RILEY FARM-RHYMES

By James Whitcomb Riley

Inscribed with all Grateful Esteem

TO THE GOOD OLD-FASHIONED PEOPLE

The deadnin' and the thicket's jes' a b'ilin' full o' June,

From the rattle o' the cricket, to the yaller-hammer's tune;

And the catbird in the bottom and the sap-suck on the

snag,

Seems's ef they cain't—od-rot-'em!—jes' do nothin' else

but brag!

There' music in the twitter o' the bluebird and the jay,

And that sassy little critter jes' a-peckin' all the day;

There' music in the "flicker," and there' music in the

thrush,

And there' music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in the

brush!—

There' music all around me!—And I go back—in a dream

Sweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep:—And, in the

stream

That used to split the medder wher' the dandylions

growed,

I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down the

road.

CONTENTS

TO THE GOOD OLD-FASHIONED PEOPLE

RILEY FARM-RHYMES

THE ORCHARD LANDS OF LONG AGO

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN

WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES

WET-WEATHER TALK

THE BROOK-SONG

THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER

"MYLO JONES'S WIFE"

HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM

A CANARY AT THE FARM

WHERE THE CHILDREN USED TO PLAY

GRIGGSBY'S STATION

KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE

SEPTEMBER DARK

THE CLOVER

OLD OCTOBER

OLD-FASHIONED ROSES

A COUNTRY PATHWAY

WORTERMELON TIME

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE

WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY

A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS

OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME

JUNE

THE TREE-TOAD

A SONG OF LONG AGO

OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM

ROMANCIN'

RILEY FARM-RHYMES

THE ORCHARD LANDS OF LONG AGO

The orchard lands of Long Ago!

O drowsy winds, awake, and blow

The snowy blossoms back to me,

And all the buds that used to be!

Blow back along the grassy ways

Of truant feet, and lift the haze

Of happy summer from the trees

That trail their tresses in the seas

Of grain that float and overflow

The orchard lands of Long Ago!

Blow back the melody that slips

In lazy laughter from the lips

That marvel much if any kiss

Is sweeter than the apple's is.

Blow back the twitter of the birds—

The lisp, the titter, and the words

Of merriment that found the shine

Of summer-time a glorious wine

That drenched the leaves that loved it so,

In orchard lands of Long Ago!

O memory! alight and sing

Where rosy-bellied pippins cling,

And golden russets glint and gleam,

As, in the old Arabian dream,

The fruits of that enchanted tree

The glad Aladdin robbed for me!

And, drowsy winds, awake and fan

My blood as when it overran

A heart ripe as the apples grow

In orchard lands of Long Ago!

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in

the shock,

And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin'

turkey-cock,

And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the

hens,

And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;

O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best,

With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful

rest,

As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed

the stock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the

shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere

When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is

here—

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the

trees,

And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the

bees;

But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the

haze

Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days

Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the

shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,

And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the

morn;

The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but still

A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill;

The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;

The hosses in theyr stalls below—the clover overhead!—

O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock,

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the

shock!

Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps

Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yeller heaps;

And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks

is through

With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and

saussage, too!...

I don't know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could be

As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around

on ME—

I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin'

flock—

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the

shock!

WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES

In Spring, when the green gits back in the trees,

And the sun comes out and STAYS,

And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze,

And you think of yer bare-foot days;

When you ORT to work and you want to NOT,

And you and yer wife agrees

It's time to spade up the garden-lot,

When the green gits back in the trees

Well! work is the least o' MY idees

When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!

When the green gits back in the trees, and bees

Is a-buzzin' aroun' ag'in

In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please

Old gait they bum roun' in;

When the groun's all bald whare the hay-rick stood,

And the crick's riz, and the breeze

Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood,

And the green gits back in the trees,—

I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these,

The time when the green gits back in the trees!

When the whole tail-feathers o' Wintertime

Is all pulled out and gone!

And the sap it thaws and begins to climb,

And the swet it starts out on

A feller's forred, a-gittin' down

At the old spring on his knees—

I kindo' like jest a-loaferin' roun'

When the green gits back in the trees—

Jest a-potterin' roun' as I—durn—please-

When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!

WET-WEATHER TALK

It hain't no use to grumble and complane;

It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.—

When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,

W'y, rain's my choice.

