The earth keeps some vibration¹ going

    There in your heart， and that is you.

    And if the people find you can fiddle²，

    Why， fiddle you must， for all your life.

    What do you see， a harvest of clover？

    Or a meadow to walk through to the river？

    The wind's in the corn； you rub your hands

    For beeves hereafter ready for market；

    Or else you hear the rustle³ of skirts

    Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove⁴.

    To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust

    Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth；

    They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy

    Stepping it off， to "Toor-a-Loor."

    How could I till my forty acres

    Not to speak of getting more，

    With a medley⁵ of horns， bassoons and piccolos

    Stirred in my brain by crows and robins⁶

    And the creak of a wind-mill——only these？

    And I never started to plow⁷ in my life

    That some one did not stop in the road

    And take me away to a dance or picnic.

    I ended up with forty acres；

    I ended up with a broken fiddle——

    And a broken laugh， and a thousand memories，

    And not a single regret.