The up’ard and the down’ard motions of a feller’s teeth,
  And it’s the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood
     mixed.

Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away
  To the summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn,
And the fadin’ afternoon of the long summer day,
  And the dusk and dew a-fallin’, and the night a-comin’
     on.

And thare’s the corn around us, and the lispin’ leaves and
     trees,
And the stars a-peekin’ down on us as still as silver
     mice,
And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and knees,
  And the new-moon hangin’ ore us like a yeller-cored
     slice.

Oh! it’s wortermelon time is a-comin’ round again,
  And they ain’t no man a-livin’ any tickleder’n me,
Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin—­
  Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE

Up and down old Brandywine, In the days ’at’s past and gone—­ With a dad-burn hook-and line And a saplin’ pole—­swawn!  I’ve had more fun, to the square Inch, than ever ANYwhere!  Heaven to come can’t discount MINE Up and down old Brandywine!

Hain’t no sense in wishin’—­yit
    Wisht to goodness I could jes
“Gee” the blame’ world round and git
    Back to that old happiness!—­
        Kindo’ drive back in the shade
        “The old Covered Bridge” there laid
        ‘Crosst the crick, and sorto’ soak
        My soul over, hub and spoke!

Honest, now!—­it hain’t no dream
    ’At I’m wantin’,—­but the FAC’S
As they wuz; the same old stream,
    And the same old times, i jacks!—­
        Gim me back my bare feet—­and
        Stonebruise too!—­And scratched and tanned! 
        And let hottest dog-days shine
        Up and down old Brandywine!

In and on betwixt the trees
    ’Long the banks, pour down yer noon,
Kindo’ curdled with the breeze
    And the yallerhammer’s tune;
        And the smokin’, chokin’ dust
        O’ the turnpike at its wusst—­
        SATURD’YS, say, when it seems
        Road’s jes jammed with country teams!—­

Whilse the old town, fur away
    ’Crosst the hazy pastur’-land,
Dozed-like in the heat o’ day
    Peaceful’ as a hired hand. 
        Jolt the gravel th’ough the floor
        O’ the old bridge!—­grind and roar
        With yer blame percession-line—­
        Up and down old Brandywine!

Souse me and my new straw-hat
    Off the foot-log!—­what I care?—­
Fist shoved in the crown o’ that—­
    Like the old Clown ust to wear. 
        Wouldn’t swop it fer a’ old
        Gin-u-wine raal crown o’ gold!—­
        Keep yer King ef you’ll gim me
        Jes the boy I ust to be!