But Daddy
Withers was so independent-like he would jest
natcherally try to force two words to rhyme whether
the Lord made 'em fur mates or not--like as if
you would try to make a couple of kids kiss and
make up by bumping their heads together. They
jest simply won't do it. But Doctor Kirby, he
let on like he thought it was fine poetry, and he
read them pieces over and over agin, out loud, and
the old man and the old woman was both mighty
tickled with the way he done it. He wouldn't
of had 'em know fur anything he didn't believe it
was the finest poetry ever wrote, Doctor Kirby
wouldn't.
They was four little books of it altogether. Slim
books that looked as if they hadn't had enough to
eat, like a stray cat whose ribs is rubbing together.
It had cost Daddy Withers five hundred dollars
apiece to get 'em published. A feller in Boston
charged him that much, he said. It seems he would
go along fur years, raking and scraping of his money
together, so as to get enough ahead to get out another
book. Each time he had his hopes the big news-
papers would mebby pay some attention to it, and
he would get recognized.
"But they never did," said the old man, kind of
sad, "it always fell flat."
"Why, FATHER!"--the old lady begins, and finishes
by running back into the house agin.
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