Or wuz you that John Smith I knew out yonder in the West-- That part of our republic I shall always love the best? Wuz you him that went prospectin' in the spring of sixty-nine In the Red Hoss mountain country for the Gosh-All-Hemlock Mine? Oh, how I'd like to clasp your hand an' set down by your side And talk about the good old days beyond the big divide; Of the rackaboar, the snaix, the bear, the Rocky Mountain goat, Of the conversazzhyony 'nd of Casey's tabble-dote, And a word of them old pardners that stood by us long ago (Three-Fingered Hoover, Sorry Tom and Parson Jim, you know)! Old times, old friends, John Smith, would make our hearts beat high again, And we'd see the snow-top mountain like we used to see 'em then; The magpies would go flutterin' like strange sperrits to 'nd fro, And we'd hear the pines a-singing' in the ragged gulch below; And the mountain brook would loiter like upon its windin' way, Ez if it waited for a child to jine it in its play. You see, John Smith, just which you are I cannot well recall, And, really, I am pleased to think you somehow must be all! For when a man sojourns abroad awhile (as I have done) He likes to think of all the folks he left at home as one-- And so they are! For well you know there's nothing in a name--- Our Browns, our Joneses and our Smiths are happily the same; All represent the spirit of the land across the sea, All stand for one high purpose in our country of the free! Whether John Smith be from the South, the North, the West, the East-- So long as he's American, it mattereth not the least; Whether his crest be badger, bear, palmetto, sword or pine, He is the glory of the stars that with the stripes combine! Where'er he be, whate'er his lot, he's eager to be known, Not by his mortal name, but by his country's name alone! And so, compatriot, I am proud you wrote your name to-day Upon the register at Lowe's, "John Smith, U.S.A." THE FISHERMAN'S FEAST. Of all the gracious gifts of Spring, Is there another can safely surpass This delicate, voluptuous thing-- This dapple-green, plump-shouldered bass? Upon a damask napkin laid, What exhalations superfine Our gustatory nerves pervade, Provoking quenchless thirsts for wine. The ancients loved this noble fish, And, coming from the kitchen fire All piping hot upon a dish, What raptures did he not inspire! "Fish should swim twice," they used to say-- Once in their native vapid brine, And then a better way-- You understand? Fetch on the wine! Ah, dainty monarch of the flood, How often have I cast for you-- How often sadly seen you scud Where weeds and pussy willows grew! How often have you filched my bait! How often have you snapped my treacherous line!-- Yet here I have you on this plate. You _shall_ swim twice, and _now_ in _wine_!