the joys of winter! Whut's the fun of foolin' round
With the posies dead en buried, en the snows upon the ground?
When the wind's a-tossin' blizzards in a most distressin' way
Tell you have to set a-straddle of the fire-place all the day!
But I tell ye life's a-livin' when the summer grows the grass
Over all the nooks en crannies whayre a feller's feet kin pass,
En the whole world seems of heaven but a half-forgotten type,
When the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter-millons ripe!

II.

Roas'in'-ears is best of eatin', though not very much fer style!
Shuck an arm-full fer yer dinner, sot 'em on en let 'em bile;
Salt 'em well, en smear some butter on the juicy cobs ez sweet
Ez the lips of maple-suger thet yer sweet-heart has to eat!
Talk about ole Mount Olympus en the stuff them roosters spread
On theyr tables when they feasted,--nectar drink, ambrosia bread,--
Why, I tell ye, fellers, never would I swop the grub I swipe
When the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter millons ripe!

III.

Near the sugar camps of glory is the worter millon patch
Like a great big nest of goodies thet is jest a-gone to hatch;
En ye take yer thumb en finger in an ecstasy so drunk
Thet ye hardly hear the music of theyr dreamy plunky-plunk!
En the griefs air gone ferever, en the sorrers lose control
Ez ye feed the angel in ye on the honeys of a soul,
En ye smack yer lips with laughter while the birds of heaven pipe,
When the roas'in'-ears air plenty en the worter-millons ripe!

IV.

O, the darlin' days of summer when the stars of plenty shine
With the apples in the orchard en the graps upon the vine!
When the hedges bud en blossom, en the medders rich en rare
Breathe the perfumes of the clovers like an incense everywhayre!
En the world seems like yer mother, with the tender hands thet bless
All the restless race of struggle with a heaped-up happiness,
En her han'kerchiefs of glory from yer eyes the weepin's wipe,
When the roas'in'-ears is plenty en the worter-millons ripe!

Don't You Fret.

Don't you fret about the weather
'Cause it seems a little hot;
You will find it rather sultry
Over yonder, like as not!
And unless you mend your manners
You will land without a doubt,
Where the brim-stone keeps a blazin'
And the fire is never out!

The Kingbolt Philosopher.

"In spite of whut