O darling Pathway! lead me bravely on
  Adown your alley-way, and run before
Among the roses crowding up the lawn
  And thronging at the door,—­

And carry up the echo there that shall
  Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay
The household out to greet the prodigal
  That wanders home to-day.

WORTERMELON TIME

Old 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.

Oh! it’s in the sandy soil wortermelons does the best,
   And it’s thare they’ll lay and waller in the sunshine and
       the dew
Tel they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyr
       breast;
  And you bet I ain’t a-findin’ any fault with them; ain’t
       you?

They ain’t no better thing in the vegetable line;
  And they don’t need much ‘tendin’, as ev’ry farmer
     knows;
And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine,
  I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows.

It’s some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red. 
  And it’s some says “The Little Californy” is the best;
But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head,
  Is the old “Edingburg Mounting-sprout,” of the west

You don’t want no punkins nigh your wortermelon
     vines—­
  ’Cause, some-way-another, they’ll spile your melons,
     shore;—­
I’ve seed ’em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines,
   Which may be a fact you have heerd of before

But your melons that’s raised right and ’tended to with
     care,
  You can walk around amongst ’em with a parent’s
     pride and joy,
And thump ’em on the heads with as fatherly a air
  As ef each one of them was your little girl er boy.

I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin’ sound
  When you split one down the back and jolt the halves
     in two,
And the friends you love the best is gethered all around—­
  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