Men ginerly, to all intents—

Although they're apt to grumble some—

Puts most theyr trust in Providence,

And takes things as they come—

That is, the commonality

Of men that's lived as long as me

Has watched the world enugh to learn

They're not the boss of this concern.

With SOME, of course, it's different—

I've saw YOUNG men that knowed it all,

And didn't like the way things went

On this terrestchul ball;—

But all the same, the rain, some way,

Rained jest as hard on picnic day;

Er, when they railly WANTED it,

It mayby wouldn't rain a bit!

In this existunce, dry and wet

Will overtake the best of men—

Some little skift o' clouds'll shet

The sun off now and then.—

And mayby, whilse you're wundern who

You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to,

And WANT it—out'll pop the sun,

And you'll be glad you hain't got none!

It aggervates the farmers, too—

They's too much wet, er too much sun,

Er work, er waitin' round to do

Before the plowin' 's done:

And mayby, like as not, the wheat,

Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat,

Will ketch the storm—and jest about

The time the corn's a-jintin' out.

These-here CY-CLONES a-foolin' round—

And back'ard crops!—and wind and rain!—

And yit the corn that's wallerd down

May elbow up again!—

They hain't no sense, as I can see,

Fer mortuls, sich as us, to be

A-faultin' Natchur's wise intents,

And lockin' horns with Providence!

It hain't no use to grumble and complane;

It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.—

When God sorts out the weather and sends rain,

W'y, rain's my choice.

THE BROOK-SONG

Little brook! Little brook!

You have such a happy look—

Such a very merry manner, as you swerve and

curve and crook—

And your ripples, one and one,

Reach each other's hands and run

Like laughing little children in the sun!

Little brook, sing to me:

Sing about a bumblebee

That tumbled from a lily-bell and grumbled

mumblingly,

Because he wet the film

Of his wings, and had to swim,

While the water-bugs raced round and

laughed at him!

Little brook-sing a song

Of a leaf that sailed along

Down the golden-braided centre of your current

swift and strong,

And a dragon-fly that lit

On the tilting rim of it,

And rode away and wasn't scared a bit.

And sing—how oft in glee

Came a truant boy like me,

Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting

melody,

Till the gurgle and refrain

Of your music in his brain

Wrought a happiness as keen to him

as pain.

Little brook-laugh and leap!

Do not let the dreamer weep:

Sing him all the songs of summer till he sink in

softest sleep;

And then sing soft and low

Through his dreams of long ago—

Sing back to him the rest he used to

know!

THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER

The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin'

locus' trees;

And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees,

And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the

sly,

Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.

The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his

wings

And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;

And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz,

And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.

You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the

plow—

Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not

a-carin' how;

So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the

wing—

But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:

And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,

She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest;

And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin'

right,

Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite!

They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day,

And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,

And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener

still;

It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will.

Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded

out,

And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;

But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,

Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!

Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and

dry

Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?

Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way,

Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day?

Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?—Does he walk, er does

he run?

Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare just like they've

allus done?

Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er

voice?

Ort a mortul be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice?

Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot;

The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot.

Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,

And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!

Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,

Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;

Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,

And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me

and you.

"MYLO JONES'S WIFE"

"Mylo Jones's wife" was all

I heerd, mighty near, last Fall—

Visitun relations down

T'other side of Morgantown!

Mylo Jones's wife she does

This and that, and "those" and "thus"!—

Can't 'bide babies in her sight—

Ner no childern, day and night,

Whoopin' round the premises—

NER NO NOTHIN' ELSE, I guess!

Mylo Jones's wife she 'lows

She's the boss of her own house!—

Mylo—consequences is—

Stays whare things seem SOME like HIS,—

Uses, mostly, with the stock—

Coaxin' "Old Kate" not to balk,

Ner kick hoss-flies' branes out, ner

Act, I s'pose, so much like HER!

Yit the wimmern-folks tells you

She's PERFECTION.—Yes they do!

Mylo's wife she says she's found

Home hain't home with MEN-FOLKS round

When they's work like HERN to do—

Picklin' pears and BUTCHERN, too,

And a-rendern lard, and then

Cookin' fer a pack of men

To come trackin' up the flore

SHE'S scrubbed TEL she'll scrub no MORE!—

Yit she'd keep things clean ef they

Made her scrub tel Jedgmunt Day!

