’ at yer, Thet bunch o’ pinkish blows a-leerin’ Jessif they’d like ter bat yer? An’ birds! I never heerd sich music, Nor seen sich ri’tous colors, From “Peter-birds” to larks an’ card’nals, An’ sparrers brown ez crullers. Sa’, jevver hear o’ “cats”? I’ve saw ’em Git ketched in that thar crick; I’d tell ye haow ’f I knowed ye’d b’lieve me— They dew it awful slick. Yew jes’ wade in—not seein’ nothin’, ’Cos all the water’s yaller— An’ then ye feel in ’raound the mud-holes Whar ’t’s nice an’ warm an’ shaller. ’F a “cat” ’s to home yew tech ’im gentle, An’ sort o’ stroke his flank; Then suddint like yew grab his collar, An’ sling ’im out’ the bank! * * * * * Yew’ve mebbe never saw this “river”? Thar is, p’r’aps, likelier streams; But when ye git ri’ daown to ’t, stranger, It right smart hants yer dreams. II The Bootleg Gang at Sims’ Yep, Egyp’s dry; ’z a gin’ral rule They ain’t much doin’ in likker; Saloons is skurce ’z a breedin’ mule, An’ shy ’z a nestin’ flicker. But fokes kin git it—“bootleg stuff”— An’ hev a reel good souse, Tho’ most o’ them that does it ’s tough, An’ allers startin’ rows. Onct down ter Sims’, so people tell, A bunch o’ pickled runts Raised sev’ral kinds o’ p’tic’lar cain An’ pulled some rowdy stunts. Now ’Mersion ’s pop’lar thar ter Sims’, Some ’d ruther hev ’t than eatin’s; More ’n half the fokes sings Baptis’ hymns An’ goes ter all the meetin’s. Wal, they jes’ give ’emselves a hunch An’ got the law behind ’em; The sheriff rounded up the bunch, An’ Jestice Herford fined ’em. This made the boozers awful sore; They’d git thet Baptis’ goat! So fer a week they planned an’ swore An’ kep’ their scheme remote.