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.