And there's snap and fire and sparkle in the way a feller feels,
Till he fairly wants ter holler and ter jump and crack his heels.

There's a ringin', singin' gladness in the tunes the blackbirds pipe
When they're tellin' from the pear-tree that the Bartletts's nigh ter ripe;
There's a kind of jolly fatness where the Baldwin apples shine,
And the juicy Concord clusters are a-purplin' on the vine;
And the cornstalks, turnin' yaller and a-crinklin' up their leaves,
Look as if they kind er hankered ter be bundled inter sheaves;
And there's beamin', streamin' brightness jest a-gildin' all the place,
And yer somehow seem ter feel it in yer heart and in yer face.

Now the crowd of cranb'r'y pickers, every mornin' as they pass,
Makes a feller think of turkey, with the usual kind of sass,
Till a roguish face a-smilin' 'neath a bunnit or a hat,
Makes him stop and think of somethin' that's a good deal sweeter 'n that;
And the lightsome girlish figger trippin', skippin' down the lane,
Kills his mem'ry full of sunshine, but it's sunshine mixed with rain,--
For, yer see, it sets him dreamin' of Septembers that he knew
When _he_ went a cranb'r'y pickin' and a girl went with him, too.

Oh, the cool September mornin's, why, their freshness seems ter roll
Like a wave of life a-liftin' up yer everlastin' soul,
And the earth and all that's on it seems a-bustin' inter rhyme
So's ter sing a big thanksgivin' fer the comin' harvest-time;
And I want ter jine the chorus and ter tell 'em fur and near
That I hain't got wealth nor beauty, but I'm mighty glad I'm here;
That I'm getting old and wrinkled, like the husks around the corn,
But my heart is all the sweeter on a bright September morn.