“I don’t think I’ll read it you, on second thoughts,” I said, with sudden doubt.
“You bet you will, sonny. A man that’s got the gift of making poetry has no occasion to stand back in the corner.”
“Well it’s only a little thing I dashed off the other night. Here it is:
“‘Oh, frog, that sits on the garden seat
(Croak, croak! where the trees hang low),
Have you ever swum in the ocean deep,
In the waves where the wild winds blow,
Where the red crabs crawl on the rocks below,
On the rocks where the dead men sleep?’”
“It’s kind o’ buttery,” said Abe slowly, “but I don’t see no sense in it. What’s a frog on a garden seat got anything to do with dead men? And crabs ain’t red.”
“Oh, that’s a poet’s licence.”
“It are, eh? Well, I won’t go to your shop for spirrits. Is there any more?”
“This is the second verse,” I said, rather discouraged:
“‘Oh, speckled toad, did you ever dream
(Croak, croak! there’s a snake on the wall),
Did you ever dream of my lady dear,
Who sometimes walks in the garden here
(While the milk in the pan is making cream),
And sings when there’s no one near?’”
“How does it sound?”