I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin' sound When you split one down the back and jolt the halves in two, And the friends you love the best is gethered all around-- And you says unto your sweethart, "Oh, here's the core fer you!" And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 'em all, Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delight As one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls, And they holler fer some more, with unquenched appetite. Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see 'em eat-- A slice of wortermelon's like a frenchharp in theyr hands, And when they "saw" it through theyr mouth sich music can't be beat-- 'Cause it's music both the sperit and the stummick understands. Oh, they's more in wortermelons than the purty-colored meat, And the overflowin' sweetness of the worter squshed betwixt The up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth, And it's the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood mixed. Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away To the summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn, And the fadin' afternoon of the long summer day, And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the night a'comin' on. And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves and trees, And the stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silver mice, And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and knees, And the new-moon hangin' ore us like a yeller-cored slice. Oh! it's wortermelon time is a-comin' round again, And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me, Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin-- Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see. MY PHILOSOFY I ain't, ner don't p'tend to be, Much posted on philosofy; But thare is times, when all alone, I work out idees of my own. And of these same thare is a few I'd like to jest refer to you-- Pervidin' that you don't object To listen clos't and rickollect. I allus argy that a man Who does about the best he can Is plenty good enugh to suit This lower mundane institute-- No matter ef his daily walk Is subject fer his neghbor's talk, And critic-minds of ev'ry whim Jest all git up and go fer him! I knowed a feller onc't that had The yeller-janders mighty bad,-- And each and ev'ry friend he'd meet Would stop and give him some receet Fer cuorin' of 'em. But he'd say He kindo' thought they'd go away Without no medicin', and boast That he'd git well without one doste. He kep' a-yellerin' on--and they Perdictin' that he'd die some day Before he knowed it! Tuck his bed, The feller did, and lost his head, And wundered in his mind a spell-- Then rallied, and, at last, got well; But ev'ry friend that said he'd die Went back on him eternally!