UNCLE DAN'L IN TOWN OVER SUNDAY

I cain't git used to city ways— Ner never could, I' bet my hat! Jevver know jes' whur I was raised?— Raised on a farm! D' ever tell you that? Was undoubtatly, I declare! And now, on Sunday—fun to spare Around a farm! Why jes' to set Up on the top three-cornered rail Of Pap's old place, nigh La Fayette, I'd swap my soul off, hide and tail! You fellers in the city here, You don't know nothin'!—S'pose to-day, This clatterin' Sunday, you waked up Without no jinglin'-janglin' bells, Ner rattlin' of the milkman's cup, Ner any swarm of screechin' birds Like these here English swallers—S'pose Ut you could miss all noise like those, And git shet o' thinkin' of 'em afterwerds, And then, in the country, wake and hear Nothin' but silence—wake and see Nothin' but green woods fur and near?— What sort o' Sunday would that be?... Wisht I hed you home with me! Now think! The laziest of all days— To git up any time—er sleep— Er jes' lay round and watch the haze A-dancin' 'crost the wheat, and keep My pipe a-goern laisurely, And puff and whiff as pleases me— And ef I leave a trail of smoke Clean through the house, no one to say, "Wah! throw that nasty thing away; Hev some regyard fer decency!" To walk round barefoot, if you choose; Er saw the fiddle—er dig some bait And go a-fishin'—er pitch hoss shoes Out in the shade somewhurs, and wait For dinner-time, with an appetite Ut folks in town cain't equal quite! To laze around the barn and poke Fer hens' nests—er git up a match Betwixt the boys, and watch 'em scratch And rassle round, and sweat and swear And quarrel to their hearts' content; And me a-jes' a-settin' there A-hatchin' out more devilment! What sort o' Sunday would that be?... Wisht I hed you home with me!