And there set me and Mother--me a-twistin' at the prongs Of a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair of tongs, And Mother sayin', "_David! David!_" in a' undertone, As though she thought that I was thinkin' bad-words unbeknown. "I've dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow," Mother said, A-tryin' to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubborn head,-- "And the mince-meat I'm a-mixin' is perfection mighty nigh; And the pound-cake is delicious-rich--" "Who'll eat 'em?" I-says-I. "The cramberries is drippin-sweet," says Mother, runnin' on, P'tendin' not to hear me;--"and somehow I thought of John All the time they was a-jellin'--fer you know they allus was His favour--he likes 'em so!" Says I, "Well, s'pose he does?" "Oh, nothin' much!" says Mother, with a quiet sort o' smile-- "This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you after while!" And as I turned and looked around, some one riz up and leant And put his arms round Mother's neck, and laughed in low content. "It's _me_," he says--"your fool-boy John, come back to shake your hand; Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you understand How dearer yit than all the world is this old home that we Will spend Thanksgivin' in fer life--jest Mother, you and me!" * * * * * * Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John, Except of course the extry he'p, when harvest-time comes on; And then, I want to say to you, we _need_ sich he'p about, As you'd admit, ef you could see the way the crops turns out! NORTH AND SOUTH. Of the North I wove a dream, All bespangled with the gleam Of the glancing wings of swallows Dipping ripples in a stream, That, like a tide of wine, Wound through lands of shade and shine Where purple grapes hung bursting on the vine. And where orchard-boughs were bent Till their tawny fruitage blent With the golden wake that marked the Way the happy reapers went; Where the dawn died into noon As the May-mists into June, And the dusk fell like a sweet face in a swoon. Of the South I dreamed: And there Came a vision clear and fair As the marvelous enchantments Of the mirage of the air; And I saw the bayou-trees, With their lavish draperies, Hang heavy o'er the moon-washed cypress-knees. Peering from lush fens of rice, I beheld the Negro's eyes, Lit with that old superstition Death itself can not disguise; And I saw the palm tree nod Like an oriental god, And the cotton froth and bubble from the pod, And I dreamed that North and South, With a sigh of dew and drouth, Blew each unto the other The salute of lip and mouth; And I wakened, awed and thrilled-- Every doubting murmur stilled In the silence of the dream I found fulfilled. THE IRON HORSE.