So, when the mornings were hot, under the beech or the maple,
  Cushioned in grass that was blue, breathing the breath of the blossoms. 
  Lulled by the hum of the bees, the coo of the ringdoves a-mating,
  Peter would frivol his time at reading, or lazing, or dreaming. 
  “Peter!” his mother would call, “the cream is a-ready for churning!”
  “Peter!” his father would cry, “go grub at the weeds in the garden!”
  “Peter!” and “Peter!” all day—­calling, reminding and chiding—­
  Peter neglected his chores; therefore that outcry for Peter;
  Therefore the neighbors allowed evil would surely befall him—­
  Yes, on account of these things, ruin would come upon Peter!

  Surely enough, on a time, reading and lazing and dreaming
  Wrought the calamitous ill all had predicted for Peter;
  For, of a morning in spring when lay the mist in the valleys—­
  “See,” quoth the folk, “how the witch breweth her evil decoctions! 
  See how the smoke from her fire broodeth on wood land and meadow! 
  Grant that the sun cometh out to smother the smudge of her caldron! 
  She hath been forth in the night, full of her spells and devices,
  Roaming the marshes and dells for heathenish musical nostrums;
  Digging in leaves and at stumps for centipedes, pismires and spiders,
  Grubbing in poisonous pools for hot salmanders and toadstools;
  Charming the bats from the flues, snaring the lizards by twilight,
  Sucking the scorpion’s egg and milking the breast of the adder!”

  Peter derided these things held in such faith by the farmer,
  Scouted at magic and charms, hooted at Jonahs and hoodoos—­
  Thinking the reading of books must have unsettled his reason! 
  “There ain’t no witches,” he cried; “it isn’t smoky, but foggy! 
  I will go out in the wet—­you all can’t hender me, nuther!”

  Surely enough he went out into the damp of the morning,
  Into the smudge that the witch spread over woodland and meadow,
  Into the fleecy gray pall brooding on hillside and valley. 
  Laughing and scoffing, he strode into that hideous vapor;
  Just as he said he would do, just as he bantered and threatened,
  Ere they could fasten the door, Peter had gone and done it! 
  Wasting his time over books, you see, had unsettled his reason—­
  Soddened his callow young brain with semi-pubescent paresis,
  And his neglect of his chores hastened this evil condition.

  Out of the woods by the creek cometh a calling for Peter
  And from the orchard a voice echoes and echoes it over;
  Down in the pasture the sheep hear that shrill crying for Peter,
  Up from the spring-house the wail stealeth anon like a whisper,
  Over the meadows that call is aye and forever repeated. 
  Such are the voices that whooped wildly and vainly for Peter
  Decades and decades ago down in the state of Kentucky—­
  Such are the voices that cry from the