Mylo Jones's wife she sews

Carpet-rags and patches clothes

Jest year IN and OUT!—and yit

Whare's the livin' use of it?

She asts Mylo that.—And he

Gits back whare he'd ruther be,

With his team;—jest PLOWS—and don't

Never sware—like some folks won't!

Think ef HE'D CUT LOOSE, I gum!

'D he'p his heavenly chances some!

Mylo's wife don't see no use,

Ner no reason ner excuse

Fer his pore relations to

Hang round like they allus do!

Thare 'bout onc't a year—and SHE—

She jest GA'NTS 'em, folks tells me,

On spiced pears!—Pass Mylo one,

He says "No, he don't chuse none!"

Workin'men like Mylo they

'D ort to have MEAT ev'ry day!

Dad-burn Mylo Jones's wife!

Ruther rake a blame caseknife

'Crost my wizzen than to see

Sich a womern rulin' ME!—

Ruther take and turn in and

Raise a fool mule-colt by hand'

MYLO, though—od-rot the man!—

Jest keeps ca'm—like some folks CAN—

And 'lows sich as her, I s'pose,

Is MAN'S HE'PMEET'—Mercy knows!

HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM

Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and

John,

Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time

comes on,—

And THEN, I want to say to you, we NEEDED he'p about,

As you'd admit, ef you'd a-seen the way the crops turned

out!

A better quarter-section ner a richer soil warn't found

Than this-here old-home place o' ourn fer fifty miles

around!—

The house was small—but plenty-big we found it from

the day

That John—our only livin' son—packed up and went

away.

You see, we tuk sich pride in John—his mother more'n

me—

That's natchurul; but BOTH of us was proud as proud

could be;

Fer the boy, from a little chap, was most oncommon

bright,

And seemed in work as well as play to take the same

delight.

He allus went a-whistlin' round the place, as glad at heart

As robins up at five o'clock to git an airly start;

And many a time 'fore daylight Mother's waked me up

to say—

"Jest listen, David!—listen!—Johnny's beat the birds

to-day!"

High-sperited from boyhood, with a most inquirin' turn,—

He wanted to learn ever'thing on earth they was to learn:

He'd ast more plaguy questions in a mortal-minute here

Than his grandpap in Paradise could answer in a year!

And READ! w'y, his own mother learnt him how to read

and spell;

And "The Childern of the Abbey"—w'y, he knowed that

book as well

At fifteen as his parents!—and "The Pilgrim's

Progress," too—

Jest knuckled down, the shaver did, and read 'em through

and through.

At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a better

chance-

That we ort to educate him, under any circumstance;

And John he j'ined his mother, and they ding-donged and

kep' on,

Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he was

gone.

But—I missed him—w'y, of course I did!—The Fall and

Winter through

I never built the kitchen-fire, er split a stick in two,

Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrel-pin,

But what I thought o' John, and wished that he was home

ag'in.

He'd come, sometimes—on Sund'ys most—and stay the

Sund'y out;

And on Thanksgivin'-Day he 'peared to like to be about:

But a change was workin' on him—he was stiller than

before,

And didn't joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle any

more.

And his talk was all so proper; and I noticed, with a sigh,

He was tryin' to raise side-whiskers, and had on a striped

tie,

And a standin'-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as bone;

And a breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat of

his own.

But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was to

come home

And he'p me through the season, I was glad to see him

come,

But my happiness, that evening, with the settin' sun went

down,

When he bragged of "a position" that was offered him in

town.

"But," says I, "you'll not accept it?" "W'y, of course I

will," says he.—

"This drudgin' on a farm," he says, "is not the life fer

me;

I've set my stakes up higher," he continued, light and

gay,

"And town's the place fer ME, and I'm a-goin' right

away!"

And go he did!—his mother clingin' to him at the gate,

A-pleadin' and a-cryin'; but it hadn't any weight.

I was tranquiller, and told her 'twarn't no use to worry

so,

And onclasped her arms from round his neck round mine

—and let him go!

I felt a little bitter feelin' foolin' round about

The aidges of my conscience; but I didn't let it out;—

I simply retch out, trimbly-like, and tuk the boy's hand,

And though I didn't say a word, I knowed he'd under-

stand.

