O'er Folded Blooms On Swirls Of Musk,

But The Air's So Appetizin'; And The Landscape Through The Haze Of A Crisp And Sunny Morning Of The Airly Autumn Days Is A Pictur' That No Painter Has The Colorin' To Mock-when The Frost Is On The Punkin And The Fodder's In The Shock.

As One Who Cons At Evening O'er An Album All Alone, And Muses On The Faces Of The Friends That He Has Known, So I Turn The Leaves Of Fancy, Till In Shadowy Design I Find The Smiling Features Of An Old Sweetheart Of Mine.

The Ripest Peach Is Highest On The Tree

The Jelly - The Jam And The Marmalade, And The Cherry-and Quince-'preserves' She Made! And The Sweet-sour Pickles Of Peach And Pear, With Cinnamon In 'em, And All Things Rare! And The More We Ate Was The More To Spare, Out To Old Aunt Mary's! Ah!

Long About Knee-deep In June, 'bout The Time Strewberries Melts On The Vine.