He goes into the house
and gets his pipe, and brings it out and lights it,
acting like that book of poetry was a mighty small
matter to him. But he looks at Doctor Kirby out
of the corner of his eyes, and can't keep from getting
sort of eager and trembly with his pipe; and I could
see he was really anxious over what the doctor was
thinking of them poems he wrote. The doctor
reads some of 'em out loud.
Well, it was kind of home-made poetry, Old Daddy
Withers's was. It wasn't like no other poetry I ever
struck. And I could tell the doctor was thinking
the same about it. It sounded somehow like it
hadn't been jointed together right. You would
keep listening fur it to rhyme, and get all worked up
watching and waiting fur it to, and make bets with
yourself whether it would rhyme or it wouldn't.
And then it ginerally wouldn't. I never hearn
such poetry to get a person's expectances all worked
up, and then go back on 'em. But if you could
of told what it was all about, you wouldn't of minded
that so much. Not that you can tell what most
poetry is about, but you don't care so long as
it keeps hopping along lively. What you want in
poetry to make her sound good, according to my
way of thinking, is to make her jump lively, and
then stop with a bang on the rhymes.
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