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BLUE GRASS BALLADS 33
But well I knew Aunt Easter's way;
Her pretense, grim and stern— My time would come when she had filled
The clean, old butter churn. " Come hyar! Dis milk is gwinter spile;
Dar's heap too much today; But dis is jes' de las' you gits—
You heah me, whut I say ? "
So there I sit—across the sill—
And quaff the goodly bowl; Aunt Easter's happy as the boy—
God bless her dear old soul! Since then, full oft, I've sought the place,
And plucked the mint that grew Along the branch, below the spring—
And found it mixed with rue.
I've drank the rich and sparkling wines
Of sunny France and Spain, And felt the splendid joys they bring;
Their misery and pain. But no such healthful, hearty draught
Will poet ever sing, As that Aunt Easter gave me, oft,
Down at the rocky spring.