Till, filled with other thought, I turn again To where the pathway enters in a realm Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign Of towering oak and elm. A puritanic quiet here reviles The almost whispered warble from the hedge. And takes a locust's rasping voice and files The silence to an edge. In such a solitude my sombre way Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom Of his own shadows--till the perfect day Bursts into sudden bloom, And crowns a long, declining stretch of space, Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled. And where the valley's dint in Nature's face Dimples a smiling world. And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled, I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams, Where, like a gem in costly setting held, The old log cabin gleams. O darling Pathway! lead me bravely on Adown your alley-way, and run before Among the roses crowding up the lawn And thronging at the door,-- And carry up the echo there that shall Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay The household out to greet the prodigal That wanders home to-day. WORTERMELON TIME Old 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. Oh! it's in the sandy soil wortermelons does the best, And it's thare they'll lay and waller in the sunshine and the dew Tel they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyr breast; And you bet I ain't a-findin' any fault with them; ain't you? They ain't no better thing in the vegetable line; And they don't need much 'tendin', as ev'ry farmer knows; And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine, I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows. It's some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red. And it's some says "The Little Californy" is the best; But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head, Is the old "Edingburg Mounting-sprout," of the west You don't want no punkins nigh your wortermelon vines-- 'Cause, some-way-another, they'll spile your melons, shore;-- I've seed 'em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines, Which may be a fact you have heerd of before But your melons that's raised right and 'tended to with care, You can walk around amongst 'em with a parent's pride and joy, And thump 'em on the heads with as fatherly a air As ef each one of them was your little girl er boy.