The deadnin' and the thicket's jes' a b'ilin' full o' June,
     From the rattle o' the cricket, to the yaller-hammer's tune;
     And the catbird in the bottom and the sap-suck on the
         snag,
     Seems's ef they cain't—od-rot-'em!—jes' do nothin' else
         but brag!

     There' music in the twitter o' the bluebird and the jay,
     And that sassy little critter jes' a-peckin' all the day;
     There' music in the "flicker," and there' music in the
         thrush,
     And there' music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in the
         brush!—

     There' music all around me!—And I go back—in a dream
     Sweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep:—And, in the
          stream
     That used to split the medder wher' the dandylions
         growed,
     I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down the
         road.

     The orchard lands of Long Ago!
     O drowsy winds, awake, and blow
     The snowy blossoms back to me,
     And all the buds that used to be!
     Blow back along the grassy ways
     Of truant feet, and lift the haze
     Of happy summer from the trees
     That trail their tresses in the seas
     Of grain that float and overflow
     The orchard lands of Long Ago!

     Blow back the melody that slips
     In lazy laughter from the lips
     That marvel much if any kiss
     Is sweeter than the apple's is.
     Blow back the twitter of the birds—
     The lisp, the titter, and the words
     Of merriment that found the shine
     Of summer-time a glorious wine
     That drenched the leaves that loved it so,
     In orchard lands of Long Ago!

     O memory! alight and sing
     Where rosy-bellied pippins cling,
     And golden russets glint and gleam,
     As, in the old Arabian dream,
     The fruits of that enchanted tree
     The glad Aladdin robbed for me!
     And, drowsy winds, awake and fan
     My blood as when it overran
     A heart ripe as the apples grow
     In orchard lands of Long Ago!

     When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in
          the shock,
     And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin'
          turkey-cock,
     And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the
          hens,
     And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
     O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,
     With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful
          rest,
     As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed
          the stock,
     When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the
          shock.

     They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere
     When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is
          here—
     Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the
          trees,
     And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the
          bees;
     But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the
          haze
     Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
     Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—
     When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the
          shock.

     The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
     And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the
          morn;
     The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still
     A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;
     The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
     The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—
     O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,
     When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the
          shock!

     Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps
     Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yeller heaps;
     And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks
          is through
     With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and
          saussage, too!...
     I don't know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be
     As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around
          on ME—
     I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin'
          flock—
     When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the
          shock!

     In Spring, when the green gits back in the trees,
          And the sun comes out and STAYS,
     And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze,
       And you think of yer bare-foot days;
     When you ORT to work and you want to NOT,
       And you and yer wife agrees
     It's time to spade up the garden-lot,
       When the green gits back in the trees
         Well! work is the least o' MY idees
         When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!

     When the green gits back in the trees, and bees
       Is a-buzzin' aroun' ag'in
     In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please
       Old gait they bum roun' in;
     When the groun's all bald whare the hay-rick stood,
       And the crick's riz, and the breeze
     Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood,
       And the green gits back in the trees,—
         I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these,
         The time when the green gits back in the trees!

     When the whole tail-feathers o' Wintertime
       Is all pulled out and gone!
     And the sap it thaws and begins to climb,
       And the swet it starts out on
     A feller's forred, a-gittin' down
       At the old spring on his knees—
     I kindo' like jest a-loaferin' roun'
       When the green gits back in the trees—
        Jest a-potterin' roun' as I—durn—please-
        When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!

     It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
       It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.—
     When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
       W'y, rain's my choice.

     Men ginerly, to all intents—
       Although they're apt to grumble some—
     Puts most theyr trust in Providence,
       And takes things as they come—
         That is, the commonality
         Of men that's lived as long as me
         Has watched the world enugh to learn
         They're not the boss of this concern.

     With SOME, of course, it's different—
       I've saw YOUNG men that knowed it all,
     And didn't like the way things went
       On this terrestchul ball;—
         But all the same, the rain, some way,
         Rained jest as hard on picnic day;
         Er, when they railly WANTED it,
         It mayby wouldn't rain a bit!

     In this existunce, dry and wet
       Will overtake the best of men—
     Some little skift o' clouds'll shet
       The sun off now and then.—
         And mayby, whilse you're wundern who
         You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to,
         And WANT it—out'll pop the sun,
         And you'll be glad you hain't got none!

