X.

Twistin' an' turnin' amid the stars, Silent as snakes at play in the grass, An' plungin' thar fangs in the bare old skulls Of the mountains, frownin' above the Pass. An' all so still, that the leetle creek, Twinklin' an crinklin' from stone to stone, Grows louder an' louder, an' fills the air With a cur'us sort of a singin' tone. It ain't no matter wharever ye be, (I'll 'low it's a cur'us sort of case) Whar thar's runnin' water, it's sure to speak Of folks tew home an' the old home place;