woodland and meadow,
  “Peter—­O Peter!” all day, calling, reminding, and chiding—­
  Taking us back to the time when Peter he done gone and done it! 
  These are the voices of those left by the boy in the farmhouse
  When, with his laughter and scorn, hatless and bootless and sockless,
  Clothed in his jeans and his pride, Peter sailed out in the weather,
  Broke from the warmth of his home into that fog of the devil. 
  Into the smoke of that witch brewing her damnable porridge!

  Lo, when he vanished from sight, knowing the evil that threatened,
  Forth with importunate cries hastened his father and mother. 
  “Peter!” they shrieked in alarm, “Peter!” and evermore “Peter!”—­
  Ran from the house to the barn, ran from the barn to the garden,
  Ran to the corn-crib anon, then to the smokehouse proceeded;
  Henhouse and woodpile they passed, calling and wailing and weeping,
  Through the front gate to the road, braving the hideous vapor—­
  Sought him in lane and on pike, called him in orchard and meadow,
  Clamoring “Peter!” in vain, vainly outcrying for Peter. 
  Joining the search came the rest, brothers, and sisters and cousins,
  Venting unspeakable fears in pitiful wailing for Peter! 
  And from the neighboring farms gathered the men and the women. 
  Who, upon hearing the news, swelled the loud chorus for Peter.

  Farmers and hussifs and maids, bosses and field-hands and niggers,
  Colonels and jedges galore from corn-fields and mint-beds and thickets. 
  All that had voices to voice, all to those parts appertaining. 
  Came to engage in the search, gathered and bellowed for Peter. 
  The Taylors, the Dorseys, the Browns, the Wallers, the Mitchells, the
      Logans. 
  The Yenowines, Crittendens, Dukes, the Hickmans, the Hobbses, the
      Morgans;
  The Ormsbys, the Thompsons, the Hikes, the Williamsons, Murrays and
      Hardins,
  The Beynroths, the Sherlays, the Hokes, the Haldermans, Harneys and
      Slaughters—­
  All famed in Kentucky of old for prowess prodigious at farming. 
  Now surged from their prosperous homes to join in the hunt for the
      truant. 
  To ascertain where he was at, to help out the chorus for Peter.

  Still on these prosperous farms were heirs and assigns of the people
  Specified hereinabove and proved by the records of probate—­
  Still on these farms shall you hear (and still on the turnpikes adjacent)
  That pitiful, petulant call, that pleading, expostulant wailing,
  That hopeless, monotonous moan, that crooning and droning for Peter. 
  Some say the witch in her wrath transmogrified all those good people;
  That, wakened from slumber that day by the calling and bawling for Peter,
  She out of her cave in a trice, and, waving the foot of a rabbit
  (Crossed with the caul of a coon and smeared with the blood of a