     It aggervates the farmers, too—
        They's too much wet, er too much sun,
     Er work, er waitin' round to do
        Before the plowin' 's done:
          And mayby, like as not, the wheat,
          Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat,
         Will ketch the storm—and jest about
         The time the corn's a-jintin' out.

     These-here CY-CLONES a-foolin' round—
       And back'ard crops!—and wind and rain!—
     And yit the corn that's wallerd down
       May elbow up again!—
         They hain't no sense, as I can see,
         Fer mortuls, sich as us, to be
         A-faultin' Natchur's wise intents,
         And lockin' horns with Providence!

     It hain't no use to grumble and complane;
       It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.—
     When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,
       W'y, rain's my choice.

            Little brook! Little brook!
            You have such a happy look—
     Such a very merry manner, as you swerve and
               curve and crook—
          And your ripples, one and one,
          Reach each other's hands and run
            Like laughing little children in the sun!

           Little brook, sing to me:
           Sing about a bumblebee
     That tumbled from a lily-bell and grumbled
                 mumblingly,
           Because he wet the film
           Of his wings, and had to swim,
             While the water-bugs raced round and
                 laughed at him!

           Little brook-sing a song
           Of a leaf that sailed along
     Down the golden-braided centre of your current
               swift and strong,
          And a dragon-fly that lit
          On the tilting rim of it,
            And rode away and wasn't scared a bit.

          And sing—how oft in glee
          Came a truant boy like me,
     Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting
                 melody,
          Till the gurgle and refrain
          Of your music in his brain
            Wrought a happiness as keen to him
               as pain.

            Little brook-laugh and leap!
            Do not let the dreamer weep:
     Sing him all the songs of summer till he sink in
                   softest sleep;
            And then sing soft and low
            Through his dreams of long ago—
              Sing back to him the rest he used to
                  know!

     The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin'
          locus' trees;
     And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees,
     And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the
           sly,
     Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.
     The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his
           wings
     And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;
     And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz,
     And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.

     You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the
           plow—
     Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not
           a-carin' how;
     So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the
           wing—
     But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:
     And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,
     She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest;
     And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin'
           right,
     Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite!

     They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day,
     And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,
     And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener
           still;
     It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will.
     Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded
           out,
     And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;
     But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,
     Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!

     Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and
           dry
     Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?
     Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way,
     Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day?
     Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?—Does he walk, er does
             he run?
     Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare just like they've
             allus done?
     Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er
             voice?
     Ort a mortul be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice?

     Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot;
     The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot.
     Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,
     And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!
     Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,
     Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;
     Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,
     And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me
           and you.

     "Mylo Jones's wife" was all
     I heerd, mighty near, last Fall—
     Visitun relations down
     T'other side of Morgantown!
     Mylo Jones's wife she does
     This and that, and "those" and "thus"!—
     Can't 'bide babies in her sight—
     Ner no childern, day and night,
     Whoopin' round the premises—
     NER NO NOTHIN' ELSE, I guess!

     Mylo Jones's wife she 'lows
     She's the boss of her own house!—
     Mylo—consequences is—
     Stays whare things seem SOME like HIS,—
     Uses, mostly, with the stock—
     Coaxin' "Old Kate" not to balk,
     Ner kick hoss-flies' branes out, ner
     Act, I s'pose, so much like HER!
     Yit the wimmern-folks tells you
     She's PERFECTION.—Yes they do!

     Mylo's wife she says she's found
     Home hain't home with MEN-FOLKS round
     When they's work like HERN to do—
     Picklin' pears and BUTCHERN, too,
     And a-rendern lard, and then
     Cookin' fer a pack of men
     To come trackin' up the flore
     SHE'S scrubbed TEL she'll scrub no MORE!—
     Yit she'd keep things clean ef they
     Made her scrub tel Jedgmunt Day!

     Mylo Jones's wife she sews
     Carpet-rags and patches clothes
     Jest year IN and OUT!—and yit
     Whare's the livin' use of it?
     She asts Mylo that.—And he
     Gits back whare he'd ruther be,
     With his team;—jest PLOWS—and don't
     Never sware—like some folks won't!
     Think ef HE'D CUT LOOSE, I gum!
     'D he'p his heavenly chances some!

     Mylo's wife don't see no use,
     Ner no reason ner excuse
     Fer his pore relations to
     Hang round like they allus do!
     Thare 'bout onc't a year—and SHE—
     She jest GA'NTS 'em, folks tells me,
     On spiced pears!—Pass Mylo one,
     He says "No, he don't chuse none!"
     Workin'men like Mylo they
     'D ort to have MEAT ev'ry day!

