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Poem	It's June ag'in, an' in my soul I feel the fillin' joy That's sure to come this time o' year to every little boy; For, every June, the Sunday-schools at picnics may be seen, Where "fields beyont the swellin' floods stand dressed in livin' green"; Where little girls are skeered to death with spiders, bugs, and ants, An' little boys get grass-stains on their go-to meetin' pants. It's June ag'in, an' with it all what happiness is mine - There's goin' to be a picnic, an' I'm goin' to jine! One year I jined the Baptists, an' goodness! how it rained! (But grampa says that that's the way "baptizo" is explained.) And once I jined the 'Piscopils an' had a heap o' fun - But the boss of all the picnics was the Presbyteriun! They had so many puddin's, sallids, sandwidges, an' pies, That a feller wisht his stummick was as hungry as his eyes! Oh, yes, the eatin' Presbyteriuns give yer is so fine That when they have a picnic, you bet I'm goin' to jine! But at this time the Methodists have special claims on me, For they're goin' to give a picnic on the 21st, D. V.; Why should a liberal universalist like me object To share the joys of fellowship with every friendly sect? However het'rodox their articles of faith elsewise may be, Their doctrine of fried chick'n is a savin' grace to me! So on the 21st of June, the weather bein' fine, They're goin' to give a picnic, and I'm goin' to jine!
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