Classic Poem

This is " The Old Home by the Mill " — fer we still call it so,
Although the old mill , roof and sill, is all gone long ago,
The old home, though, and the old folks — the old spring, and a few
Old cattails, weeds and hartychokes, is left to welcome you!

Here, Marg'et! — fetch the man a tin to drink out of! Our spring
Keeps kindo'-sorto' cavin' in, but don't " taste " anything!
She's kindo' agin' , Marg'et is — " the old process " — like me,
All ham-stringed up with rhumatiz, and on in seventy-three.

Jest me and Marg'et lives alone here — like in long ago;
The childern all putt off and gone, and married, don't you know?
One's millin' 'way out West somewhare; two other miller-boys
In Minnyopolis they air; and one's in Illinoise.

The oldest gyrl — the first that went — married and died right here;
The next lives in Winn's Settlement — fer purt' nigh thirty year!
And youngest one — was allus fer the old home here — but no! —
Her man turns in and he packs her 'way off to Idyho!

I don't miss them like Marg'et does — 'cause I got her , you see;
And when she pines for them — that's 'cause she's only jest got me!
I laugh, and joke her 'bout it all. — But talkin' sense, I'll say,
When she was tuk so bad last Fall, I laughed then t'other way!

I hain't so favor'ble impressed 'bout dyin'; but ef I
Found I was only second-best when us two come to die,
I'd 'dopt the " new process, " in full, ef Marg'et died, you see, —
I'd jest crawl in my grave and pull the green grass over me!