He will try the rotten-hearted till they reel an'
break an' fall.
The leaves are driftin' in the breeze, an' gathered
where they lie
Are the colors o' the sunset an' the smell o' the
windy sky;
The squirrels whisk, with loaded mouths, an' stop
an' say to me:
"It's time to gether in the fruit upon the ven'son-
tree."