There's a dear, little spot, near my Hoosier hometown,
Where the mortgage runs up as the buildings run down,
That I love to return to, a restful retreat,
Just to slush around there with the mud on my feet.
There's the forked, wormy apple-tree, dead to the bark,
And the sickle and grindstone, brought out of the Ark;
And the Shed, where I fled, with my illicit pipe,
To assuage stomach-aches when green apples were "ripe."
There's the collar and churn, _worn_ by Dash day by day,
And the chain that prevented his running away;
And the yoke for the oxen--Haw, Buck! and Gee, Bride!
And the Troth for the Squealers the hen-house beside.
There's the Dovecote, unroofed, and the sweep by the well,
And the ooze in the barnyard and natural-gas smell:
There's the hayrake and silo; the tin weathervane,
And the two, moss-grown graves where the Old Folks were lain.
And the milk-stools are there, and the cowpath and stile;
And a few hardy scarecrows remain yet awhile;
And the taxes, unpaid, still appear on the book
Of the County Collector, Nathaniel U. Crook.
So I keep coming back, to my old Hoosier shack,
To inhale the sweet mildew of hay in the stack,
And to drink from the spring where the bull-frogs abound
That protect the young cowslips that grow all around.
Now the mortgage is due and the int'rest unpaid,
And I can't get a cent for the place, I'm afraid;
But I love to return here, at vacation time,
Just to revel again in the mud and the slime.