He blew on his hands and stared at his wife dumbly. He cleared his throat. “Well, good-by, Minnie,” he said, “Don’t you hire any feller for harvest without you write me, And if any more of those lightning-rodders come around, We don’t want no more dum lightning-rods.” He tried To think if there was anything else, but there wasn’t. She suddenly threw her big, red arms around his neck, He kissed her with clumsy force. Then he got on the wagon And clucked to the horses as she started to cry.

Up in the mountains where the hogs are thin And razorbacked, wild Indians of hogs, The laurel’s green in April⁠—and if the nights Are cold as the cold cloud of watersmoke Above a mountain-spring, the midday sun Has heat enough in it to make you sweat.