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HONING FOR HODCAKE. Oh, it 's yearning, alas, for the olden scenes And the paths that lead to the leafy wood, And the wild flowers bursting in cool ravines'. Where the redbird trilling an interlude 'Mid the locust bloom of a paradise Under the ocean blue of skies. Oh, it's yearning, alas, to stand once more Where the vine clings over the window-sill; And gazing again from the farmhouse door To the tranquil stream, where the watermill Is murm'ring its song as it grinds the corn That grows in the valley where you were born. Oh, it's yearning, alas, and I'm nearly dead For a hoecake, dodger or crisp corn pone; For I can't hold out on the baker's bread And the shredded wheat; but I sit and hone For a good big sack of fresh cornmeal And a hoecake big as a wagon wheel. And just a touch of some bacon grease Around the griddle to tone it down; Then flay it over-this luscious piece, Till just the tinge of a juicy brown- I can taste the butter so sweet and cool They're bringing up from the springhouse pool. I'm tired of the junk that you get in cans, And my jawbone aches for a good hog jowl; Oh, give me the music of frying pans On a country stove, and, oh, bless my soul, I would eat in the kitchen or anywhere If they'd give me a fill of the cornbread fare. I want to get back where the roses blow O'er the dear old yard, and I want to stand Enraptured again where the lilies grow, With a slab of that cornbread in my hand; Just to eat and to sweetly roam In a cornbread dream-I'm going home.