Abe
Peters was a pirut, on the land not in the sea,
Although
he would have been the same wherever he might be;
He
wouldn’t work if he could dodge, he lived by hook or crook,
An’
gen’ly got his fish from off some other feller’s hook.
He
wouldn’t cut holes through the ice to put his tilt-ups out
But
snaked a pick’rel now an’ then when no one was about.
At
night he’d come out in the crick, in his slow, sneaky way,
An’
you kin bet he’d have his fish to dine upon next day.
We
didn’t like Abe Peters an’ he knew it mighty well,
No
more was he real fond of us, the strictest truth to tell;
A
sort of mutu’l hatred spread frum Abe, in Lonesome Lane,
To
ev’ryone in Gungywamp out to his home again.
The
boys had allus jeered him an’ the maidens they were shy
An’
allus went across the street whenever he passed by;
An’
ev’rywhere Abe Peters went the neighbors locked their doors,
An’
all the chickens round about hid on the upper floors.
One
night we watched Abe Peters as he sneaked on “Lizard Crick”,
A-skulking
soft an’ clost to shore with creepers an’ a stick;
He
headed for out pick’rel holes an’ lifted up each line,
Until
he’d filled his pocket with some beauties, 8 or 9.
We
stole behind ol’ Peters, who was bendin’ o’er a hole,
An’
then we tipped him upside down, we did upon my soul!
We
held his head down through the ice until he begged an’ plead,
An’
then we ducked him in an out until he thought him dead.
We
ducked him in an’ stood him up, an’ let his whiskers freeze,
Until
they looked like icicles an’ hung down to his knees.
An’
then we took the pick’rel frum his tattered ol’ brown coat
An’
rammed ‘em down inside his shirt around his skinny throat,
An’
shook ‘em down an’ jounced ‘em down as fur as they would go,
An’
then we run him to the shore an’ dumped him in the snow.
An’
old Abe Peters lost his taste for fish right then and there,
An’
he ain’t touched our tilt-ups sence, to thet we all kin swear.
Feb.
27, ‘09
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