XVIII
Treed
’Twas a Sunday in March ez we set on a log
In a break in the woods, whar the crick makes a jog,
An’ hez et int’ the bank an’ up under the mill,
Thet the story herewith was related by Bill.
“Years ago, forty odd, wild hogs was ez thick
In these ’ere Skillet bottoms ez ‘cats’ in the crick.
They follered the mast (tho’ I ain’t meanin’ shippin’),
An’ ’long in the Fall got ez fat ez a pippin.
My Paw uster hunt ’em with dawgs on the run,
So ’z ter git us our pork ’fore the Winter begun;
An’ many’s the time I’ve heerd ’im tell how
He hed fit with or run from a perky ol’ sow.
Fer them pigs was mean custumers, give ’em a chance,
An’ a boar with ’is tushes could rip up yer pants
A dum sight more quicker ’n a pirate crew,
An’ ’e’d take a hull lot o’ yer leg with it tew.
One time they’s a feller was huntin’ ’is pork
Somewhar over yender not fur from the Fork.
Now they’s fokes ’at’s still livin’ ’at ’ll tell ye they know
Thet what I’m a-tellin’ ye reely was so.
Wal, night come along an’ ’e hedn’t shot nuthin’,
An’ ’e got kind o’ scary an’ tho’t ’e heerd suthin’;
So ’e turned an’ ’e run like a stampeded steer
Till ’is breathin’ give out an’ ’is legs felt queer.
They was only one thing fer the poor cuss ter dew,
An thet was ter shin up a tree by the ‘slew’
Whar ’e happened ter be; an’ thet’s what ’e done
When ’e’d got ’is wind back an’ hed throwed down ’is gun.
He grabbed a young hick’ry with both han’s an’ feet,
An’ ’e clumb an’ ’e clumb till ’e found a good seat.
Thar ’e rested a hour a-huggin’ the tree
Till at last ’e decided ’twas safe ter work free.
But ’e couldn’t giddown—stuck right whar ’e was
A-wond’rin’ wottell ’s ailin’ graverty’s laws!
He shoved an’ ’e squeezed an’ ’e sweat with a will,
An’ ’is legs was woun’ tight round thet hickory, till—
Dog tater my black cat’s kittens!—he found
He hed be’n settin’ thar all the while on the ground!”