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Updated: July 26, 2025
But mar wrote that po'try herself; wrote it out o' them thar woods all by herself. Thar's a heap more po'try thar, you bet, and jist as good. And she's the one that kin write it you hear me? That's my mar, every time! You buy that thar wood, and get mar to run it for po'try, and you'll make your pile, sure!
There's that long up sweep, and that easy curve to the right with no hitch. That's the sorter swing he hez in readin' po'try too. That's why it's called the po'try of motion, sez I. 'And you ken bet your boots, boys, it's all in the trainin' o' education." "Mr. Ford," said Mr.
"If she's made up her mind to call on us, there's no way under Heaven to head her off." They halted by the bunk-house door, undecided whether to go in or to stay out in the open. "By golly, she don't improve me!" Slim asserted pettishly. "I hate books like strychnine, and, by golly, she can't make me read 'em, neither." "If there's anything I do despise it's po'try," groaned Cal Emmett.
"What diffruns would it mattah ef you couldn't wuck thet fool sum? His two shavers hain't no fu'thah 'long in ther books then my twins, air they, Susan?" "Lawdy!" ejaculated Rogers. "I hope you kin wuck it, an' shet him up fur good an' all. He thinks he knows it all when it comes to figgahs, an' kin siphah fastah'n a hoss kin gallop. It's time somebody took him down 'bout thet ole po'try sum.
Louise, grave-eyed, watched the two men, Overland sullen and scowling, Collie fierce and flaming. "We ain't used to to real ladies," apologized Overland. "We could do better if we practiced up." "Of course!" said Louise, smiling. "But the poetry." "U-m-m, yes. The po'try. What'll I give her, Collie?" "I don't care," replied the boy.
Say, mister, ye'd oughter git onter Patsy he's de little kid wid de crutch. He's a corker, he is; reads po'try an' everythin'. Where'll I sign? Oh, I see; in dis'ere square hole right along-side de ole woman's name" spreading his elbows, pen in hand, and affixing "James Finnegan" to the collection of autographs.
You said some nice things about me just now, and I liked it, even if it was as if you learned it out of a book. I've got no po'try in me; I'm plain homespun. I'm a sapling, I'm not any prairie-flower, but I like when I like, and I like a lot when I like. I'm a bit of hickory, I'm not a prairie-flower " "Who said you was a prairie-flower? Did I? Who's talking about prairie-flowers "
You look a leetle slim, but you'll look peart enough when we git you down to Charlton, and you see some of your ground wuth fifteen dollar a front foot! You didn' think I'd ever a gin up po'try long enough to sell lots.
Marthy looked at her a minute, lent her attention briefly to the question, and gave what she considered good advice. "You learn how to cook, Billy Louise. Yuh don't want to go and get notions. Your maw ain't healthy, and your paw likes good grub. Po'try is all foolishness; there ain't any money in it." "Walter Scott paid his debts writing poetry," said Billy Louise argumentatively.
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