A SONG OF LONG AGO

A song of Long Ago: 
Sing it lightly—­sing it low—­
Sing it softly—­like the lisping of the lips we
  used to know
When our baby-laughter spilled
From the glad hearts ever filled
With music blithe as robin ever trilled!

Let the fragrant summer breeze,
And the leaves of locust-trees,
And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the
    wings of honey-bees,
All palpitate with glee,
Till the happy harmony
Brings back each childish joy to you and me.

Let the eyes of fancy turn
Where the tumbled pippins burn
Like embers in the orchard’s lap of tangled
    grass and fern,—­
There let the old path wind
In and out and on behind
The cider-press that chuckles as we grind.

Blend in the song the moan
Of the dove that grieves alone,
And the wild whir of the locust, and the
    bumble’s drowsy drone;
And the low of cows that call
Through the pasture-bars when all
The landscape fades away at evenfall.

Then, far away and clear,
Through the dusky atmosphere,
Let the wailing of the killdee be the only
    sound we hear: 
O sad and sweet and low
As the memory may know
Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago!

OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM

I have jest about decided
  It ‘ud keep a town-boy hoppin’
  Fer to work all winter, choppin’
Fer a’ old fireplace, like I did! 
Lawz! them old times wuz contrairy!—­
  Blame’ backbone o’ winter, ’peared-like
  wouldn’t break!—­and I wuz skeered-like
Clean on into FEB’UARY! 
  Nothin’ ever made me madder
Than fer Pap to stomp in, layin’
In a’ extra forestick, say’in’,
  “Groun’-hog’s out and seed his shadder!”

ROMANCIN’

I’ b’en a-kindo’ “musin’,” as the feller says, and I’m
  About o’ the conclusion that they hain’t no better
    time,
When you come to cipher on it, than the times we ust to
  know
When we swore our first “dog-gone-it” sorto’ solum-like
  and low!

You git my idy, do you?—­Little tads, you understand—­
Jest a-wishin’ thue and thue you that you on’y wuz a
       man.—­
Yit here I am, this minit, even sixty, to a day,
And fergittin’ all that’s in it, wishm’ jest the other way!

I hain’t no hand to lectur’ on the times, er dimonstrate
Whare the trouble is, er hector and domineer with Fate,—­
But when I git so flurried, and so pestered-like and blue,
And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what I
      do!—­

I jest gee-haw the hosses, and onhook the swingle-tree,
Whare the hazel-bushes tosses down theyr shadders over
      me;
And I draw my plug o’ navy, and I climb the fence, and
      set
Jest a-thinkin’ here, i gravy’ tel my eyes is wringin’-wet!