PHEBE AND ICHABOD
Allus was rowin’ it, early and late,
—Niff against this one an’ niff against that!
With a voice like a whistle, too big for her
weight,
That was the make-up of Aunt Phebe Pratt.
She’d give it to Ichabod, hot-pitch-and-tar,
Yappin’ as soon as he came to the house;
Allus was hankerin’ after a jar,
Allus was ready to kick up a touse.
But Ichabod he was as calm as a lamb,
Never talked back to her, no, s’r, not he—
Reckin that some men would rip out a damn.
But he was the mildest that ever ye see.
He’d set an’ he’d whistle an’ whistle away,
Waitin’ all patient ontil she got through;
She’d scream, “Drat ye, answer!” but Ick
he would say,
“Mother, ye’re talkin’ a plenty for two.
Who-o-o, who-o-o,
Who-o-o, who-o-o!
Nothin’ to say, mother! List’nun to you.”
Phebe is dead an’ has gone to her rest;
Ichabod lives in the house all alone;
—Ick isn’t lonesome because, so ’tis guessed.
He still hears the echoes of Aunt Phebe’s tone.
’Tis reckoned his ears were so used to the clack,
He somehow er’ ruther still thinks she is there;
Kind of imagines that Phebe is back,
An’ still is a-goin’ it, whoopity-tear!
Or p’raps she has ’ranged it by long-distance
line,
From her latest location, Above or Below,
To keep up her reg’lar old yappin’ an’ whine,
For fear the old man will at last have a show.
For he sets there an’ whistles an’ whistles
away,
Whenever there’s nothin’ in ’special to do;
An’ once in a while he’ll look up an’ he’ll say,
“Mother, ye’re talkin’ a plenty for two.
Who-o-o, who-o-o,
Who-o-o, who-o-o!
Nothin’ to say, mother! List’nun to you.”