LXIII
You call it anything you please,
but it's witchcraft—the power
'At Sifers has o' handlin' bees!—
He'll watch 'em by the hour—
Mix right amongst 'em, mad and hot
and swarmin'!—yit they won't
Sting him, er want to—'pear to not,—
at least I know they don't.
LXIV
With me and bees they's no p'tense
o' social-bility—
A dad-burn bee 'u'd climb a fence
to git a whack at me!
I s'pose no thing 'at's got a sting
is railly satisfied
It's sharp enough, ontel, i jing!
he's honed it on my hide!
LXV
And Doc he's allus had a knack
inventin' things.—Dee-vised
A windlass wound its own se'f back
as it run down: and s'prised
Their new hired girl with clothes-line, too,
and clothes-pins, all in one:
Purt'-nigh all left fer her to do
wuz git her primpin' done!
LXVI
And onc't, I mind, in airly Spring,
and tappin' sugar-trees,
Doc made a dad-burn little thing
to sharpen spiles with—these-
Here wood'-spouts 'at the peth's punched out,
and driv' in where they bore
The auger-holes. He sharpened 'bout
a million spiles er more!