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 Minahs fossickin’ round about, Thrush a-turnin’ his song-box out— Feels so jolly, he’s got to shout. Reckon the wet’s a-polish’d the air— Such a shininess everywhere! Webs a-twinkelin’ on the rails, An’ even them mean old milkin-pails Sunny as silver....’Spose they were! S’pose I’d ha’ milk’d ’em all they’d hold, An’ Snap! the two of ’em turn’d to gold, An’ these old duds to satin an’ silk, Drippin’ with di’mon’s, instead o’ milk! Wouldn’t the folk at the fact’ry stare, An’ Boss palaver about his share? —Was that someone a-callin?.... Ay; Comin’ O, comin’! Ain’t that fine, ’Twixt that wattle an’ old black pine? Deeps o’ the Bush all dark below, Points o’ the mountain bright aloft, Sharp an’ solemn with sun, an’ snow; An’, ’twixt an’ ’tween of ’em curly-curl’d, Mists o’ the mornin’, rosy-soft. —Ain’t it the beautifullest world?