Spill my fishin’-worms! er steal
     My best “goggle-eye!”—­but you
Can’t lay hands on joys I feel
     Nibblin’ like they ust to do! 
         So, in memory, to-day
         Same old ripple lips away
         At my “cork” and saggin’ line,
         Up and down old Bradywine!

There the logs is, round the hill,
    Where “Old Irvin” ust to lift
Out sunfish from daylight till
    Dewfall—­’fore he’d leave “The Drift”
         And give us a chance—­and then
         Kindo’ fish back home again,
         Ketchin’ ’em jes left and right
         Where we hadn’t got “a bite!”

Er, ‘way windin’ out and in,—­
    Old path th’ough the iurnweeds
And dog-fennel to yer chin—­
    Then come suddent, th’ough the reeds
         And cat-tails, smack into where
         Them—­air woods—­hogs ust to scare
         Us clean ’crosst the County-line,
         Up and down old Brandywine!

But the dim roar o’ the dam
    It ’ud coax us furder still
To’rds the old race, slow and ca’m,
    Slidin’ on to Huston’s mill—­
         Where, I’spect, “The Freeport crowd”
         Never warmed to us er ’lowed
         We wuz quite so overly
         Welcome as we aimed to be.

Still it ’peared like ever’thing—­
    Fur away from home as there—­
Had more relish-like, i jing!—­
    Fish in stream, er bird in air! 
         O them rich old bottom-lands,
         Past where Cowden’s Schoolhouse stands! 
         Wortermelons—­Master-mine! 
         Up and down old Brandywine!

And sich pop-paws!—­Lumps o’ raw
    Gold and green,—­jes oozy th’ough
With ripe yaller—­like you’ve saw
    Custard-pie with no crust to: 
         And jes gorges o’ wild plums,
         Till a feller’d suck his thumbs
         Clean up to his elbows!  My!—­
         Me some more er lem me die!

Up and down old Brandywine! ... 
    Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!—­
Flick me with a pizenvine
    And yell “Yip!” and lem me loose! 
         —­Old now as I then wuz young,
         ’F I could sing as I have sung,
         Song ’ud surely ring Dee-vine
         Up and down old Brandywine!

WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY

When country roads begin to thaw
    In mottled spots of damp and dust,
And fences by the margin draw
    Along the frosty crust
  Their graphic silhouettes, I say,
  The Spring is coming round this way.

When morning-time is bright with sun
  And keen with wind, and both confuse
The dancing, glancing eyes of one
    With tears that ooze and ooze—­
  And nose-tips weep as well as they,
  The Spring is coming round this way.