stop and think of somethin' that's a good deal sweeter 'n that; And the lightsome girlish figger trippin', skippin' down the lane, Kills his mem'ry full of sunshine, but it's sunshine mixed with rain,—   For, yer see, it sets him dreamin' of Septembers that he knew When he went a cranb'r'y pickin' and a girl went with him, too. Oh, the cool September mornin's, why, their freshness seems ter roll Like a wave of life a-liftin' up yer everlastin' soul, And the earth and all that's on it seems a-bustin' inter rhyme So's ter sing a big thanksgivin' fer the comin' harvest-time; And I want ter jine the chorus and ter tell 'em fur and near That I hain't got wealth nor beauty, but I'm mighty glad I'm here; That I'm getting old and wrinkled, like the husks around the corn, But my heart is all the sweeter on a bright September morn.  

 

 

     NOVEMBER'S COME 

  Hey, you swelled-up turkey feller! Struttin' round so big and proud. Pretty quick I guess your beller Won't be goin' quite so loud. Say, I'd run and hide, I bet you, And I'd leave off eatin' some, Else the choppin'-block'll get you,—     Don't you know November's come? Don't you know that Grandma's makin'     Loads of mince and pun'kin pies? Don't you smell those goodies cookin'? Can't you see 'em? Where's your eyes? Tell that rooster there that's crowin', Cute folks now are keepin' mum; They don't show how fat they 're growin'     When they know November's come.    'Member when you tried ter lick me? Yes, you did, and hurt me, too! Thought't was big ter chase and pick me,—     Well, I'll soon be pickin' you. Oh, I know you 're big and hearty, So you needn't strut and drum,—   Better make your will out, smarty,     'Cause, you know, November's come.    "Gobble! gobble!" oh, no matter! Pretty quick you'll change your tune; You'll be dead and in a platter,     And I'll gobble pretty soon.   'F I was you I'd stop my puffin', And I'd look most awful glum;—   Hope they give you lots of stuffin'! Ain't you glad November's come?  

 

     THE WINTER NIGHTS AT HOME 

  A stretch of hill and valley, swathed thick in robes of white, The buildings blots of blackness, the windows gems of light, A moon, now clear, now hidden, as in its headlong race The north wind drags the cloud-wrack in tatters o'er its face; Mailed twigs that click and clatter upon the tossing tree, And, like a giant's chanting, 

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