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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/4783-h.zip b/4783-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..1191b58 --- /dev/null +++ b/4783-h.zip diff --git a/4783-h/4783-h.htm b/4783-h/4783-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6abea9d --- /dev/null +++ b/4783-h/4783-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,2526 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="us-ascii"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Riley Farm-rhymes, by James Whitcomb Riley + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Riley Farm-Rhymes, by James Whitcomb Riley + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Riley Farm-Rhymes + +Author: James Whitcomb Riley + +Release Date: January 25, 2010 [EBook #4783] +Last Updated: February 7, 2013 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RILEY FARM-RHYMES *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks, David Widger +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h1> + RILEY FARM-RHYMES + </h1> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h2> + By James Whitcomb Riley + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h3> + Inscribed with all Grateful Esteem + </h3> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + TO THE GOOD OLD-FASHIONED PEOPLE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> TO THE GOOD OLD-FASHIONED PEOPLE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> RILEY FARM-RHYMES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> THE ORCHARD LANDS OF LONG AGO </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> WET-WEATHER TALK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> THE BROOK-SONG </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> "MYLO JONES'S WIFE" </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> A CANARY AT THE FARM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> WHERE THE CHILDREN USED TO PLAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> GRIGGSBY'S STATION </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> SEPTEMBER DARK </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> THE CLOVER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> OLD OCTOBER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> OLD-FASHIONED ROSES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> A COUNTRY PATHWAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> WORTERMELON TIME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0025"> JUNE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0026"> THE TREE-TOAD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0027"> A SONG OF LONG AGO </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0028"> OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0029"> ROMANCIN' </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + RILEY FARM-RHYMES + </h1> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ORCHARD LANDS OF LONG AGO + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WET-WEATHER TALK + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BROOK-SONG + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + "MYLO JONES'S WIFE" + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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>I</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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A CANARY AT THE FARM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHERE THE CHILDREN USED TO PLAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + GRIGGSBY'S STATION + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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' +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VI +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VII +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + VIII +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0015" id="link2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SEPTEMBER DARK + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + The air falls chill; + The whippoorwill + Pipes lonesomely behind the hill: + The dusk grows dense, + The silence tense; + And lo, the katydids commence. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0016" id="link2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE CLOVER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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 +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0017" id="link2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OLD OCTOBER + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OLD-FASHIONED ROSES + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0019" id="link2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A COUNTRY PATHWAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WORTERMELON TIME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0021" id="link2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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>I</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! