A CONFESSION.
I’ve been down to the city, an’ I’ve seen the ‘lectrlc lights,
The twenty-story bulldin’s an’ the other stunnin’ sights;
I’ve seen th’ trolley-cars a-rushin’ madly down the street,
An’ all the place a-lookin’ like a fairyland complete.
But I’d rather see the big trees that’s a-growin’ up to home,
An’ watch the stars a-twinklin’ in the blue an’ lofty dome;
An’ I’d rather hear the wind that goes a-singin’ past the door
Than the traffic of the city, with its bustle an’ its roar.
I reckon I’m peculiar, an’ my tastes is kind o’ low;
But what’s the use denyin’ things that certainly is so?
I went up to a concert, an’ I heard the music there;
It sounded like angelic harps a-floatin’ through the air.
Yet spite of all its glory an’ the gladness an’ acclaim,
If I stopped to think a minute, I was home-sick jes’ the same;
An’ I couldn’t help confessing though it seems a curious thing,
That I’d rather hear a robin sweetly pinin’ in the spring.
Washington Star.
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