I left the farm when mother died and changed my place of dwelling
To daughter Susie's stylish house right on the city street:
And there was them before I came that sort of scared me, telling
How I would find the town folks ways so difficult to meet;
They said I'd have no comfort in the rustling, fixed up throng,
And I'd have to wear stiff collars, every weekday, right along.
I find I take to city ways just like a duck to water;
I like the racket and the noise and never tire of shows:
And there's no end of comfort in the mansion of my daughter,
And everything is right at hand and money freely flows;
And hired help is all about, just listenin' to my call--
But I miss the yellow almanac off my old kitchen wall.
The house is full of calendars from attic to the cellar,
They're painted in all colors and are fancy like to see,
But in this one particular I'm not a modern feller,
And the yellow-covered 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 page.
I like the way its "S" stood out to show the week's beginnin':
(In these new-fangled calendars the days seem sort of mixed),
And the man upon the cover, tho' 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 tho' I take to city life, I'm lonesome after all
For that old yellow almanac upon my kitchen wall.
Poems of sentiment by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
Chicago, IL : W. B. Conkey Company, c1906.
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