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”

“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!