And—well!—sence then the old home here was mighty

lonesome, shore!

With me a-workin' in the field, and Mother at the door,

Her face ferever to'rds the town, and fadin' more and

more—

Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin' in a store!

The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes the

boy would write

A letter to his mother, sayin' that his work was light,

And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit—

Though his business was confinin', he was gittin' used

to it.

And sometimes he would write and ast how I was gittin'

on,

And ef I had to pay out much fer he'p sence he was gone;

And how the hogs was doin', and the balance of the stock,

And talk on fer a page er two jest like he used to talk.

And he wrote, along 'fore harvest, that he guessed he

would git home,

Fer business would, of course, be dull in town.—But

DIDN'T come:—

We got a postal later, sayin' when they had no trade

They filled the time "invoicin' goods," and that was why

he stayed.

And then he quit a-writin' altogether: Not a word—

Exceptin' what the neighbers brung who'd been to town

and heard

What store John was clerkin' in, and went round to in-

quire

If they could buy their goods there less and sell their

produce higher.

And so the Summer faded out, and Autumn wore away,

And a keener Winter never fetched around Thanksgivin'-

Day!

The night before that day of thanks I'll never quite fergit,

The wind a-howlin' round the house-it makes me creepy

yit!

And there set me and Mother—me a-twistin' at the

prongs

Of a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair of

tongs,

And Mother sayin', "DAVID! DAVID!" in a' undertone,

As though she thought that I was thinkin' bad-words

unbeknown.

"I've dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow," Mother

said,

A-tryin' to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubborn

head,—

"And the mince-meat I'm a-mixin' is perfection mighty

nigh;

And the pound-cake is delicious-rich—" "Who'll eat

'em?" I—says—I.

"The cramberries is drippin'-sweet," says Mother, runnin'

on,

P'tendin' not to hear me;—"and somehow I thought of

John

All the time they was a-jellin'—fer you know they allus

was

His favorITE—he likes 'em so!" Says I "Well, s'pose

he does?"

"Oh, nothin' much!" says Mother, with a quiet sort o'

smile—

"This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you after

while!"

And as I turnt and looked around, some one riz up and

leant

And putt his arms round Mother's neck, and laughed in

low content.

"It's ME," he says—"your fool-boy John, come back to

shake your hand;

Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you un-

derstand

How dearer yit than all the world is this old home that

we

Will spend Thanksgivin' in fer life—jest Mother, you

and me!"

Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,

Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time

comes on;

And then, I want to say to you, we NEED sich he'p about,

As you'd admit, ef you could see the way the crops turn

out!

A CANARY AT THE FARM

Folks has be'n to town, and Sahry

Fetched 'er home a pet canary,—

And of all the blame', contrary,

Aggervatin' things alive!

I love music—that's I love it

When it's free—and plenty of it;—

But I kindo' git above it,

At a dollar-eighty-five!

Reason's plain as I'm a—sayin',—

Jes' the idy, now, o' layin'

Out yer money, and a-payin'

Fer a wilder-cage and bird,

When the medder-larks is wingin'

Round you, and the woods is ringin'

With the beautifullest singin'

That a mortal ever heard!

Sahry's sot, tho'.—So I tell her

He's a purty little feller,

With his wings o' creamy-yeller,

And his eyes keen as a cat;

And the twitter o' the critter

Tears to absolutely glitter!

Guess I'll haf to go and git her

A high-priceter cage 'n that!

WHERE THE CHILDREN USED TO PLAY

The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine,

And filled it is with plenty and to spare,—

But we are lonely here in life's decline,

Though fortune smiles around us everywhere:

We look across the gold

Of the harvests, as of old—

The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hay

But most we turn our gaze,

As with eyes of other days,

To the orchard where the children used to play.

O from our life's full measure

And rich hoard of worldly treasure

We often turn our weary eyes away,

And hand in hand we wander

Down the old path winding yonder

To the orchard where the children used to play

Our sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds;

The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'er:

The grove's a paradise of singing birds-

The woodland brook leaps laughing by the door

Yet lonely, lonely still,

Let us prosper as we will,

Our old hearts seem so empty everyway—

We can only through a mist

See the faces we have kissed

In the orchard where the children used to play.

