It was the bad axe-helve some one had sold me—
“Made on machine,” he said, ploughing the grain
With a thick thumbnail to show how it ran
Across the handle’s long drawn serpentine,
Like the two strokes across a dollar sign.
“You give her one good crack, she’s snap raght off.
Den where’s your hax-ead flying t’rough de hair?”
Admitted; and yet, what was that to him?
“Come on my house and I put you one in
What’s las’ awhile—good hick’ry what’s grow crooked,