“Let me have the honour of fetching them for you!” he said in amiably dignified docility.
16th—The poet gave me five feet square, behind the Willow Cottage, for my potato garden.
I sticked a stick at each corner. I encircled it with my crape sash.
The note hanging on it read, “Graveyard of Morning Glory’s Poem.”
I hired uncle for ten cents, to clear off every weed.
I raked.
I set the seeds.
I got a suspicious coat and pants from a nook in the unrespectable barn. It was fortunate that the horse—who may also be a poet, he is so philosophically thin,—didn’t shout, “Hoa, clothes-thief!”
I put them on the limbs of an acacia tree.
I planted it on my graveyard to scare away wild intruders.