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From the Rock Island Argus, November 21, 1912.
By Duncan M. Smith.

 I have cousins in Missouri
     I have uncles in New York
 I have sisters in Chicago
     And an aunt who lives in Cork
 Second cousins in Australia
     And in any other place
 That offhand you might mention.
     My, but we’re a scattered race!
 When my father was a youngster
     In a little Scottish town
 He was blessed with several brothers—
     Eight it was; I marked it down—
 And about as many sisters—
     Ten I think I heard him say—
 And when they had grown and married
     Each one went a different way.
 And they had—how many children?
     Goodness knows, for I do not
 As I never took a census
     But it must have been a lot.
 And the children, grown to manhood
     As myself, for time has flown
 And we all are growing ancient,
     Must have children of their own.
 So the stock is widely scattered
     From the palm tree to the pine
 Nearly every state and country
     Has some relative of mine.
 And with almost every family
     It’s the same old tale again,
 For the world is getting ready
     For a common race of men.

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