Green Fields and Running Brooks

We must get home; and, unremembering there
All gain of all ambitions otherwhere,
Rest--from the feverish victory, and the crown
Of conquest whose waste glory weighs us down.--
Fame's fairest gifts we toss back with disdain--
We must get home--we must get home again!

HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM.

Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,
Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time come on-- And then, I want to say to you, we needed he'p about,
As you'd admit, ef you'd a-seen the way the crops turned out!

A better quarter-section, ner a richer soil warn't found
Than this-here old-home place o' ourn fer fifty miles around!-- The house was small--but plenty-big we found it from the day That John--our only livin' son--packed up and went way.

You see, we tuck sich pride in John--his mother more 'n me-