are Yankees clean through,
Their dollars make shells like a turtle’s, but
their hearts, my dear fellow, are true
To the dear, sacred days of their childhood, and
luxury loses its charm:
—The only good things are the old things to
the fellow brought up on the farm.
And I’d trade all the cheer of a banquet, I’d
“swop” them, as grandpap would say,
For the tang of the infinite gusto that came to