It's some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red.
And it's some says "The Little Californy" is the best;
But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head,
Is the old "Edingburg Mounting-sprout," of the west
You don't want no punkins nigh your wortermelon
vines--
'Cause, some-way-another, they'll spile your melons,
shore;--
I've seed 'em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines,
Which may be a fact you have heerd of before
But your melons that's raised right and 'tended to with
care,
You can walk around amongst 'em with a parent's
pride and joy,
And thump 'em on the heads with as fatherly a air
As ef each one of them was your little girl er boy.
I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin' sound
When you split one down the back and jolt the halves
in two,
And the friends you love the best is gethered all around--
And you says unto your sweethart, "Oh, here's the
core fer you!"
And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 'em all,
Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delight
As one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls,
And they holler fer some more, with unquenched
appetite.
Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see 'em eat--
A slice of wortermelon's like a frenchharp in theyr
hands,
And when they "saw" it through theyr mouth sich music
can't be beat--
'Cause it's music both the sperit and the stummick
understands.
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