     Dad-burn Mylo Jones's wife!
     Ruther rake a blame caseknife
     'Crost my wizzen than to see
     Sich a womern rulin' ME!—
     Ruther take and turn in and
     Raise a fool mule-colt by hand'
     MYLO, though—od-rot the man!—
     Jest keeps ca'm—like some folks CAN—
     And 'lows sich as her, I s'pose,
     Is MAN'S HE'PMEET'—Mercy knows!

     Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and
            John,
     Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time
            comes on,—
     And THEN, I want to say to you, we NEEDED he'p about,
     As you'd admit, ef you'd a-seen the way the crops turned
            out!

     A better quarter-section ner a richer soil warn't found
     Than this-here old-home place o' ourn fer fifty miles
           around!—
     The house was small—but plenty-big we found it from
           the day
     That John—our only livin' son—packed up and went
           away.

     You see, we tuk sich pride in John—his mother more'n
           me—
     That's natchurul; but BOTH of us was proud as proud
           could be;
     Fer the boy, from a little chap, was most oncommon
           bright,
     And seemed in work as well as play to take the same
           delight.

     He allus went a-whistlin' round the place, as glad at heart
     As robins up at five o'clock to git an airly start;
     And many a time 'fore daylight Mother's waked me up
          to say—
     "Jest listen, David!—listen!—Johnny's beat the birds
          to-day!"

     High-sperited from boyhood, with a most inquirin' turn,—
     He wanted to learn ever'thing on earth they was to learn:
     He'd ast more plaguy questions in a mortal-minute here
     Than his grandpap in Paradise could answer in a year!

     And READ! w'y, his own mother learnt him how to read
           and spell;
     And "The Childern of the Abbey"—w'y, he knowed that
           book as well
     At fifteen as his parents!—and "The Pilgrim's
           Progress," too—
     Jest knuckled down, the shaver did, and read 'em through
           and through.

     At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a better
           chance-
     That we ort to educate him, under any circumstance;
     And John he j'ined his mother, and they ding-donged and
           kep' on,
     Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he was
           gone.

     But—I missed him—w'y, of course I did!—The Fall and
           Winter through
     I never built the kitchen-fire, er split a stick in two,
     Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrel-pin,
     But what I thought o' John, and wished that he was home
           ag'in.

     He'd come, sometimes—on Sund'ys most—and stay the
           Sund'y out;
     And on Thanksgivin'-Day he 'peared to like to be about:
     But a change was workin' on him—he was stiller than
           before,
     And didn't joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle any
           more.

     And his talk was all so proper; and I noticed, with a sigh,
     He was tryin' to raise side-whiskers, and had on a striped
           tie,
     And a standin'-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as bone;
     And a breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat of
           his own.

     But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was to
           come home
     And he'p me through the season, I was glad to see him
           come,
     But my happiness, that evening, with the settin' sun went
           down,
     When he bragged of "a position" that was offered him in
           town.

     "But," says I, "you'll not accept it?" "W'y, of course I
            will," says he.—
     "This drudgin' on a farm," he says, "is not the life fer
           me;
     I've set my stakes up higher," he continued, light and
           gay,
     "And town's the place fer ME, and I'm a-goin' right
           away!"

     And go he did!—his mother clingin' to him at the gate,
     A-pleadin' and a-cryin'; but it hadn't any weight.
     I was tranquiller, and told her 'twarn't no use to worry
           so,
     And onclasped her arms from round his neck round mine
           —and let him go!

     I felt a little bitter feelin' foolin' round about
     The aidges of my conscience; but I didn't let it out;—
     I simply retch out, trimbly-like, and tuk the boy's hand,
     And though I didn't say a word, I knowed he'd under-
          stand.

     And—well!—sence then the old home here was mighty
          lonesome, shore!
     With me a-workin' in the field, and Mother at the door,
     Her face ferever to'rds the town, and fadin' more and
           more—
     Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin' in a store!

     The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes the
           boy would write
     A letter to his mother, sayin' that his work was light,
     And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit—
     Though his business was confinin', he was gittin' used
           to it.

     And sometimes he would write and ast how I was gittin'
           on,
     And ef I had to pay out much fer he'p sence he was gone;
     And how the hogs was doin', and the balance of the stock,
     And talk on fer a page er two jest like he used to talk.

