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.