[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."