     And he wrote, along 'fore harvest, that he guessed he
           would git home,
     Fer business would, of course, be dull in town.—But
           DIDN'T come:—
     We got a postal later, sayin' when they had no trade
     They filled the time "invoicin' goods," and that was why
           he stayed.

     And then he quit a-writin' altogether: Not a word—
     Exceptin' what the neighbers brung who'd been to town
           and heard
     What store John was clerkin' in, and went round to in-
           quire
     If they could buy their goods there less and sell their
           produce higher.

     And so the Summer faded out, and Autumn wore away,
     And a keener Winter never fetched around Thanksgivin'-
           Day!
     The night before that day of thanks I'll never quite fergit,
     The wind a-howlin' round the house-it makes me creepy
           yit!

     And there set me and Mother—me a-twistin' at the
           prongs
     Of a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair of
           tongs,
     And Mother sayin', "DAVID! DAVID!" in a' undertone,
     As though she thought that I was thinkin' bad-words
     unbeknown.

     "I've dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow," Mother
           said,
     A-tryin' to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubborn
           head,—
     "And the mince-meat I'm a-mixin' is perfection mighty
           nigh;
     And the pound-cake is delicious-rich—" "Who'll eat
           'em?" I—says—I.

     "The cramberries is drippin'-sweet," says Mother, runnin'
           on,
     P'tendin' not to hear me;—"and somehow I thought of
           John
     All the time they was a-jellin'—fer you know they allus
           was
     His favorITE—he likes 'em so!" Says I "Well, s'pose
           he does?"

     "Oh, nothin' much!" says Mother, with a quiet sort o'
           smile—
     "This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you after
           while!"
     And as I turnt and looked around, some one riz up and
           leant
     And putt his arms round Mother's neck, and laughed in
           low content.

     "It's ME," he says—"your fool-boy John, come back to
            shake your hand;
     Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you un-
            derstand
     How dearer yit than all the world is this old home that
            we
     Will spend Thanksgivin' in fer life—jest Mother, you
           and me!"

     Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,
     Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time
           comes on;
     And then, I want to say to you, we NEED sich he'p about,
     As you'd admit, ef you could see the way the crops turn
           out!

     Folks has be'n to town, and Sahry
     Fetched 'er home a pet canary,—
     And of all the blame', contrary,
         Aggervatin' things alive!
     I love music—that's I love it
     When it's free—and plenty of it;—
     But I kindo' git above it,
         At a dollar-eighty-five!

     Reason's plain as I'm a—sayin',—
     Jes' the idy, now, o' layin'
     Out yer money, and a-payin'
         Fer a wilder-cage and bird,
     When the medder-larks is wingin'
     Round you, and the woods is ringin'
     With the beautifullest singin'
         That a mortal ever heard!

     Sahry's sot, tho'.—So I tell her
     He's a purty little feller,
     With his wings o' creamy-yeller,
         And his eyes keen as a cat;
     And the twitter o' the critter
     Tears to absolutely glitter!
     Guess I'll haf to go and git her
         A high-priceter cage 'n that!

     The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine,
        And filled it is with plenty and to spare,—
     But we are lonely here in life's decline,
        Though fortune smiles around us everywhere:
             We look across the gold
             Of the harvests, as of old—
        The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hay
             But most we turn our gaze,
             As with eyes of other days,
        To the orchard where the children used to play.

     O from our life's full measure
     And rich hoard of worldly treasure
         We often turn our weary eyes away,
     And hand in hand we wander
     Down the old path winding yonder
        To the orchard where the children used to play

     Our sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds;
        The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'er:
     The grove's a paradise of singing birds-
        The woodland brook leaps laughing by the door
             Yet lonely, lonely still,
             Let us prosper as we will,
        Our old hearts seem so empty everyway—
             We can only through a mist
             See the faces we have kissed
        In the orchard where the children used to play.

     O from our life's full measure
     And rich hoard of worldly treasure
        We often turn our weary eyes away,
     And hand in hand we wander
     Down the old path winding yonder
        To the orchard where the children used to play.

     Pap's got his pattent-right, and rich as all creation;
       But where's the peace and comfort that we all had
            before?
     Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—
       Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

     The likes of us a-livin' here! It's jest a mortal pity
       To see us in this great big house, with cyarpets on the
            stairs,
     And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! city!
            city!—
       And nothin' but the city all around us ever'wheres!

     Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple,
        And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree!
     And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people,
        And none that neighbors with us or we want to go and
             see!

     Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—
        Back where the latch-string's a-hangin' from the door,
     And ever' neighbor round the place is dear as a relation—
        Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

     I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit-and-bilin',
        A-drivin' up from Shallor Ford to stay the Sunday
             through;
     And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their son-in-law's and
             pilin'
     Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they ust to do!

     I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones girls is makin';
        And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired
           hand,
     And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigh
           a-takin',
     Till her Pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his
           land.

     Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—
        Back where they's nothin' aggervatin' any more,
     Shet away safe in the woods around the old location—
        Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

     I want to see Marindy and he'p her with her sewin',
        And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and
           gone,
     And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he's
           growin',
        And smile as I have saw her 'fore she putt her mournin'
           on.

     And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower eighty,
        Where John, our oldest boy, he was tuk and burried
           —for
     His own sake and Katy's,—and I want to cry with Katy
        As she reads all his letters over, writ from The War.

     What's in all this grand life and high situation,
        And nary pink nor hollyhawk a-bloomin' at the door?—
     Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—
        Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

     I

     Tell you what I like the best—
        'Long about knee-deep in June,
      'Bout the time strawberries melts
      On the vine,—some afternoon
     Like to jes' git out and rest,
        And not work at nothin' else'

     II

     Orchard's where I'd ruther be—
     Needn't fence it in fer me!—
       Jes' the whole sky overhead,
     And the whole airth underneath—
     Sorto' so's a man kin breathe
       Like he ort, and kindo' has
     Elbow-room to keerlessly
       Sprawl out len'thways on the grass
         Where the shadders thick and soft
       As the kivvers on the bed
         Mother fixes in the loft
     Allus, when they's company!

     III

     Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there—
       S'lazy, 'at you peek and peer
         Through the wavin' leaves above,
         Like a feller 'at's in love
       And don't know it, ner don't keer!
       Ever'thing you hear and see
         Got some sort o' interest—
         Maybe find a bluebird's nest
       Tucked up there conveenently
       Fer the boy 'at's ap' to be
       Up some other apple-tree!
     Watch the swallers skootin' past
     'Bout as peert as you could ast,
       Er the Bob-white raise and whiz
       Where some other's whistle is

     IV

     Ketch a shadder down below,
     And look up to find the crow—
     Er a hawk,—away up there,
     'Pearantly FROZE in the air!—
       Hear the old hen squawk, and squat
       Over ever' chick she's got,
     Suddent-like!—and she knows where
       That-air hawk is, well as you!—
       You jes' bet yer life she do!—
         Eyes a-glitterin' like glass,
         Waitin' till he makes a pass!

     V

     Pee-wees' singin', to express
       My opinion, 's second class,
     Yit you'll hear 'em more er less;
         Sapsucks gittin' down to biz,
     Weedin' out the lonesomeness;
       Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass,
         In them base-ball clothes o' his,
     Sportin' round the orchard jes'
     Like he owned the premises!
         Sun out in the fields kin sizz,
     But flat on yer back, I guess,
         In the shade's where glory is!
     That's jes' what I'd like to do
     Stiddy fer a year er two!

     VI

     Plague! ef they ain't somepin' in
     Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in'
       My convictions!—'long about
         Here in June especially!—
         Under some old apple-tree,
         Jes' a-restin' through and through
       I could git along without
         Nothin' else at all to do
         Only jes' a-wishin' you
     Wuz a-gittin' there like me,
     And June was eternity!

     VII

     Lay out there and try to see
     Jes' how lazy you kin be!—
          Tumble round and souse yer head
     In the clover-bloom, er pull
            Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes
            And peek through it at the skies,
         Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead,
              Maybe, smilin' back at you
     In betwixt the beautiful
             Clouds o' gold and white and blue.
     Month a man kin railly love
     June, you know, I'm talkin' of!

     VIII

     March ain't never nothin' new!
     Aprile's altogether too
       Brash fer me! and May—I jes'
       'Bominate its promises,
     Little hints o' sunshine and
     Green around the timber-land—
       A few blossoms, and a few
         Chip-birds, and a sprout er two,—
         Drap asleep, and it turns in
         'Fore daylight and SNOWS ag'in!—
     But when JUNE comes—Clear my th'oat
       With wild honey!—Rench my hair
     In the dew! and hold my coat!
         Whoop out loud! and th'ow my hat!—
       June wants me, and I'm to spare!
       Spread them shadders anywhere,
       I'll git down and waller there,
         And obleeged to you at that!