Tennessee Bob Taylor’s fiddle and bow, Virginia Thomas Jefferson’s mountain and shroud, Kentucky the log cradle of the proud. Maryland a plow, Delaware a pruning hook, Indiana Riley’s Hoosier book, Wisconsin a caldron, cool it who can, Ohio Johnny Appleseed’s park for man. Vermont a poet’s house, with waterfall and fern, Where Frost writes songs that the world will learn. New Jersey the doorstep of the nation, Pennsylvania the front room of the nation, Where once Penn welcomed all creation And let them sleep on the grassy floor And let them eat the wild berries and explore. Rhode Island, Roger Williams’ holy place, Connecticut, an arbor of innocence and grace Filled with flowers, and souls like lace, Especially one little girl six years young Who tells me stories in the fairy tongue. New Hampshire the mast of the Mayflower, Massachusetts the prow of the Mayflower, Most famous ark forevermore. The whole map a temple, if we patiently read, With the statue of Liberty in majesty to plead For Arcady to come once more, And with New York on guard, New York a sentinel, New York a lion by the door. By my camp fire I grew older, There were chipmunks on my shoulder, While I saw the world, With the eyes of my boat, As one land, With Asia and Alaska by the ice bound as one, The Aurora Borealis was a cross bright as the sun. I seemed to live through myriad days. My eyes looked down like searching rays. I took my flight over many races, I saw, in my thought, all human faces. And my spirit had its fill. And the thread in my wrist wound in again The cobweb shortened, strand on strand, And my little ship came back to land And was only a feather in my hand. SO MUCH THE WORSE FOR BOSTON [Sidenote: _Some words about singing this song, Are written this border along._] I read the aspens like a book, and every leaf was signed, And I climbed above the aspen-grove to read what I could find On Mount Clinton, Colorado, I met a mountain-cat. I will call him “Andrew Jackson,” and I mean no harm by that. He was growling, and devouring a terrific mountain-rat. But when the feast was ended, the mountain-cat was kind, And showed a pretty smile, and spoke his mind. “I am dreaming of old Boston,” he said, and wiped his jaws. [Illustration: THE BIG EARED RAT OF BOSTON] “I have often HEARD of Boston,” and he folded in his paws, “Boston, Massachusetts, a mountain bold and great. I will tell you all about it, if you care to curl and wait. [Sidenote: _If I cannot sing in the aspens’ tongue, If I know not what they say, Then I have never gone to school, And have wasted all my day._]