At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a better chance- That we ort to educate him, under any circumstance; And John he j'ined his mother, and they ding-donged and kep' on, Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he was gone. But--I missed him--w'y, of course I did!--The Fall and Winter through I never built the kitchen-fire, er split a stick in two, Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrel-pin, But what I thought o' John, and wished that he was home ag'in. He'd come, sometimes--on Sund'ys most--and stay the Sund'y out; And on Thanksgivin'-Day he 'peared to like to be about: But a change was workin' on him--he was stiller than before, And didn't joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle any more. And his talk was all so proper; and I noticed, with a sigh, He was tryin' to raise side-whiskers, and had on a striped tie, And a standin'-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as bone; And a breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat of his own. But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was to come home And he'p me through the season, I was glad to see him come, But my happiness, that evening, with the settin' sun went down, When he bragged of "a position" that was offered him in town. "But," says I, "you'll not accept it?" "W'y, of course I will," says he.-- "This drudgin' on a farm," he says, "is not the life fer me; I've set my stakes up higher," he continued, light and gay, "And town's the place fer ME, and I'm a-goin' right away!" And go he did!--his mother clingin' to him at the gate, A-pleadin' and a-cryin'; but it hadn't any weight. I was tranquiller, and told her 'twarn't no use to worry so, And onclasped her arms from round his neck round mine --and let him go! I felt a little bitter feelin' foolin' round about The aidges of my conscience; but I didn't let it out;-- I simply retch out, trimbly-like, and tuk the boy's hand, And though I didn't say a word, I knowed he'd under- stand. And--well!--sence then the old home here was mighty lonesome, shore! With me a-workin' in the field, and Mother at the door, Her face ferever to'rds the town, and fadin' more and more-- Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin' in a store! The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes the boy would write A letter to his mother, sayin' that his work was light, And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit-- Though his business was confinin', he was gittin' used to it.