An lives on Beacon Street, in all the styles that she can swing.
But all the same, when April comes, I see ’em all again,
Jest runnin’ wild around that farm, them three, an in
All sorts of mischief daily, from early spring to fall.
I wisht the hull of us was back—a-workin’ hard an’ all.
I seem to see the tossels shakin’ out up on the trees;
I seem to smell the perfume of the May-flowers in the breeze;
I seem to feel the summer a-coming ’crost the hills;
I seem, up in the pastur’, to hear the singin’ rills;
I see the mowin’ lot, an’ hear the sharpen’ of the blades;