They're painted in all colours and are fancy like to see,
But in this one particular I'm not a modern feller,
And the yellow-coloured almanac is good enough for me.
I'm used to it, I've seen it round from boyhood to old age,
And I rather like the jokin' at the bottom of the cage.

I like the way its "S" stood out to show the week's beginning,
(In these new-fangled calendars the days seem sort of mixed),
And the man upon the cover, though he wa'n't exactly winnin',
With lungs and liver all exposed, still showed how we are fixed;
And the letters and credentials that was writ to Mr. Ayer
I've often on a rainy day found readin' pretty fair.

I tried to buy one recently; there wa'n't none in the city!
They toted out great calendars, in every shape and style.
I looked at 'em in cold disdain, and answered 'em in pity -
"I'd rather have my almanac than all that costly pile."
And though I take to city life, I'm lonesome after all
For that old yellow almanac upon my kitchen wall.



THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE



Somebody's baby was buried to-day -
The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back,
And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay
As I paused on the walk while it crossed on its way,