IV The Siren

They’s a hull snarl o’ potes hez driveled ’bout Joon With its leefyness, freshness an’ greenth; ’N’ if I was anuther, I s’pose—which I ain’t— I’d be the four umpty an’ steenth. Ez regards ter the Skillet—wal, pardner, b’leeve me, It’s right in its prime, buggosh; Yew kin talk all yer wanter, it’s fine ter jes’ sawnter An’ look at ol’ Nacher a-slosh. I was thar spell ago—druv sixteen mile With Bill an’ a load o’ soy beans; An’ I swar ter the Dooce thet I never hed knowed Afore what greenin’ means. Be’n a-rainin’ like sin, but hed then faired up An’ the sky was julluk a gentian; I ain’t never knew sich a hevvenly blue, Ef ye’ll ’low me in passin’ ter mention. 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.