O from our life's full measure

And rich hoard of worldly treasure

We often turn our weary eyes away,

And hand in hand we wander

Down the old path winding yonder

To the orchard where the children used to play.

GRIGGSBY'S STATION

Pap's got his pattent-right, and rich as all creation;

But where's the peace and comfort that we all had

before?

Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—

Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

The likes of us a-livin' here! It's jest a mortal pity

To see us in this great big house, with cyarpets on the

stairs,

And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! city!

city!—

And nothin' but the city all around us ever'wheres!

Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple,

And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree!

And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people,

And none that neighbors with us or we want to go and

see!

Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—

Back where the latch-string's a-hangin' from the door,

And ever' neighbor round the place is dear as a relation—

Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit-and-bilin',

A-drivin' up from Shallor Ford to stay the Sunday

through;

And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their son-in-law's and

pilin'

Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they ust to do!

I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones girls is makin';

And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired

hand,

And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigh

a-takin',

Till her Pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his

land.

Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—

Back where they's nothin' aggervatin' any more,

Shet away safe in the woods around the old location—

Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

I want to see Marindy and he'p her with her sewin',

And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and

gone,

And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he's

growin',

And smile as I have saw her 'fore she putt her mournin'

on.

And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower eighty,

Where John, our oldest boy, he was tuk and burried

—for

His own sake and Katy's,—and I want to cry with Katy

As she reads all his letters over, writ from The War.

What's in all this grand life and high situation,

And nary pink nor hollyhawk a-bloomin' at the door?—

Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—

Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!

KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE

I

Tell you what I like the best—

'Long about knee-deep in June,

'Bout the time strawberries melts

On the vine,—some afternoon

Like to jes' git out and rest,

And not work at nothin' else'

II

Orchard's where I'd ruther be—

Needn't fence it in fer me!—

Jes' the whole sky overhead,

And the whole airth underneath—

Sorto' so's a man kin breathe

Like he ort, and kindo' has

Elbow-room to keerlessly

Sprawl out len'thways on the grass

Where the shadders thick and soft

As the kivvers on the bed

Mother fixes in the loft

Allus, when they's company!

III

Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there—

S'lazy, 'at you peek and peer

Through the wavin' leaves above,

Like a feller 'at's in love

And don't know it, ner don't keer!

Ever'thing you hear and see

Got some sort o' interest—

Maybe find a bluebird's nest

Tucked up there conveenently

Fer the boy 'at's ap' to be

Up some other apple-tree!

Watch the swallers skootin' past

'Bout as peert as you could ast,

Er the Bob-white raise and whiz

Where some other's whistle is

IV

Ketch a shadder down below,

And look up to find the crow—

Er a hawk,—away up there,

'Pearantly FROZE in the air!—

Hear the old hen squawk, and squat

Over ever' chick she's got,

Suddent-like!—and she knows where

That-air hawk is, well as you!—

You jes' bet yer life she do!—

Eyes a-glitterin' like glass,

Waitin' till he makes a pass!

V

Pee-wees' singin', to express

My opinion, 's second class,

Yit you'll hear 'em more er less;

Sapsucks gittin' down to biz,

Weedin' out the lonesomeness;

Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass,

In them base-ball clothes o' his,

Sportin' round the orchard jes'

Like he owned the premises!

Sun out in the fields kin sizz,

But flat on yer back, I guess,

In the shade's where glory is!

That's jes' what I'd like to do

Stiddy fer a year er two!

VI

Plague! ef they ain't somepin' in

Work 'at kindo' goes ag'in'

My convictions!—'long about

Here in June especially!—

Under some old apple-tree,

Jes' a-restin' through and through

I could git along without

Nothin' else at all to do

Only jes' a-wishin' you

Wuz a-gittin' there like me,

And June was eternity!

VII

Lay out there and try to see

Jes' how lazy you kin be!—

Tumble round and souse yer head

In the clover-bloom, er pull

Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes

And peek through it at the skies,

Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead,

Maybe, smilin' back at you

In betwixt the beautiful

Clouds o' gold and white and blue.

Month a man kin railly love

June, you know, I'm talkin' of!

VIII

March ain't never nothin' new!

