They jest simply won't do it.

But Doctor Kirby, he let on like he thought it was fine poetry, and he read them pieces over and over agin, out loud, and the old man and the old woman was both mighty tickled with the way he done it.

He wouldn't of had 'em know fur anything he didn't believe it was the finest poetry ever wrote, Doctor Kirby wouldn't.
They was four little books of it altogether.

Slim books that looked as if they hadn't had enough to eat, like a stray cat whose ribs is rubbing together.

It had cost Daddy Withers five hundred dollars apiece to get 'em published.