Then the newcomer answered:
'Well, neighbour dear, in Jingleville
We live by faith but we eat our fill;
An' what w'u'd we do if it wa'n't fer prayer?
Fer we can't raise a thing but whiskers an' hair.'
'Cur'us how you can talk po'try,' said Uncle Eb. 'The only thing I've
got agin you is them whiskers an' thet hair. 'Tain't Christian.'
''Tain't what's on the head, but what's in it - thet's the important
thing,' said the poet. 'Did I ever tell ye what I wrote about the
birds?'
'Don' know's ye ever did,' said Uncle Eb, stirring his fire.
'The boy'll like it, mebbe,' said he, taking a dirty piece of paper out
of his pocket and holding it to the light.
The poem interested me, young as I was, not less than the strange
figure of the old poet who lived unknown in the backwoods, and
who died, I dare say, with many a finer song in his heart. I
remember how he stood in the firelight and chanted the words in a
sing-song tone. He gave us that rude copy of the poem, and here it
is:
THE ROBIN'S WEDDING
Young robin red breast hed a beautiful nest an' he says to his love says he:
It's ready now on a rocking bough
In the top of a maple tree.
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