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OW dear to this heart are the scènes of my childhood, When fond recollection presenta them to view; The orchard, the meadow, the deep tanglotl wiklwood, And spot of all spots- vrhere the browD cattails grew; Beforo the Fourth carne I would cut them f or diying, And stow them away in my mother's old trunk; I never can think of them now without crying, Those bunches of cattails I used up for punk, Those nioss tinted cattails, tliose slow bui'ning cattails, Those bunches of cattails I saved up for punk. One Fourth I remember - how can I forget it? I went to the bani witli my cuttaüs galore; I took out a fire cracker, lit it and set it, Right'square in the chink of the old stable door; I sat down and waited- I peaeefully waiteü And thought I would test the old dapple mare's spunk; But somehow her temper Td much uuderrated; She kicked - and I üed from the barn and my punk. Those moss tinted cattails, those slow burniug oattaiis, Those fresh lighted cattails r"(i saved up tor punk. There are times wben lif e is deprived of all gladness, When tears of remorse and of shame flll the eye. I never can think without feeling great sadness Of that one particular Fourth of July. I sat on a neighboring hill at safe distance And watched father's barn as it rapidly shrunk Beneath the fierce flames with their rapid persistence, AU caused by the cattails I'd saved up for punk. Thoie moss tinted cattails, those brown, fluffy cattaUs, Ttose slow burning cattailg 'd saved up for punk.