The Summer's put the idy in My head that I'm a boy again; And all around's so bright and gay I want to put my team away, And jest git out whare I can lay And soak my hide full of the day! But work is work, and must be done-- Yit, as I work, I have my fun, Jest fancyin' these furries here Is childhood's paths onc't more so dear:-- And as I walk through medder-lands, And country lanes, and swampy trails Whare long bullrushes bresh my hands; And, tilted on the ridered rails Of deadnin' fences, "Old Bob White" Whissels his name in high delight, And whirrs away. I wunder still, Whichever way a boy's feet will-- Whare trees has fell, with tangled tops Whare dead leaves shakes, I stop fer breth, Heerin' the acorn as it drops-- H'istin' my chin up still as deth, And watchin' clos't, with upturned eyes, The tree where Mr. Squirrel tries To hide hisse'f above the limb, But lets his own tale tell on him. I wunder on in deeper glooms-- Git hungry, hearin' female cries From old farm-houses, whare perfumes Of harvest dinners seems to rise And ta'nt a feller, hart and brane, With memories he can't explane. I wunder through the underbresh, Whare pig-tracks, pintin' to'rds the crick, Is picked and printed in the fresh Black bottom-lands, like wimmern pick Theyr pie-crusts with a fork, some way, When bakin' fer camp-meetin' day. I wunder on and on and on, Tel my gray hair and beard is gone, And ev'ry wrinkle on my brow Is rubbed clean out and shaddered now With curls as brown and fare and fine As tenderls of the wild grape-vine That ust to climb the highest tree To keep the ripest ones fer me. I wunder still, and here I am Wadin' the ford below the dam-- The worter chucklin' round my knee At hornet-welt and bramble-scratch, And me a-slippin' 'crost to see Ef Tyner's plums is ripe, and size The old man's wortermelon-patch, With juicy mouth and drouthy eyes. Then, after sich a day of mirth And happiness as worlds is wurth-- So tired that heaven seems nigh about,-- The sweetest tiredness on earth Is to git home and flatten out-- So tired you can't lay flat enugh, And sorto' wish that you could spred Out like molasses on the bed, And jest drip off the aidges in The dreams that never comes again. A HYMB OF FAITH O, Thou that doth all things devise And fashon fer the best, He'p us who sees with mortul eyes To overlook the rest. They's times, of course, we grope in doubt, And in afflictions sore; So knock the louder, Lord, without, And we'll unlock the door. Make us to feel, when times looks bad And tears in pitty melts, Thou wast the only he'p we had When they was nothin' else.