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,