A crib door slat.... It give me ’n awful thump
Inside ter see how sort o’ closter Bill
An’ Laury was; she hed ter lean on him,
An’—God, I tell ye he was suthin’ wuth
A-leanin’ on, a human staff o’ oak.
Yew ’member them blue little lakes or ponds—
Most ev’r’y country deestric’ hez ’em—whar
Fokes sez they ain’t no bottom tew ’em ’t all,
Nobody never reeched it tho’ they’d tried
Fer years an’ years with ev’ry kind o’ line?