It reminds me of her, don't you know;--
How her face used to look, in the twilight,
As I tuck her to Spellin'; and she
Kep' a-hummin' that song tel I ast her,
Pine-blank, ef she ever missed _me_!

I can shet my eyes now, as you sing it,
And hear her low answerin' words;
And then the glad chirp of the crickets,
As clear as the twitter of birds;
And the dust in the road is like velvet,
And the ragweed and fennel and grass
Is as sweet as the scent of the lilies
Of Eden of old, as we pass.

"_Do They Miss Me at Home?_" Sing it lower--
And softer--and sweet as the breeze
That powdered our path with the snowy
White bloom of the old locus'-trees!
Let the whipperwills he'p you to sing it,
And the echoes 'way over the hill,
Tel the moon boolges out, in a chorus
Of stars, and our voices is still.

[Illustration: (A' OLD PLAYED-OUT SONG)]

But oh! "They's a chord in the music
That's missed when _her_ voice is away!"
Though I listen from midnight tel morning,
And dawn tel the dusk of the day!