Old John Clevenger lets on, Allus, like he's purty rough Timber.--He's a grate old John!-- "Rough?"--don't swaller no sich stuff! Moved here, sence the war was through, From Ohio--somers near Old Bucyrus,--loyal, too, As us "Hoosiers" is to _here_! Git old John stirred up a bit On his old home stompin'-ground-- Talks same as he lived thare yit, When some subject brings it round-- Like, fer instunce, Sund'y last, Fetched his wife, and et and stayed All night with us.--Set and gassed Tel plum midnight--'cause I made Some remark 'bout "buckeyes" and "What was buckeyes good fer?"--So, Like I 'lowed, he waved his hand And lit in and let me know:-- "'What is Buckeyes good fer?'--What's _Pineys_ and _fergitmenots_?-- Honeysuckles, and sweet peas, And sweet-williamsuz, and these Johnny-jump-ups ev'rywhare, Growin' round the roots o' trees In Spring-weather?--what air _they_ Good fer?--kin you tell me--_Hey?_ 'Good to look at?' Well they air! 'Specially when _Winter's_ gone, Clean _dead-certin!_ and the wood's Green again, and sun feels good's June!--and shed your blame boots on The back porch, and lit out to Roam round like you ust to do, Bare-foot, up and down the crick, Whare the buckeyes growed so thick, And witch-hazel and pop-paws, And hackberries and black-haws-- With wild pizen-vines jis knit _Over_ and _en-nunder_ it, And wove round it all, I jing! Tel you couldn't hardly stick A durn _caseknife_ through the thing! Wriggle round through _that_; and then-- All het-up, and scratched and tanned, And muskeeter-bit and mean- Feelin'--all at onc't again, Come out suddent on a clean Slopin' little hump o' green Dry soft grass, as fine and grand As a pollor-sofy!--And Jis pile down thare!--and tell _me_ _Anywhares_ you'd ruther be-- 'Ceptin' _right thare_, with the wild- Flowrs all round ye, and your eyes Smilin' with 'em at the skies, Happy as a little child! Well!--right here, _I_ want to say, Poets kin talk all they please 'Bout 'wild-flowrs, in colors gay,' And 'sweet blossoms flauntin' theyr Beauteous fragrunce on the breeze'-- But the sight o' _buckeyes_ jis Sweet to me as _blossoms_ is!