James Whitcomb Riley

“ Or the glitter of the song that the bluebird sings,
All hushed we feign to strike strange trails,
As the "big braves" do in the Indian tales,
Till again our real quest lags and fails—
Out to Old Aunt Mary's. ”

“ Of youth—when the Saturday's chores were through,
And the "Sunday's wood" in the kitchen, too,
And we went visiting, "me and you,"
Out to Old Aunt Mary's?—
"Me and you"—and the morning fair,
With the dewdrops twinkling everywhere ”

“ And the teams we met, and the countrymen;
And the long highway, with sunshine spread
As thick as butter on country bread,
Our cares behind, our hearts ahead
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.—
For only, now, at the road's next bend
To the right we could make out the gable-end
Of the fine old Huston homestead—not
Not half a mile from the sacred spot
Where dwelt our Saint in her simple cot—
Out to Old Aunt Mary's.
Why, I see her now in the open door
Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o'er
The clapboard roof!—And her face—ah, me! ”