"'Son', dey ses, 'we done putt a lot er li'l bones in his laigs, an' dat gwine slow him up might'ly, an' we 'pends on you ter do de res', 'kase we knows dat you is a gre't chieft.'
"Den Tarr'pin amble long 'bout his bizness an' neener stop ner res' ontwel he met up wid Tukkey onct mo'. He ax fer his by'ud an' wattles ag'in, but Tukkey jes' turnt an' stept out f'um dat, Tarr'pin atter him. But seem lak de cunjerers thought Mistah Tarr'pin wuz faster'n w'at he wuz, er dat Mistah Tukkey 'z slower'n w'at he wuz, 'kase Tarr'pin ain' nuver ketch up wid him yit, an' w'ats mo', de tarr'pins is still doin' widout by'uds an' wattles an' de gobblers is still wearin' 'em an' swellin' roun' showin' off ter de gals, steppin' ez high ez ef dem li'l bones w'at de cunjerers putt dar wan't still in der laigs, an' struttin' lak dey wuz sayin' ter ev'y pusson dey meets:
'Cle'r outen de way fer ol' Dan Tucker,
You'se too late ter git yo' supper.'"
THE CRITIC
BY WILLIAM J. LAMPTON
Behold
The Critic, bold and cold,
Who sits in judgment on
The twilight and the dawn
Of literature,
And, eminently sure,
Informs his age
What printed page
Is destined to be great.
His word is Fate,
And what he writes
Is greater far
Than all the books
He writes of are.
His pen
Is dipped in boom
Or doom;
And when
He says one book is rot,
And that another's not,
That ends it. He
Is pure infallibility,
And any book he judges must
Be blessed or cussed
By all mankind,
Except the blind
Who will not see
The master's modest mastery.
His fiat stands
Against the uplifted hands
Of thousands who protest
And buy the books
That they like best;
But what of that?
He knows where he is at,
And they don't. And why
Shouldn't he be high
Above them as the clouds
Are high above the brooks,
For God, He made the Critic,
And man, he makes the books.
See?
Gee whiz,
What a puissant potentate the Critic is.