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Poem	Home agin, an' home to stay— Yes, it's nice to be away. Plenty things to do an' see, But the old place seems to me Jest about the proper thing. Mebbe 'ts 'cause the mem'ries cling Closer 'round yore place o' birth 'N ary other spot on earth. W'y it's nice jest settin' here, Lookin' out an' seein' clear, 'Thout no smoke, ner dust, ner haze In these sweet October days. What's as good as that there lane, Kind o' browned from last night's rain? 'Pears like home has got the start When the goal's a feller's heart. What's as good as that there jay Screechin' up'ards towards the gray Skies? An' tell me, what's as fine As that full-leafed pumpkin vine? Tow'rin' buildin's—? yes, they're good; But in sight o' field and wood, Then a feller understan's 'Bout the house not made with han's. Let the others rant an' roam When they git away from home; Jest gi' me my old settee[Pg 260] An' my pipe beneath a tree; Sight o' medders green an' still, Now and then a gentle hill, Apple orchards, full o' fruit, Nigh a cider press to boot— That's the thing jest done up brown; D'want to be too nigh to town; Want to have the smells an' sights, An' the dreams o' long still nights, With the friends you used to know In the keerless long ago— Same old cronies, same old folks, Same old cider, same old jokes. Say, it's nice a-gittin' back, When yore pulse is growin' slack, An' yore breath begins to wheeze Like a fair-set valley breeze; Kind o' nice to set aroun' On the old familiar groun', Knowin' that when Death does come, That he'll find you right at home.
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