[Illustration:  THE INHABITANT.]

WHAT DUMB CRITTERS SAYS

The cat-bird poorty nigh splits his throat,
  Ef nobody’s thar to see. 
The cat-bird poorty nigh splits his throat,
But ef I say, “Sing out, green coat,”
  Why, “I can’t” and “I shan’t,” says he.

I ’low’d the crows mout be afeard
  Of a man made outen straw. 
I ’low’d the crows mout be afeard,
But laws! they warn’t the least bit skeered,
  They larfed out, “Haw! haw-haw!”

A long-tail squir’l up in th’ top
  Of that air ellum tree,
A long-tail squir’l up in th’ top,
A lis’nin’ to the acorns drop,
  Says, “Sh! sh-sh!” at me.

The big-eyed owl a-settin’ on a limb
  With nary a wink nur nod,
The big-eyed owl a-settin’ on a limb,
Is a-singin’ a sort of a solemn hymn
  Of “Hoo! hoo-ah!” at God.

Albert could not resist a temptation to smile at this last line.

“I know, stranger.  You think a owl can’t sing to God.  But I’d like to know why!  Ef a mockin’-bird kin sing God’s praises a-singin’ trible, and so on through all the parts—­you see I larnt the squar notes oncet at a singin’—­why, I don’t see to save me why the bass of the owl a’n’t jest as good praisin’ ef ‘ta’n’t quite sech fine singin’.  Do you, now?  An’ I kinder had a feller-feelin’ fer the owl.  I says to him,’ Well, ole feller, you and me is jist alike in one thing.  Our notes a’n’t appreciated by the public.’  But maybe God thinks about as much of the real ginowine hootin’ of a owl as he does of the highfalugeon whistlin’ of a mockin’-bird all stole from somebody else.  An’ ef my varses is kinder humbly to hear, anyway they a’n’t made like other folkses; they’re all of ’em outen my head—­sech as it is.”

“You certainly have struck an original vein,” said Albert, who had a passion for nature in the rough.  “I wish you would read some of your verses to my sister.”

“Couldn’ do it,” said the poet; “at least, I don’t believe I could.  My voice wouldn’ hold up.  Laid awake all las’ night tryin’ to make some varses about her.  But sakes, stranger, I couldn’ git two lines strung together.  You mout as well try to put sunshine inter a gallon-jug, you know, as to write about that lovely creetur.  An’ I can’t make poetry in nothin’ ‘ceppin’ in our country talk; but laws! it seems sech a rough thing to use to say anything about a heavenly angel in.  Seemed like as ef I was makin’ a nosegay fer her, and hadn’t no poseys but jimson-weeds, hollyhocks, and big yaller sunflowers.  I wished I could ‘a’ made real dictionary poetry like Casabianca and Hail Columby.  But I didn’ know enough about the words.  I never got nary wink of sleep a-thinkin’ about her, and a-wishin’ my house was finer and my clo’es purtier and my hair shorter, and I was a eddicated gentleman.  Never wished that air afore.”

Katy woke up a little dull and quite hungry, but not sick, and she good-naturedly set herself to work to show her gratitude to the Inhabitant by helping, him to get breakfast, at which he declared that he was never so flustrated in all his born days.  Never.