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De garden hit's all pupple,
'scusin' de yaller'n raid,
Mos' lak dis hank'chief
I weahs on mah haid.
De aster an' de gol'nrod's
a-troopin' down de hill,
An' ole Brer Win' ain' lettin' on
he's feelin' mighty chill!

But down in de wood's pa'f,
longside de stream,
Seem lak I'm a-walkin' inter
somebuddy's dream.
Dee ain' no birds a-flyin'
ter de raid creeper-vine;
De trees all hol' dey brefs,—
Somebuddy's bu'nin' pine. . . . .

De dusk hit tu'ns gray early, 'n
mah cannle's soon lit,
But 'tain' time fo' nuffin
'cep' ter rock an' ter sit,
Studyin' on de col' nights,
when things ain' bloom no mo'. . .
Den I lights up de fiah,
an' up'n shets de do';

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