TO-DAY I strayed in Charing Cross, as wretched as could be, With thinking of my home and friends across the tumbling sea; There was no water in my eyes, but my spirits were depressed, And my heart lay like a sodden, soggy doughnut in my breast. This way and that streamed multitudes, that gayly passed me by; Not one in all the crowd knew me, and not a one knew I. "Oh for a touch of home!" I sighed; "oh for a friendly face! Oh for a hearty hand-clasp in this teeming, desert place!" And so soliloquizing, as a homesick creature will, Incontinent, I wandered down the noisy, bustling hill, And drifted, automatic-like and vaguely, into Lowe's, Where Fortune had in store a panacea for my woes. The register was open, and there dawned upon my sight A name that filled and thrilled me with a cyclone of delight,-- The name that I shall venerate unto my dying day,-- The proud, immortal signature: "John Smith, U. S. A." Wildly I clutched the register, and brooded on that name; I knew John Smith, yet could not well identify the same. I knew him North, I knew him South, I knew him East and West; I knew him all so well I knew not which I knew the best. His eyes, I recollect, were gray, and black, and brown, and blue; And when he was not bald, his hair was of chameleon hue; Lean, fat, tall, short, rich, poor, grave, gay, a blonde, and a brunette,-- Aha, amid this London fog, John Smith, I see you yet! I see you yet; and yet the sight is all so blurred I seem To see you in composite, or as in a waking dream. Which are you, John? I'd like to know, that I might weave a rhyme Appropriate to your character, your politics, and clime. So tell me, were you "raised" or "reared"? your pedigree confess In some such treacherous ism as "I reckon" or "I guess." Let fall your telltale dialect, that instantly I may Identify my countryman, "John Smith, U. S. A." It's like as not you air the John that lived aspell ago Deown East, where codfish, beans, 'nd _bona-fide_ schoolma'ams grow; Where the dear old homestead nestles like among the Hampshire hills, And where the robin hops about the cherry-boughs 'nd trills; Where Hubbard squash 'nd huckleberries grow to powerful size, And everything is orthodox from preachers down to pies; Where the red-wing blackbirds swing 'nd call beside the pickril pond, And the crows air cawin' in the pines uv the pasture lot beyond; Where folks complain uv bein' poor, because their money's lent Out West on farms 'nd railroads at the rate uv ten per cent; Where we ust to spark the Baker girls a-comin' home from choir, Or a-settin' namin' apples round the roarin' kitchen fire; Where we had to go to meetin' at least three times a week, And our mothers learnt us good religious Dr. Watts to speak; And where our grandmas sleep their sleep--God rest their souls, I say; And God bless yours, ef you're that John, "John Smith, U. S. A."