When the green gits back in the trees, and bees Is a-buzzin' aroun' ag'in In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please Old gait they bum roun' in; When the groun's all bald whare the hay-rick stood, And the crick's riz, and the breeze Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood, And the green gits back in the trees,-- I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these, The time when the green gits back in the trees! When the whole tail-feathers o' Wintertime Is all pulled out and gone! And the sap it thaws and begins to climb, And the swet it starts out on A feller's forred, a-gittin' down At the old spring on his knees-- I kindo' like jest a-loaferin' roun' When the green gits back in the trees-- Jest a-potterin' roun' as I--durn--please- When the green, you know, gits back in the trees! WET-WEATHER TALK It hain't no use to grumble and complane; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.-- When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y, rain's my choice. Men ginerly, to all intents-- Although they're apt to grumble some-- Puts most theyr trust in Providence, And takes things as they come-- That is, the commonality Of men that's lived as long as me Has watched the world enugh to learn They're not the boss of this concern. With SOME, of course, it's different-- I've saw YOUNG men that knowed it all, And didn't like the way things went On this terrestchul ball;-- But all the same, the rain, some way, Rained jest as hard on picnic day; Er, when they railly WANTED it, It mayby wouldn't rain a bit! In this existunce, dry and wet Will overtake the best of men-- Some little skift o' clouds'll shet The sun off now and then.-- And mayby, whilse you're wundern who You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to, And WANT it--out'll pop the sun, And you'll be glad you hain't got none! It aggervates the farmers, too-- They's too much wet, er too much sun, Er work, er waitin' round to do Before the plowin' 's done: And mayby, like as not, the wheat, Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat, Will ketch the storm--and jest about The time the corn's a-jintin' out. These-here CY-CLONES a-foolin' round-- And back'ard crops!--and wind and rain!-- And yit the corn that's wallerd down May elbow up again!-- They hain't no sense, as I can see, Fer mortuls, sich as us, to be A-faultin' Natchur's wise intents, And lockin' horns with Providence! It hain't no use to grumble and complane; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.-- When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y, rain's my choice. THE BROOK-SONG