“You would remember, I believe,
When I rented newground
Up on Dead Mare Branch
And raised a master crop of corn,
And I’d take my three sons with me—
Tadwhackers they were then,
Too young to work, too old to shirk—
And we’d grub and sow and till;
And one morning here you came
Climbing up to my high field
And stood squarely among us
And told us your name
But not why you were there,
And you grabbed up a hoe
And matched us row by row
As if I needed a hand, and I did,
And you not accepting pay
Well, I never understood that,
Not to this day.”