Will gobble like turkeys! 200

Blame rather the fashion
Which fastens upon you
Great fishermen's baskets!

A woman dissenter
Looks darkly upon them,
And whispers with malice:
"A famine, a famine
Most surely will blight us.
The young growths are sodden,
The floods unabated; 210
Since women have taken
To red cotton dresses
The forests have withered,
And wheat--but no wonder!"

"But why, little Mother,
Are red cotton dresses
To blame for the trouble?
I don't understand you."
"The cotton is _French_,
And it's reddened in dog's blood! 220
D'you understand now?"

The peasants still linger
Some time in the market,
Then go further upward,
To where on the hill-side