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0022" id="link2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + 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, + The Spring is coming round this way. + + When morning-time is bright with sun + And keen with wind, and both confuse + The dancing, glancing eyes of one + With tears that ooze and ooze— + And nose-tips weep as well as they, + The Spring is coming round this way. + + When suddenly some shadow-bird + Goes wavering beneath the gaze, + And through the hedge the moan is heard + Of kine that fain would graze + In grasses new, I smile and say, + The Spring is coming round this way. + + When knotted horse-tails are untied, + And teamsters whistle here and there. + And clumsy mitts are laid aside + And choppers' hands are bare, + And chips are thick where children play, + The Spring is coming round this way. + + When through the twigs the farmer tramps, + And troughs are chunked beneath the trees, + And fragrant hints of sugar-camps + Astray in every breeze,— + When early March seems middle May, + The Spring is coming round this way. + + When coughs are changed to laughs, and when + Our frowns melt into smiles of glee, + And all our blood thaws out again + In streams of ecstasy, + And poets wreak their roundelay, + The Spring is coming round this way. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0023" id="link2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Oh! tell me a tale of the airly days— + Of the times as they ust to be; + "Piller of Fi-er" and "Shakespeare's Plays" + Is a' most too deep fer me! + I want plane facts, and I want plane words, + Of the good old-fashioned ways, + When speech run free as the songs of birds + 'Way back in the airly days. + + Tell me a tale of the timber-lands— + Of the old-time pioneers; + Somepin' a pore man understands + With his feelins's well as ears. + Tell of the old log house,—about + The loft, and the puncheon flore— + The old fi-er-place, with the crane swung out, + And the latch-string thrugh the door. + + Tell of the things jest as they was— + They don't need no excuse!— + Don't tech 'em up like the poets does, + Tel theyr all too fine fer use!— + Say they was 'leven in the fambily— + Two beds, and the chist, below, + And the trundle-beds that each helt three, + And the clock and the old bureau. + + Then blow the horn at the old back-door + Tel the echoes all halloo, + And the childern gethers home onc't more, + Jest as they ust to do: + Blow fer Pap tel he hears and comes, + With Tomps and Elias, too, + A-marchin' home, with the fife and drums + And the old Red White and Blue! + + Blow and blow tel the sound draps low + As the moan of the whipperwill, + And wake up Mother, and Ruth and Jo, + All sleepin' at Bethel Hill: + Blow and call tel the faces all + Shine out in the back-log's blaze, + And the shadders dance on the old hewed wall + As they did in the airly days. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the jolly winters + Of the long-ago, + It was not so cold as now— + O! No! No! + Then, as I remember, + Snowballs to eat + Were as good as apples now. + And every bit as sweet! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + II +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the jolly winters + Of the dead-and-gone, + Bub was warm as summer, + With his red mitts on,— + Just in his little waist- + And-pants all together, + Who ever hear him growl + About cold weather? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + III +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the jolly winters + Of the long-ago— + Was it HALF so cold as now? + O! No! No! + Who caught his death o' cold, + Making prints of men + Flat-backed in snow that now's + Twice as cold again? +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + IV +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + In the jolly winters + Of the dead-and-gone, + Startin' out rabbit-huntin'— + Early as the dawn,— + Who ever froze his fingers, + Ears, heels, or toes,— + Or'd 'a' cared if he had? + Nobody knows! +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + V +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Nights by the kitchen-stove, + Shellin' white and red + Corn in the skillet, and + Sleepin' four abed! + Ah! the jolly winters + Of the long-ago! + We were not as old as now— + O! No! No! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0025" id="link2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + JUNE + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + O queenly month of indolent repose! + I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume, + As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom + I nestle like a drowsy child and doze + The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws + The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom + And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom + Before thy listless feet. The lily blows + A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade; + And, wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear, + Thy harvest-armies gather on parade; + While, faint and far away, yet pure and clear, + A voice calls out of alien lands of shade:— + All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0026" id="link2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TREE-TOAD + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + "'S cur'ous-like," said the tree-toad, + "I've twittered fer rain all day; + And I got up soon, + And hollered tel noon— + But the sun, hit blazed away, + Tell I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole, + Weary at hart, and sick at soul! + + "Dozed away fer an hour, + And I tackled the thing agin: + And I sung, and sung, + Tel I knowed my lung + Was jest about give in; + And THEN, thinks I, ef hit don't rain NOW, + They's nothin' in singin', anyhow! + + "Onc't in a while some farmer + Would come a-drivin' past; + And he'd hear my cry, + And stop and sigh— + Tel I jest laid back, at last, + And I hollered rain tel I thought my th'oat + Would bust wide open at ever' note! + + "But I FETCHED her!