GOODY RICKBY [Handing it.] Rare! rare! He shall go wooing in’t—like his father.
DICKON [Shifting the scarecrow’s gold-trimmed coat, slips on the embroidered waistcoat and replaces the coat.] Stand still, Jack! So, my macaroni. Perfecto! Stay—a walking-stick!
GOODY RICKBY [Wrenching a spoke out of an old rickety wheel.] Here: the spoke for Gilead. He used to take me to drive in the chaise it came out of.
DICKON [Placing the spoke as a cane, in the scarecrow’s sleeve, views him with satisfaction.] Sic! There, Jacky! Filius fit non nascitur.—Sam Hill! My Latin is stale. “In the beginning, was the—gourd!” Of these thy modest ingredients may thy spirit smack!
[Making various mystic passes with his hands, Dickon intones, now deep and solemn, now with fanciful shrill rapidity, this incantation:]
Flail, flip; Broom, sweep; Sic itur! Cornstalk And turnip, talk! Turn crittur!
Pulse, beet; Gourd, eat; Ave Hellas! Poker and punkin, Stir the old junk in: Breathe, bellows!
Corn-cob, And crow’s feather, End the job: Jumble the rest o’ the rubbish together; Dovetail and tune ’em. E pluribus unum!
[The scarecrow remains stock still.]
The devil! Have I lost the hang of it? Ah! Hullo! He’s dropped his pipe. What’s a dandy without his ’baccy! [Restoring the corn-cob pipe to the scarecrow’s mouth.] ’Tis the life and breath of him. So; hand me yon hazel switch, Goody. [Waving it.] Presto! Brighten, coal, I’ the dusk between us! Whiten, soul! Propinquit Venus!