The river was full, plum full ter the top, A matter o’ thirty odd feet, An’ the water hed backed ont’ the bottoms right smart, But was dreenin’ off fast with the heat. ’Twas a sarpent o’ choc’lit a-rithin’ an’ twistin’ Ri’ down a arborial tunnel; An’ Bill ’e sez, “Naow, ef we hed a ol’ scaow, We could flote ter Noorleans thru a funnel!” But the way them fiel’s was enjoyin’ thersel’s! They was fairly yellin’ with glee; I reckon I must ’a’ be’n pretty high keyed, An’ I tell ye it jes’ got me. I kind o’ suspishun Bill heerd suthin’ tew, Fer a exstasy hit ’im like pain; It looked like fer sure he was feelin’ the lure O’ the siren thet sings after rain. 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_! [Illustration: _Four Mile Creek_ ] VI The ’Possum Hunt “Four Mile” was jes’ kind o’ googlin’ along (It ketches the Skillet in “Thirty-three” Whar the woods is thick an’ the moon ain’t strong, An’ the ’possum hides in a holler tree); ’T was shimmerin’ thar all gold an’ bright Ez we loafed threw the medder thet Awtum night. We’d et a light supper—sow belly, corn bread, Pickled beets, fried eggs an’ two kinds o’ pie— When Bill, sort o’ cazuel, shoved back an’ said, A-squintin’ aloft at a perfec’ sky: “’S a pretty good night fer coons; so still Yer kin hear yer heart when yer’ve clum up hill.”