—O <i>I</i> FETCHED her!— + 'Cause a little while ago, + As I kindo' set, + With one eye shet, + And a-singin' soft and low, + A voice drapped down on my fevered brain, + A-sayin',—'EF YOU'LL JEST HUSH I'LL RAIN!'" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0027" id="link2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SONG OF LONG AGO + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + A song of Long Ago: + Sing it lightly—sing it low— + Sing it softly—like the lisping of the lips we + used to know + When our baby-laughter spilled + From the glad hearts ever filled + With music blithe as robin ever trilled! + + Let the fragrant summer breeze, + And the leaves of locust-trees, + And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the + wings of honey-bees, + All palpitate with glee, + Till the happy harmony + Brings back each childish joy to you and me. + + Let the eyes of fancy turn + Where the tumbled pippins burn + Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled + grass and fern,— + There let the old path wind + In and out and on behind + The cider-press that chuckles as we grind. + + Blend in the song the moan + Of the dove that grieves alone, + And the wild whir of the locust, and the + bumble's drowsy drone; + And the low of cows that call + Through the pasture-bars when all + The landscape fades away at evenfall. + + Then, far away and clear, + Through the dusky atmosphere, + Let the wailing of the killdee be the only + sound we hear: + O sad and sweet and low + As the memory may know + Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago! +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0028" id="link2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I have jest about decided + It 'ud keep a town-boy hoppin' + Fer to work all winter, choppin' + Fer a' old fireplace, like I did! + Lawz! them old times wuz contrairy!— + Blame' backbone o' winter, 'peared-like + WOULDN'T break!—and I wuz skeered-like + Clean on into FEB'UARY! + Nothin' ever made me madder + Than fer Pap to stomp in, layin' + In a' extra forestick, say'in', + "Groun'-hog's out and seed his shadder!" +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0029" id="link2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ROMANCIN' + </h2> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + I' b'en a-kindo' "musin'," as the feller says, and I'm + About o' the conclusion that they hain't no better + time, + When you come to cipher on it, than the times we ust to + know + When we swore our first "dog-gone-it" sorto' solum-like + and low! + + You git my idy, do you?—LITTLE tads, you understand— + Jest a-wishin' thue and thue you that you on'y wuz a + MAN.— + Yit here I am, this minit, even sixty, to a day, + And fergittin' all that's in it, wishm' jest the other way! + + I hain't no hand to lectur' on the times, er dimonstrate + Whare the trouble is, er hector and domineer with Fate,— + But when I git so flurried, and so pestered-like and blue, + And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what I + do!— + + I jest gee-haw the hosses, and onhook the swingle-tree, + Whare the hazel-bushes tosses down theyr shadders over + me; + And I draw my plug o' navy, and I climb the fence, and + set + Jest a-thinkin' here, i gravy' tel my eyes is wringin'-wet! + + Tho' I still kin see the trouble o' the PRESUNT, I kin see— + Kindo' like my sight wuz double-all the things that + UST to be; + And the flutter o' the robin and the teeter o' the wren + Sets the willer-branches bobbin' "howdy-do" thum Now + to Then! + + The deadnin' and the thicket's jest a-bilin' full of June, + From the rattle o' the cricket, to the yallar-hammer's + tune; + And the catbird in the bottom, and the sapsuck on the + snag, + Seems ef they can't-od-rot 'em!-jest do nothin' else + but brag! + + They's music in the twitter of the bluebird and the jay, + And that sassy little critter jest a-peckin' all the day; + They's music in the "flicker," and they's music in the + thrush, + And they's music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in the + brush! + + They's music all around me!—And I go back, in a dream + Sweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep,—and in the + stream + That list to split the medder whare the dandylions + growed, + I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down the + road. + + Then's when I' b'en a-fishin'!—And they's other fellers, + too, + With theyr hick'ry-poles a-swishin' out behind 'em; and + a few + Little "shiners" on our stringers, with theyr tails tip— + toein' bloom, + As we dance 'em in our fingers all the happy jurney + home. + + I kin see us, true to Natur', thum the time we started out, + With a biscuit and a 'tater in our little "roundabout"!