“AUNT SALLY.”

O’ I tell you she’s a picter That no artist couldn’t draw, As she sets there in the open kitchen door, With the sunlight streamin’ down On her quaint old-fashioned gown, An’ the shadders stretchin’ in across the floor. An’ the ivy-vines a-twinin’ Lend a sort o’ glory round, When the listless autumn lights lie on the land, There she takes her drowsy nap, With her Bible in her lap, Like as ef she’s claspin’ heaven by the hand. There’s a sort o’ blendin’ beauty ’Twixt her cap-rim an’ her face, An’ the hollyhocks an’ rustlin’ ripened corn, An’ the crickets chirpin’ there, On the soft untroubled air, “It is harvest time, Aunt Sally, summer’s gone.”