And to the questioning stranger said, “Why,
that’s old Figger-Four.”
He bobbed to his work in his little field and
tidied his lonesome home;
He’d the light of peace in his quiet face, though
his shape was that of a gnome.
One knee was angled, hooked and stiff, the
mark of a fever sore,
And the saucy wits of the countryside had
dubbed him “Figger-Four.”