I LONG to linger on the porch, I long to lie and dream —
To watch a flash of singing blue, athwart the sunlight's gleam —
To close my eyes and lift my face to meet the summer breeze
That plays amid the maple-grove a thousand harmonies.

But just as I would yield my soul to nature's potent spell, —
They come, and call me from my dream — to smell a horrid smell!
A drain gone wrong, — what shall be done — ? No plumber for nine miles —
The telephone won't work at all, this modern life defiles

The crimson of the sunset sky, the shadow of the cloud —
I seek the porch once more, but they are calling fierce and loud —
" The fire in the northwest room won't burn, 'twill only smoke —
Come quickly, Mrs. Robinson, the lady there will choke! "

What can be done? The horrid caps will ruin all the towers,
But ladies must not choke, and so we pray the Heavenly powers
That we the mason can persuade to build the chimneys higher,
And in the meantime leave the guest to shiver without fire — !

Again I seek a sheltered spot and hope for sweet repose
To bathe my senses in the hush that comes at daylight's close —
But no! — They rush to find me there, the windmill won't go round,
The wind has died, the engine's stopped, — in sullen gloom profound.

I listen to the dreadful tale — " one of the bathrooms leaks —
Four thousand gallons lost last night — " I feel resentful shrieks
Are creeping up my throat and soon will reach my trembling lips —
I want to go to far-off isles, too far for any ships, —

Where there is nothing but the beach and just one scrub oak-tree,
And plumbing never was, nor is, and never more shall be, —
I want to have no modern joys, no " comforts, " no, not one —
But just to sink upon the sand and swoon into the sun!

When " Great-Aunt Harriet " ruled the Roost, and ruled it very well —
She never had to smell a drain — there were no drains to smell!
She never heard the windmill stop with sinking of the heart —
Or lost four thousand gallons of the pumping's better part.

She caught the rain in little tubs and washed her guests in sections!
We have the tubs, they must have caused most graceful genuflections —
And by a small coal-stove each one was warmed and cheered aright —
A candle's blaze is better far than Gasoline's no light —

Ah! me, Ah! me, when nature's call would bid my soul take flight,
When fleecy mist of amethyst is mingled with the night
And some pale crescent moon adown her silvery glamour flings,
Must I still bow, a slave, before the Tyranny of Things — ?

Nay, for in spite of drains and flues and windmills gone astray
And lights that flicker and burn low in weird and woful way —
In spite of watery waste galore, from plumbing all awry
There is no place like Henderson beneath the midnight sky!