by James Whitcomb Riley
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; air 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 heard
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
The up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth, And it's the taste
of ripe old age and juicy childhood mixed.
Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away To the summertime of
youth; and again I see the dawn, And the fadin' afternoon of the long summer
day, And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the night a-comin' on.
And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves and trees, And the
stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silver mice, And us boys in the
wortermelons on our hands and knees, And the new-moon hangin' ore us like a
yeller-cored slice.
Oh! it's 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.
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