II
In radius o' fifteen mile'd, all p'ints o' compass round,
No man er woman, chick er child, er team, on top o' ground,
But knows him—yes, and got respects and likin' fer him, too,
Fer all his so-to-speak dee-fects o' genius showin' through!
III
Some claims he's absent-minded; some has said they wuz afeard
To take his powders when he come and dosed 'em out, and 'peared
To have his mind on somepin' else—like County Ditch, er some
New way o' tannin' mussrat-pelts, er makin' butter come.
IV
He's cur'ous—they hain't no mistake about it!—but he's got
Enough o' extry brains to make a jury—like as not.
They's no describin' Sifers,—fer, when all is said and done,
He's jes hisse'f Doc Sifers—ner they hain't no other one!
V
Doc's allus sociable, polite, and 'greeable, you'll find—
Pervidin' ef you strike him right and nothin' on his mind,—
Like in some hurry, when they've sent fer Sifers quick, you see,
To 'tend some sawmill-accident, er picnic jamboree;