Red Letter Days 83 



Adown the field marched Deacon Jones, 

 And as his plough the furrow: turned, 

 He warbled in his loudest tones 

 A hymn that he had long since learned. 



"Uh, lass'n did my Sa-vyer blee — 

 Dand id my suv-ren di-ee 

 Woo de devote that sacred h — 

 — — — — nation!" 



The lordly robin in the tree 

 Cut short his song in trembling fear, 

 Such language scared the busy bee, 

 That buzzed among the clover near. 



The plough had hit a hidden root, 

 The handles banged Jones in the side, 

 He let loose swear words by the foot 

 And cultured manners east aside. 



But now again our old friend Jones 

 Steps blithely on, his voice a-ringing; 

 His plough strikes hard some hidden stones 

 And stays the hymn he's gaily singing. 



"Wah zit fur crimes tha ti have done, 

 He groaned upon that tree-ee 

 Um-ma-zing pit-tee gra-sain-none. 

 And live beyond — — — " 



The catbird yells in sheer delight. 



The red squirrel up the beech-tree scrambles, 



By Jones's language sent to flight 



The "cotton-tail" hides in the brambles. 



