LXI
You ast Jake Dunn;—he's worked it out in figgers.—He kin show
Stastistics how Doc's airnt about three fortunes in a row,—
Ever' ten-year' hand-runnin' straight—three of 'em—thirty year'
'At Jake kin count and 'lucidate o' Sifers' practice here.
LXII
Yit—"Praise the Lord," says Doc, "we've got our little home!" says he—
"(It's railly Winniferd's, but what she owns, she sheers with me.)
We' got our little gyarden-spot, and peach- and apple-trees,
And stable, too, and chicken-lot, and eighteen hive' o' bees."
LXIII
You call it anything you please, but it's witchcraft—the power
'At Sifers has o' handlin' bees!—He'll watch 'em by the hour—
Mix right amongst 'em, mad and hot and swarmin'!—yit they won't
Sting him, er want to—'pear to not,—at least I know they don't.
LXIV
With me and bees they's no p'tense o' social-bility—
A dad-burn bee 'u'd climb a fence to git a whack at me!
I s'pose no thing 'at's got a sting is railly satisfied
It's sharp enough, ontel, i jing! he's honed it on my hide!