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Idylls of the Skillet Fork

Chapter 25: XXIII The Drouth
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About This Book

A lively sequence of rural poems and sketches portrays daily life in a small farming community, blending comic dialect pieces and affectionate nature scenes. Recurring voices such as Bill and Laury relay homespun observations on chores, animals, local gossip, bootlegging, hunts, seasonal change, and wartime worries, while bird songs and landscape detail evoke both springtime abundance and drought. The collection alternates playful mischief with quieter melancholy, offering short vignettes that balance folksy humor, communal rituals, and reflective notes on labor and loss.

XXIII
The Drouth

Buggosh I never seen it dryer ’n ’tis
Ri’t now down this ’ere Skillet way;
It’s scassly rained a drop sence ’long in Joon,
An’ gittin’ dryer every day.
We got our corn in early ’n May, an’ seen
It mos’ly drownded out, an’ then
We planted it onct more an’ watched it grow
An’ stick out spiky leaves again.
A little later Bill ’e sez ter me
In one them joky little talks:
“We’ll hev ter git a ladder when Fall comes
Ter reach the ears on them thar stalks.”
It shorely looked like that ’a’ way ontil
The drouth begun ter hit us hard,
An’ fennel, hog-weed, pusly, dock an’ sich,
An’ even plantain in the yard—
The sort o’ stuff ye jes’ cain’t kill ’f ye try—
Was withered wisps o’ nothin’ ’t all.
Ez time went on ’twas suthin’ pretty fierce:
Pitch sizzled on the hoss barn wall;
The road was jest a streak o’ smoky dust,
An’ every time a lizzie passed
The awf’lest clouds come rollin’ int’ the house,
An’ made us feel like bein’ gassed;
“Four Mile” was dry ’s a sermon, caked an’ cracked
’Cept here an’ thar a scummy pool,
An’ even in the deepest woods ’twas hot
An’ gaspy, stiflin’, never cool;
The wallers all dried out, an’ flies was thick
An’ noisy ez a swarm o’ bees;
The cistern water got so brown an’ warm
Ter drink it meant ter drink diseese;
An’ all our corn—wal, git it straight—the corn
Was like ol’ Zekel’s dream long sence,
A valley full o’ rattlin’ skelertons
Thet made ye skeered ter cross the fence!
“D’yew know what them thar sperrits sez?” ast Bill
One moonlight night ez we was lookin’
At thet poor “fired” crop o’ ghosts without
No reel intent o’ goin’ a-spookin’.
“No, tell me, Bill,” I sez, an’ shivered some.
“Wal, this tall yaller stalk ri’t here
He sez the dice was loaded from the start,
Thet ol’ Ma Nacher holds life dear
Jest ez a whole; thet individyools aint
No more account then knot-holes is.
We plug ter drink o’ life ez deep ’s we kin,
But what we git is mos’ly fizz.”

“I reck’n they want us up ’t the house,” I sez,
The hair a-risin’ from my neck,
F’r I’d saw thet stalk wave all its arms an’ nod,
An’ knowed Bill hed the dope correc.’