Field-notes

I went out into the wee wide world, with my listening-ears on, to hear what our fellow-folk were saying, in the fields and feedlots, dimestores and dram-shops,  hayrides and waysides  and over cakes and tea.   So here you have it:  Statements overheard  on the broad clean streets  of our everyday own town,  right here in Rootabaga country.

“I hear tell Bozo the Button Buster is sweet on Flossie the Feather Duster.”

“I’m hearing much the same thing.”

“Mrs. Portly is proud  of her prize plump pumpkin.”

“As well she might be!  The prize pumpkin’s pleased as Punch with her.”

“… just like the Blind Man said.”

“Now, … which Blind Man might you be referring to?  Old Potato Face, or the other one?”

“…and old man Weatherrumper, with a sly eye, just like he was a-knowing something.”

“Oh yes, he knows, but he ain’t lettin’ on!”

“… sittin’ on a fence post, just as pleased as he could be!”

“Cushionhead – you’re a man of sense!  So let me ask you:

whether quick Sally Klippspringer,

or sly Solly Rippledinger,

will win the prize this year.”

(chucking her under the chin) “So say, Mother Wamperknuckle, tell me what have you fixed  for my own fine dinner.”

“Aw, g’wan with you!” (pleased, though). “Just spuds ‘n’ goobers, with a little salt.”

“’Scuse please, me I’m just going to the moon, get me a piece of cheese.”

“Miss Millikins, you’ll do  no  such  thing!”

“…when who should I see  but Wee Missie Middlethumbkin,  fiddling with her bonnet string.”

“Now Tommy, you put that bickerjingle   back into the bickerjingle jar.”

“No no, not that one.   The big brass bong with the buttons on ‘er.”

So, all is as well as well might be, right here in  Rootabaga Country.