“Four Mile” was jes’ kind o’ googlin’ along
(It ketches the Skillet in “Thirty-three”
Whar the woods is thick an’ the moon ain’t strong,
An’ the ’possum hides in a holler tree);
’T was shimmerin’ thar all gold an’ bright
Ez we loafed threw the medder thet Awtum night.
We’d et a light supper—sow belly, corn bread,
Pickled beets, fried eggs an’ two kinds o’ pie—
When Bill, sort o’ cazuel, shoved back an’ said,
A-squintin’ aloft at a perfec’ sky: