And pull up and pitch into supper—and com-
fort—and taste good—wal, there!
And the wind swooshes over the chimbly, and
scrapes at the shingles cross grain,
But good double winders and bankin’ are mighty
good friends here in Maine.
I look ’crost the table to mother, and marm she
looks over at me,
And passes another hot biskit and says, “Won’t
ye have some more tea?”