He ups an’ sez, not ans’rin’ me direc’
But far away, ’z ’e sometimes done:
“Nothin’ ’s wuth while onless ye resk yer neck—
Ter shoot a owl by day ’s no fun—
Ter raise a mess o’ beef ’s a reel man’s job—
’T ’s a bully gamble growin’ fodder—
Caint git no corn ’ithout ye take the cob—
Alfalfy ’ll allers hev its dodder—”
XVI
The Pet Calf
Hey, Whitey, here’s a good fat ear,