the air--!
Hear the old hen squawk, and squat
Over ever' chick she's got,
Suddent-like--! And she knows where
That-air hawk is, well as you--!
You jes' bet yer life she do--!
Eyes a-glittern' like glass,
Waitin' till he makes a pass!

5
Pee-wees' singin', to express
My opinion, 's second class,
Yit you'll hear 'em more er less;
Sapsucks gittin' down to biz,
Weedin' out the lonesomeness;
Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass,
In them base-ball clothes o' his,
Sportin' round the orchard jes'
Life he owned the premises!
Sun out in the fields kin sizz,
But flat on yer back, I guess,
In the shade's where glory is!
That's jes' what I'd like to do
Stiddy fer a year er two!

6
Plague! Ef they ain't somepin' in
Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in'
My convictions--! 'Long about
Here in June especially--!
Under some old apple-tree,
Jes' a-restin' through and through,
I could git along without
Nothin' else at all to do
Only jes' a-wishin' you
Wuz a-gittin' there like me,
And June was eternity!

7
Lay out there and try to see
Jes' how lazy you kin be--!
Tumble round and souse yer head
In the clover-bloom, er pull
Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes
And peek through it at the skies,
Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead,
Maybe, smilin' back at you
In betwixt the 'beautiful
Clouds o' gold and white and blue--!
Month a man kin railly love
June, you know, I'm talkin' of!

8
March ain't never nothin' new--!
Aprile's altogether too
Brash fer me! And May-- I jes'
'Bominate its promises--,
Little hints o' sunshine and
Green around the timber-land--
A few blossoms, and a few
Chip-birds, and a sprout er two--,
Drap asleep, and it turns in
'Fore daylight and snows ag'in--!
But when June comes-- Clear my th'oat
With wild honey--! Rench my hair
In the dew! And hold my coat!
Whoop out loud! And th'ow my hat--!
June wants me, and I'm to spare!
Spread them shadders anywhere,
I'll git down and waller there,
And obleeged to you at that!

_When The Hearse Comes Back_

A thing 'at's 'bout as tryin' as a healthy man kin meet
Is some poor feller's funeral a-joggin' 'long the street:
The slow hearse and the hosses-- slow enough, to say at least,
Fer to even tax the patience of gentleman deceased!
The low scrunch of the gravel-- and the slow grind of the wheels--,
The slow, slow go of ev'ry woe 'at ev'rybody feels!
So I ruther like the contrast when I hear the whip-lash crack
A quickstep fer the hosses,