Le’ ’s let up on this blame’, infernal Tongue-lashin’ and lap-jacket vauntin’ And git back home to the eternal Ca’m we’re a-wantin’. Peace kind o’ sort o’ suits my diet―― When women does my cookin’ for me, Ther’ wasn’t overly much pie et Durin’ the army. ¹ By Permission of the Century Co. * * * * * OUR HIRED GIRL.¹ FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.” OUR hired girl, she’s ’Lizabuth Ann; An’ she can cook best things to eat! She ist puts dough in our pie-pan, An’ pours in somepin’ ’at ’s good an’ sweet; An’ nen she salts it all on top With cinnamon; an’ nen she’ll stop An’ stoop an’ slide it, ist as slow, In th’ old cook-stove, so ’s ’t wont slop An’ git all spilled; nen bakes it, so It’s custard-pie, first thing you know! An’ nen she’ll say, “Clear out o’ my way! They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play! Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run! Er I cain’t git no cookin’ done!” When our hired girl ’tends like she’s mad, An’ says folks got to walk the chalk When _she’s_ around, er wisht they had! I play out on our porch an’ talk To th’ Raggedy Man ’t mows our lawn; An’ he says, “_Whew!_” an’ nen leans on His old crook-scythe, and blinks his eyes, An’ sniffs all ’round an’ says, “I swawn! Ef my old nose don’t tell me lies, It ’pears like I smell custard-pies!” An’ nen _he’ll_ say, “Clear out o’ my way! They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play! Take yer dough, an’ run, child, run! Er she cain’t git no cookin’ done!” Wunst our hired girl, when she Got the supper, an’ we all et, An’ it wuz night, an’ Ma an’ me An’ Pa went wher’ the “Social” met,―― An’ nen when we come home, an’ see A light in the kitchen-door, an’ we Heerd a maccordeun, Pa says, “Lan’- O’-Gracious! who can _her_ beau be?” An’ I marched in, an’ ’Lizabuth Ann Wuz parchin’ corn fer the Raggedy Man! _Better_ say, “Clear out o’ the way! They’s time fer work, an’ time fer play! Take the hint, an’ run, child, run! Er we cain’t git no courtin’ done!” ¹ By permission of The Century Co. * * * * * THE RAGGEDY MAN.¹ FROM “POEMS HERE AT HOME.”