In one them joky little talks:
“We’ll hev ter git a ladder when Fall comes
Ter reach the ears on them thar stalks.”
It shorely looked like that ’a’ way ontil
The drouth begun ter hit us hard,
An’ fennel, hog-weed, pusly, dock an’ sich,
An’ even plantain in the yard—
The sort o’ stuff ye jes’ cain’t kill ’f ye try—
Was withered wisps o’ nothin’ ’t all.
Ez time went on ’twas suthin’ pretty fierce: