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!

WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES

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!

WET-WEATHER TALK

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!