Why hadn't I brung some of our native Jonesville trees, hallowed by the
presence of Josiah Allen's wife?

Why hadn't I brung some of the maples from our dooryard, that shakes
out its green and crimson banners over our heads every spring and fall?

Or why hadn't I brung one of the low-spreadin' apple-trees out of Mother
Smith's orchard, where I used to climb in search of robins' nests in
June mornin's?

Or one of the pale green willers that bent over my head as I sot on the
low plank foot-bridge, with my bare feet a-swingin' off into the water
as I fished for minnies with a pin-hook--

The summer sky overhead, and summer in my heart.

Oh, happy summer days gone by--gone by, fur back you lay in the past,
and the June skies now have lost that old light and freshness.

But poor children that we are, we still keep on a-fishin' with our bent
pin-hooks; we still drop our weak lines down into the depths, a-fishin'
for happiness, for rest, for ambition, for Heaven knows what all--and
now, as in the past, our hooks break or our lines float away on the
eddies, and we don't catch what we are after.

Poor children! poor creeters!

But I am eppisodin', and to resoom.

As I said to Josiah, what a oversight that wuz my not thinkin' of it!