I left the farm when mother died and changed my place of dwellin'
    To daughter Susie's stylish house, right in the city street,
And there was them, before I came, that sort of scared me, tellin'
    How I would find the town folks' ways so difficult to meet.
They said I'd have no comfort in the rustlin', fixed-up throng,
And I'd have to wear stiff collars every week-day right along.

I find I take to city ways just like a duck to water,
    I like the racket and the noise and, never tire of shows;
And there's no end of comfort in the mansion of my daughter,
    And everything is right at hand, and money freely flows,
And hired help is all about, just listenin' for my call,
But I miss the yellow almanac off my old kitchen wall.

The house is full of calendars, from attic to the cellar,
    They're painted in all colors, and are fancy-like to see;
But just in this particular I'm not a modern feller,
    And the yellow-covered almanac is good enough for me:
I'm used to it, I've seen it round from boyhood to old age,
And I rather like the jokin' at the bottom of each page.

I like the way the "S" stood out to show the week's beginnin'
    (In these new-fangled calendars the days seem sort of mixed),
And the man upon the cover, though he wa'n't exactly winnin',
    With lungs and liver all exposed, still showed how we are fixed;
And the letters and credentials that was writ to Mr. Ayer
I've often, on a rainy day, found readin' pretty fair.

I tried to buy one recently; there wa'n't none in the city.
    They toted out great calendars in every sort of style;
I looked at 'em in cold disdain, and answered 'em in pity,
    "I'd rather have my almanac than all that costly pile."
And, though I take to city life, I'm lonesome, after all,
For that old yellow almanac upon my kitchen wall.

By Ella Wheeler Wilcox