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Updated: June 26, 2025
"Mother wouldn't like to have him hangin' 'round an' screechin' bad po'try ev'ry minute. I'll give him to Rosalie, for I'm sure she'll take good care of him." Rosalie accepted the gift with pleasure, but the parrot looked sober for a while and then said, "This looks to me like a giveaway; But here I am, and here I'll stay.
You said some nice things about me just now, and I liked it, even if it was as if you'd 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 "
But he was a real knowledgeable feller he was that. Stood at the mill door and recited po'try for us." "Poetry!" exclaimed Tom. "To you and Uncle Jabez?" asked Ruth. "Uh-huh. All about 'to be or not to be a bean that is the question. And something about his having suffered from the slung shots and bow arrers of outrageous fortune whatever that might be.
Hamlin attributed only to his natural surprise that this stranger should be on such familiar terms with her; but the boy responded immediately and bluntly: "No! SHE didn't write for it. She didn't want nobody to know who she was. Nobody wrote for it but me. Nobody KNEW FOLKS WAS PAID FOR PO'TRY BUT ME. I found it out from a feller. I wrote for it.
"I know more about everything and less about anything than anybody exceptin' po'try and cookin'. But gettin' along ain't jest what you know. It's more like what you do. They's fellas knows more than I could learn in four thousand eight hundred and seventy-six years, but that don't help 'em get along none. It's what you know inside what counts." He lapsed into silence and slouched in the saddle.
Folks that live in the city can't write po'try, not the real, genuine article. To write po'try, as I figure it, the heart must have somethin' to feed on; you can't get that somethin' whar there ain't trees 'nd grass 'nd birds 'nd flowers. Bill loved these things, and he fed his heart on 'em, and that's why his po'try wuz so much better than anybody else's.
We reckon to do our sums, and our figgerin', and our sale and barter, and our interest tables and weights and measures when the time comes, and our geograffy when it's on, and our readin' and writin' and the American Constitution in reg'lar hours, and then we calkilate to git up and git afore the po'try and the Boston airs and graces come round.
But in the last sentence he thought he saw an opening to return to his main object, and, looking up cautiously, said: "And mebbe write po'try now and then?" To his great discomfiture, the only effect of this suggestion was to check his companion's speech for some moments and apparently throw her back into her former abstraction.
"I seen the fierce, big red lion, und I don't know where is my mamma." Patrick saw that one of the attractions had failed to attract, so he tried another. "Let's go and see the cows," he proposed. "Don't you know the po'try piece Miss Bailey learned us about cows?" Again the emotional chaperon interrupted. "I'm loving much mit Miss Bailey, too," she wailed. "Und I don't know where is she neither."
I tell yuh, boys, this is rich " "You give that back here, or I'll murder yuh!" a full-throated young voice cried hoarsely. "Here, quit yore kickin'!" Bill admonished. "Go on, Bud; the boys have got to hear it it's rich!" "Yeh shut up, Johnny! Po'try is wrote to be read go on, Bud. Start 'er over again.
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