Neghborly Poems and Dialect Sketches. James Whitcomb Riley

And you says unto your sweethart, "Oh, here's the core fer you!"

      And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 'em all,

       Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delight

       As one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls,

       And they holler fer some more, with unquenched appetite.

      Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see 'em eat—

       A slice of wortermelon's like a frenchharp in theyr hands,

       And when they "saw" it through theyr mouth sich music can't be beat—

       'Cause it's music both the sperit and the stummick understands.

      Oh, they's more in wortermelons than the purty-colored meat,

       And the overflowin' sweetness of the worter squshed betwixt

       The up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth,

       And it's the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood mixed.

      Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away

       To the summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn,

       And the fadin' afternoon of the long summer day,

       And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the night a'comin' on.

      And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves and trees,

       And the stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silver mice,

       And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and knees,

       And the new-moon hangin' ore us like a yeller-cored slice.

      Oh! it's wortermelon time is a-comin' round again,

       And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me,

       Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin—

       Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.

MY PHILOSOFY

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