Mos’ potes will all spring suthin’ on ye ’bout russet, An’ ox-blood, an’ fawn, an’ maroon; But they never was here in the “yeller an’ sere”, An’ reality aint in the’r toon. I’ll go further yit an’ say thet the shades O’ them colors I plainly kin see Is ev’ry durn hue in the specktum but blue, An’ mebby that’s thar fer all me. Co’se it’s up in the sky whar ye’d reckon ’t ’ud be, Sort o’ balancin’ up the whole; Yew put ’em tergether in _this_ kind o’ weather An’ it’s eye-musick, pard, fer yer soul! The glint o’ the sun on our Fall wheat fiel’s— More em’raldy now then in May— Is Nacher’s own dope on thet undyin’ hope Thet keeps us a-pluggin’ away. They’s a nawful sweet peece kind o’ hangin’ aroun’ An’ it’s great by this ’ere shock o’ stover Ter feel the ol’ Earth all set fer re-birth When the War an’ the Winter is over.