De Wood Hants.
By Anne Virginia Culbertson.
[By permission of the Author.]
When de moon scrouch down behine de hill,
An' de dark fole roun' you, clost an still,
Keep outer de wood,
Ef you knows whut's good;
Fer deys tings in dyah dat nuvver show
'Tel de dark come on an' de daylight go;
An' dey races an' runs, an' dey flaars an' fla'nts,
An' de namer dem creeters is Hants, chile, Hants!
When de squinch-owl's hootin' roun' de place,
An' de bats fly low, an' slap yo' face,
Keep outer de wood,
Ef you knows whut's good:
Fer de li'l wa'm gus'es thu de trees,
An' de li'l cole ones what mek you freeze,
Is de bref o' dem creeturs what flaars an' fla'nts,
An' de name dat we calls 'em is Hants, chile, Hants!
When you see lights trab'lin' up an' down,
Widout no pusson to cyar' dem roun',
Keep outer de wood,
Ef you knows whut's good.
Foller dem tings an' dey 'stroy you, sho';
You earn' kotch up, an' you go an' go,
An' las' dey swamps you, an' flaars an' fla'nts,
Fer dey's jacky-my-lantums, dey's Hants, chile, Hants!
When biggity chillun, 'long to'des night,
Gits cross an' norty, an' doan do right,
Dey bettah be good,
An' membah de wood;
