pe1zE.!7jlc,z.ERgassya I, z.Egass )
{"newspaper_name": "The Wilmingtonian, and Delaware advertiser.", "edition": "01", "page": "p1", "byline": ""}
{"character_count": 458, "word_count": 82, "ccnet_language_score": [0.8162000179290771], "ccnet_perplexity": [1868.0999755859375], "fasttext_language": ["en"]}
OUR OWN FIRE SIDE.
Dear in morn's soft blowing gale


Is budding May;
Sweet in the wild-rosc scented vale
The scattered hay;
Dear is the carly evening star,


The lovers guide;
But dearcr still, and sweeter far,


Our own freside.
Dear is the linnet's lively song,


That cheers the grove;
Sweet is the breeze that watts along
The sigh Of love;
Dear to the sailors heart the call


Of land deserted,
But, all more dear, more sweet than all,
Our own fireside.