Now the crowd of cranb'r'y pickers, every mornin' as they pass, Makes a feller think of turkey, with the usual kind of sass, Till a roguish face a-smilin' 'neath a bunnit or a hat, Makes him stop and think of somethin' that's a good deal sweeter 'n that; And the lightsome girlish figger trippin', skippin' down the lane, Kills his mem'ry full of sunshine, but it's sunshine mixed with rain,