IN TENNESSEE.
Where the Mississippi washes
Round the shores of Tennessee,
There’s a large and stately forest,
And it’s very dear to me.
There I roamed in days of boyhood
With companions free from care,
As the tree tops sway ed above us
With the west wind playing there.
There we hunted ducks and turkeys;
Or as leaves came drifting down,
Sat and watched the graceful squirrel—
Heard the distant deep-mouthed hound.
I can see the old tent standing,
Scent the fragrant coffee pot,
And can see the fish a-frying
On the coals so red and hot.
We could hear the steamboat whistle,
Coming to us from afar;
And the wild geese loudly calling
Far out on the sandy bar.
As the darkness gathered round us,
The tree tops bare and high
Seemed to touch with inky fingers
The azure autumn sky.
And the shadows in beneath them,
Where the firelight did not go,
Made a background for dream pictures
In those days of long ago.
Ah, those faces in the firelight
Glowed with ruddy health and joy,
As I pictured golden futures
Round the camp fire as a boy.
I have walked the crowded city,
With restless, weary feet—
In search of praise and pleasure—
But neither seemed complete.
For the wine the city offers
Must be drunk in little sips,
Or like the Dead Sea apples
’Twill be ashes on the lips.
So I’m going back a-camping,
’Neath the sunset’s mellow glow,
There to dream the dreams of boyhood
As in days of long ago.
G. W. Browder.
Clinton, Ky.