IV.
O, the darlin' days of summer when the stars of plenty shine
With the apples in the orchard en the graps upon the vine!
When the hedges bud en blossom, en the medders rich en rare
Breathe the perfumes of the clovers like an incense everywhayre!
En the world seems like yer mother, with the tender hands thet bless
All the restless race of struggle with a heaped-up happiness,
En her han'kerchiefs of glory from yer eyes the weepin's wipe,
When the [roas'in'-ears] is plenty en the worter-millons ripe!
Don't You Fret.
Don't you fret about the weather
'Cause it seems a little hot;
You will find it rather sultry
Over yonder, like as not!
And unless you mend your manners
You will land without a doubt,
Where the brim-stone keeps a blazin'
And the fire is never out!
The Kingbolt Philosopher.
"In spite of whut some fellers say, this world never owed anybody a livin' yit!" said Uncle Ezra Mudge, as he whetted his scythe and tried the edge on the broad part of his thumb. "Thet heresy wuz invented fer the lazy cuss thet wuz too ornery to git up in the mornin' and hustle fer grub while the grass wuz wet.
"Some fellers seem ter act on the habit thet the world not only owes 'em a livin' but air willin' fer some body else to do the collectin' fer 'em. Leastways, they never do much hustlin' in thet direction theirselves. En I hev noticed thet when other fellers collect the livin' fer a feller, they giner'ly confisticate the most ov it in commissions!"