THE CALL OF THE HOMESTEAD

There's a dear, little spot, near my Hoosier hometown, Where the mortgage runs up as the buildings run down, That I love to return to, a restful retreat, Just to slush around there with the mud on my feet. There's the forked, wormy apple-tree, dead to the bark, And the sickle and grindstone, brought out of the Ark; And the Shed, where I fled, with my illicit pipe, To assuage stomach-aches when green apples were "ripe." There's the collar and churn, worn by Dash day by day, And the chain that prevented his running away; And the yoke for the oxen—Haw, Buck! and Gee, Bride! And the Troth for the Squealers the hen-house beside. There's the Dovecote, unroofed, and the sweep by the well, And the ooze in the barnyard and natural-gas smell: There's the hayrake and silo; the tin weathervane, And the two, moss-grown graves where the Old Folks were lain. And the milk-stools are there, and the cowpath and stile; And a few hardy scarecrows remain yet awhile; And the taxes, unpaid, still appear on the book Of the County Collector, Nathaniel U. Crook. So I keep coming back, to my old Hoosier shack, To inhale the sweet mildew of hay in the stack, And to drink from the spring where the bull-frogs abound That protect the young cowslips that grow all around. Now the mortgage is due and the int'rest unpaid, And I can't get a cent for the place, I'm afraid; But I love to return here, at vacation time, Just to revel again in the mud and the slime.