Everybody’s got their basket brimmin’
full of things ter eat,
And I’ve got one—if yer ask it—that is purty hard ter beat,—
’Cept that Sis put in some pound-cake that she made herself alone,
And I bet yer never found cake that was quite so much like stone.
There’ll be quarts of sass’parilla; yes, and “lemmo” in a tub;
There’ll be ice-cream—it’s vernilla—and all kinds of fancy grub;
And they’re sure ter spread the table on the ground beside the spring,
So’s the ants and hoppergrasses can just waltz on everything.
Then the girls they’ll be a-yippin’, ’cause
a bug is in the cream; And a “daddy-long-legs”
skippin’ round the butter makes ’em scream;
And a fuzzy caterpillar—jest the littlest
kind they make— Sets ’em holl’rin’,
“Kill her! kill her!” like as if it was
a snake. Then, when dinner-time is over and we
boys have et enough, Why, the big girls they’ll
pick clover, or make wreaths of leaves and
And the big chaps they’ll set ’round ’em, lookin’ soft as ever wuz, Talkin’ gush and actin’ silly, same as that kind always does.
Then, we’ll ride home when it’s dark’nin’
and the leaves are wet with dew,
And the lightnin’-bugs are sparklin’ and the moon is shinin’, too;
We’ll sing “Jingle bells” and “Sailing,” “Seein’ Nelly home,” and more;
And that one that’s slow and wailin’, “Home ag’in from somethin’ shore.”
Then a feller’s awful sleepy and he kinder wants ter rest,
But the stuff he’s et feels creepy and like bricks piled on his chest;
And, perhaps, he dreams his stummick has been stepped on by a mule;
But it ain’t: it’s jest the picnic of the Baptist Sunday school!
* * * * *
Our Aunt ’Mandy thinks that boys
Never ought ter make a noise,
Or go swimming or play ball,
Or have any fun at all;
Thinks a boy had ought ter be
Dressed up all the time, and she
Hollers jest as if she’s hurt
At the littlest mite er dirt
On a feller’s hands or face,
Or his clothes, or any place.
Then at dinner-time she’s there,
Sayin’, “Mustn’t kick the chair!”
Or “Why don’t yer sit up straight?”
“’Tain’t perlite to drum yer plate.”
An’ yer got ter eat as slow,
‘Cause she’s dingin’ at yer so.
Then, when Chris’mus comes, she brings
Nothin’, only useful things:
Han’kershi’fs an’ gloves an’ ties,
Sunday stuff yer jest despise.
She’s a ole maid, all alone,
’Thout no children of her own,
An’ I s’pose that makes her fuss
‘Round our house a-bossin’ us.
If she ’d had a boy, I bet,
‘Tween her bossin’ and her fret
She’d a-killed him, jest about;
So God made her do without,
For he knew no boy could stay
With Aunt ’Mandy every day.
* * * * *