Aprile's altogether too

Brash fer me! and May—I jes'

'Bominate its promises,

Little hints o' sunshine and

Green around the timber-land—

A few blossoms, and a few

Chip-birds, and a sprout er two,—

Drap asleep, and it turns in

'Fore daylight and SNOWS ag'in!—

But when JUNE comes—Clear my th'oat

With wild honey!—Rench my hair

In the dew! and hold my coat!

Whoop out loud! and th'ow my hat!—

June wants me, and I'm to spare!

Spread them shadders anywhere,

I'll git down and waller there,

And obleeged to you at that!

SEPTEMBER DARK

I

The air falls chill;

The whippoorwill

Pipes lonesomely behind the hill:

The dusk grows dense,

The silence tense;

And lo, the katydids commence.

II

Through shadowy rifts

Of woodland, lifts

The low, slow moon, and upward drifts,

While left and right

The fireflies' light

Swirls eddying in the skirts of Night.

III

O Cloudland, gray

And level, lay

Thy mists across the face of Day!

At foot and head,

Above the dead,

O Dews, weep on uncomforted!

THE CLOVER

Some sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose,

And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime

throws

In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays

Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days;

But what is the lily and all of the rest

Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest

That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew

Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew?

I never set eyes on a clover-field now,

Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow,

But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plane

As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again;

And I wunder away in a bare-footed dream,

Whare I tangle my toes in the blossoms that gleam

With the dew of the dawn of the morning of love

Ere it wept ore the graves that I'm weepin' above.

And so I love clover—it seems like a part

Of the sacerdest sorrows and joys of my hart;

And wharever it blossoms, oh, thare let me bow

And thank the good God as I'm thankin' Him now;

And I pray to Him still fer the stren'th when I die,

To go out in the clover and tell it good-bye,

And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom

While my soul slips away on a breth of purfume

OLD OCTOBER

Old October's purt' nigh gone,

And the frosts is comin' on

Little HEAVIER every day—

Like our hearts is thataway!

Leaves is changin' overhead

Back from green to gray and red,

Brown and yeller, with their stems

Loosenin' on the oaks and e'ms;

And the balance of the trees

Gittin' balder every breeze—

Like the heads we're scratchin' on!

Old October's purt' nigh gone.

I love Old October so,

I can't bear to see her go—

Seems to me like losin' some

Old-home relative er chum—

'Pears like sorto' settin' by

Some old friend 'at sigh by sigh

Was a-passin' out o' sight

Into everlastin' night!

Hickernuts a feller hears

Rattlin' down is more like tears

Drappin' on the leaves below—

I love Old October so!

Can't tell what it is about

Old October knocks me out!—

I sleep well enough at night—

And the blamedest appetite

Ever mortal man possessed,—

Last thing et, it tastes the best!—

Warnuts, butternuts, pawpaws,

'Iles and limbers up my jaws

Fer raal service, sich as new

Pork, spareribs, and sausage, too.—

Yit, fer all, they's somepin' 'bout

Old October knocks me out!

OLD-FASHIONED ROSES

They ain't no style about 'em,

And they're sorto' pale and faded,

Yit the doorway here, without 'em,

Would be lonesomer, and shaded

With a good 'eal blacker shadder

Than the morning-glories makes,

And the sunshine would look sadder

Fer their good old-fashion' sakes,

I like 'em 'cause they kindo'—

Sorto' MAKE a feller like 'em!

And I tell you, when I find a

Bunch out whur the sun kin strike 'em,

It allus sets me thinkin'

O' the ones 'at used to grow

And peek in thro' the chinkin'

O' the cabin, don't you know!

And then I think o' mother,

And how she ust to love 'em—

When they wuzn't any other,

'Less she found 'em up above 'em!

And her eyes, afore she shut 'em,

Whispered with a smile and said

We must pick a bunch and putt 'em

In her hand when she wuz dead.

But, as I wuz a-sayin',

They ain't no style about 'em

Very gaudy er displaying

But I wouldn't be without 'em,—

'Cause I'm happier in these posies,

And the hollyhawks and sich,

Than the hummin'-bird 'at noses

In the roses of the rich.

A COUNTRY PATHWAY

I come upon it suddenly, alone—

A little pathway winding in the weeds

That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own,

I wander as it leads.

Full wistfully along the slender way,

Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine,

I take the path that leads me as it may—

Its every choice is mine.

A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail,

Is startled by my step as on I fare—

A garter-snake across the dusty trail

Glances and—is not there.

Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos

And twos of sallow-yellow butterflies,

Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose

When autumn winds arise.

The trail dips—dwindles—broadens then, and lifts

Itself astride a cross-road dubiously,

And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts

Still onward, beckoning me.

And though it needs must lure me mile on mile

Out of the public highway, still I go,

My thoughts, far in advance in Indian-file,

Allure me even so.

Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went

At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars,

And was not found again, though Heaven lent

His mother all the stars

With which to seek him through that awful night.

O years of nights as vain!—Stars never rise

But well might miss their glitter in the light

Of tears in mother-eyes!

So—on, with quickened breaths, I follow still—

My avant-courier must be obeyed!

Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will,

Invites me to invade

A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide

Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile,

And stumbles down again, the other side,

To gambol there awhile

In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead

I see it running, while the clover-stalks

Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said—

"You dog our country—walks

"And mutilate us with your walking-stick!—

We will not suffer tamely what you do,

And warn you at your peril,—for we'll sic

Our bumblebees on you!"

But I smile back, in airy nonchalance,—

The more determined on my wayward quest,

As some bright memory a moment dawns

A morning in my breast—

Sending a thrill that hurries me along

In faulty similes of childish skips,

Enthused with lithe contortions of a song

Performing on my lips.

In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth—

Erratic wanderings through dead'ning-lands,

Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth,

Put berries in my hands:

Or the path climbs a bowlder—wades a slough—

Or, rollicking through buttercups and flags,

Goes gayly dancing o'er a deep bayou

On old tree-trunks and snags:

Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool

Upon a bridge the stream itself has made,

With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool

That its foundation laid.

I pause a moment here to bend and muse,

With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where

A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise,

Or wildly oars the air,

As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook—

The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed—

Swings pivoting about, with wary look

Of low and cunning greed.

Till, filled with other thought, I turn again

To where the pathway enters in a realm

Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign

Of towering oak and elm.

A puritanic quiet here reviles

The almost whispered warble from the hedge.

And takes a locust's rasping voice and files

The silence to an edge.

In such a solitude my sombre way

Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom

Of his own shadows—till the perfect day

Bursts into sudden bloom,

And crowns a long, declining stretch of space,

Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled.

And where the valley's dint in Nature's face

Dimples a smiling world.

And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled,

I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams,

Where, like a gem in costly setting held,

The old log cabin gleams.

O darling Pathway! lead me bravely on

Adown your alley-way, and run before

Among the roses crowding up the lawn

And thronging at the door,—

And carry up the echo there that shall

Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay

The household out to greet the prodigal

That wanders home to-day.

WORTERMELON TIME

Old wortermelon time is a-comin' round again,

And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me,

Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin—

Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.

Oh! it's in the sandy soil wortermelons does the best,

And it's thare they'll lay and waller in the sunshine and

the dew

Tel they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyr

breast;

And you bet I ain't a-findin' any fault with them; ain't

you?

They ain't no better thing in the vegetable line;

And they don't need much 'tendin', as ev'ry farmer

knows;

And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine,

I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows.

It's some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red.

And it's some says "The Little Californy" is the best;

But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head,

Is the old "Edingburg Mounting-sprout," of the west

You don't want no punkins nigh your wortermelon

vines—

'Cause, some-way-another, they'll spile your melons,

shore;—

I've seed 'em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines,

Which may be a fact you have heerd of before

But your melons that's raised right and 'tended to with

care,

You can walk around amongst 'em with a parent's

pride and joy,

And thump 'em on the heads with as fatherly a air

As ef each one of them was your little girl er boy.

I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin' sound

When you split one down the back and jolt the halves

in two,

And the friends you love the best is gethered all around—

And you says unto your sweethart, "Oh, here's the

core fer you!"

And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 'em all,

Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delight

As one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls,

And they holler fer some more, with unquenched

appetite.

Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see 'em eat—

A slice of wortermelon's like a frenchharp in theyr

hands,

And when they "saw" it through theyr mouth sich music

can't be beat—

'Cause it's music both the sperit and the stummick

understands.

Oh, they's more in wortermelons than the purty-colored

meat,

And the overflowin' sweetness of the worter squshed

betwixt

The up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth,

And it's the taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood

mixed.

Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away

To the summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn,

And the fadin' afternoon of the long summer day,

And the dusk and dew a-fallin', and the night a-comin'

on.

And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves and

trees,

And the stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silver

mice,

And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and knees,

And the new-moon hangin' ore us like a yeller-cored

slice.

Oh! it's wortermelon time is a-comin' round again,

And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me,

Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin—

Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.

UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE

Up and down old Brandywine,

In the days 'at's past and gone—

With a dad-burn hook-and line

And a saplin' pole—swawn!

I've had more fun, to the square

Inch, than ever ANYwhere!

Heaven to come can't discount MINE

Up and down old Brandywine!

Hain't no sense in WISHIN'—yit

Wisht to goodness I COULD jes

"Gee" the blame' world round and git

Back to that old happiness!—

Kindo' drive back in the shade

"The old Covered Bridge" there laid

'Crosst the crick, and sorto' soak

My soul over, hub and spoke!

Honest, now!—it hain't no DREAM

'At I'm wantin',—but THE FAC'S

As they wuz; the same old stream,

And the same old times, i jacks!—

Gim me back my bare feet—and

Stonebruise too!—And scratched and tanned!

And let hottest dog-days shine

Up and down old Brandywine!

In and on betwixt the trees

'Long the banks, pour down yer noon,

Kindo' curdled with the breeze

And the yallerhammer's tune;

And the smokin', chokin' dust

O' the turnpike at its wusst—

SATURD'YS, say, when it seems

Road's jes jammed with country teams!—

Whilse the old town, fur away

'Crosst the hazy pastur'-land,

Dozed-like in the heat o' day

Peaceful' as a hired hand.

Jolt the gravel th'ough the floor

O' the old bridge!—grind and roar

With yer blame percession-line—

Up and down old Brandywine!

Souse me and my new straw-hat

Off the foot-log!—what I care?—

Fist shoved in the crown o' that—

Like the old Clown ust to wear.

Wouldn't swop it fer a' old

Gin-u-wine raal crown o' gold!—

Keep yer KING ef you'll gim me

Jes the boy I ust to be!

Spill my fishin'-worms! er steal

My best "goggle-eye!"—but you

Can't lay hands on joys I feel

Nibblin' like they ust to do!

So, in memory, to-day

Same old ripple lips away

At my "cork" and saggin' line,

Up and down old Bradywine!

There the logs is, round the hill,

Where "Old Irvin" ust to lift

Out sunfish from daylight till

Dewfall—'fore he'd leave "The Drift"

And give US a chance—and then

Kindo' fish back home again,

Ketchin' 'em jes left and right

Where WE hadn't got "a bite!"

Er, 'way windin' out and in,—

Old path th'ough the iurnweeds

And dog-fennel to yer chin—

Then come suddent, th'ough the reeds

And cat-tails, smack into where

Them—air woods—hogs ust to scare

Us clean 'crosst the County-line,

Up and down old Brandywine!

But the dim roar o' the dam

It 'ud coax us furder still

To'rds the old race, slow and ca'm,

Slidin' on to Huston's mill—

Where, I'spect, "The Freeport crowd"

Never WARMED to us er 'lowed

We wuz quite so overly

Welcome as we aimed to be.

Still it 'peared like ever'thing—

Fur away from home as THERE—

Had more RELISH-like, i jing!—

Fish in stream, er bird in air!

O them rich old bottom-lands,

Past where Cowden's Schoolhouse stands!

Wortermelons—MASTER-MINE!

Up and down old Brandywine!

And sich pop-paws!—Lumps o' raw

Gold and green,—jes oozy th'ough

With ripe yaller—like you've saw

Custard-pie with no crust to:

And jes GORGES o' wild plums,

Till a feller'd suck his thumbs

Clean up to his elbows! MY!—

ME SOME MORE ER LEM ME DIE!

Up and down old Brandywine!...

Stripe me with pokeberry-juice!—

Flick me with a pizenvine

And yell "Yip!" and lem me loose!

—Old now as I then wuz young,

'F I could sing as I HAVE sung,

Song 'ud surely ring DEE-VINE

Up and down old Brandywine!

WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY

When country roads begin to thaw

In mottled spots of damp and dust,

And fences by the margin draw

Along the frosty crust

Their graphic silhouettes, I say,