— + I kin see our lines a-tanglin', and our elbows in a jam, + And our naked legs a-danglin' thum the apern o' the dam. + + I kin see the honeysuckle climbin' up around the mill, + And kin hear the worter chuckle, and the wheel a-growl- + in' still; + And thum the bank below it I kin steal the old canoe, + And jest git in and row it like the miller ust to do. + + W'y, I git my fancy focussed on the past so mortul plane + I kin even smell the locus'-blossoms bloomin' in the lane; + And I hear the cow-bells clinkin' sweeter tunes 'n + "Money-musk"' + Fer the lightnin' bugs a-blinkin' and a-dancin' in the dusk. + + And when I've kep' on "musin'," as the feller says, tel I'm + Firm-fixed in the conclusion that they haint no better + time, + When you come to cipher on it, than the old times,—I + de-clare + I kin wake and say "dog-gone-it'" jest as soft as any + prayer! +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Riley Farm-Rhymes, by James Whitcomb Riley + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RILEY FARM-RHYMES *** + +***** This file should be named 4783-h.htm or 4783-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/4/7/8/4783/ + +Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks, David Widger +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Riley Farm-Rhymes + +Author: James Whitcomb Riley + +Release Date: December, 2003 [Etext #4783] +Posting Date: January 25, 2010 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RILEY FARM-RHYMES *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + + + + + +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 + + + BROOK SONG, THE + CANARY AT THE FARM, A + CLOVER, THE + COUNTRY PATHWAY, A + GRIGGSBY'S STATION + HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM + JUNE + KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE + "MYLO JONES'S WIFE" + OLD-FASHIONED ROSES + OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME + OLD OCTOBER + OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM + ORCHARD LANDS OF LONG AGO, THE + ROMANCIN' + SEPTEMBER DARK + SONG OF LONG AGO, A + TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS, A + THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER + TREE-TOAD, THE + UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE + WET-WEATHER TALK + WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY + WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN + WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES + WHERE THE CHILDREN USED TO PLAY + WORTERMELON TIME + + + + + +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, + The Spring is coming round this way. + + When morning-time is bright with sun + And keen with wind, and both confuse + The dancing, glancing eyes of one + With tears that ooze and ooze-- + And nose-tips weep as well as they, + The Spring is coming round this way. + + When suddenly some shadow-bird + Goes wavering beneath the gaze, + And through the hedge the moan is heard + Of kine that fain would graze + In grasses new, I smile and say, + The Spring is coming round this way. + + When knotted horse-tails are untied, + And teamsters whistle here and there. + And clumsy mitts are laid aside + And choppers' hands are bare, + And chips are thick where children play, + The Spring is coming round this way. + + When through the twigs the farmer tramps, + And troughs are chunked beneath the trees, + And fragrant hints of sugar-camps + Astray in every breeze,-- + When early March seems middle May, + The Spring is coming round this way. + + When coughs are changed to laughs, and when + Our frowns melt into smiles of glee, + And all our blood thaws out again + In streams of ecstasy, + And poets wreak their roundelay, + The Spring is coming round this way. + + + + +A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS + + + Oh! tell me a tale of the airly days-- + Of the times as they ust to be; + "Piller of Fi-er" and "Shakespeare's Plays" + Is a' most too deep fer me! + I want plane facts, and I want plane words, + Of the good old-fashioned ways, + When speech run free as the songs of birds + 'Way back in the airly days. + + Tell me a tale of the timber-lands-- + Of the old-time pioneers; + Somepin' a pore man understands + With his feelins's well as ears. + Tell of the old log house,--about + The loft, and the puncheon flore-- + The old fi-er-place, with the crane swung out, + And the latch-string thrugh the door. + + Tell of the things jest as they was-- + They don't need no excuse!-- + Don't tech 'em up like the poets does, + Tel theyr all too fine fer use!-- + Say they was 'leven in the fambily-- + Two beds, and the chist, below, + And the trundle-beds that each helt three, + And the clock and the old bureau. + + Then blow the horn at the old back-door + Tel the echoes all halloo, + And the childern gethers home onc't more, + Jest as they ust to do: + Blow fer Pap tel he hears and comes, + With Tomps and Elias, too, + A-marchin' home, with the fife and drums + And the old Red White and Blue! + + Blow and blow tel the sound draps low + As the moan of the whipperwill, + And wake up Mother, and Ruth and Jo, + All sleepin' at Bethel Hill: + Blow and call tel the faces all + Shine out in the back-log's blaze, + And the shadders dance on the old hewed wall + As they did in the airly days. + + + + +OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME + + + I + + + In the jolly winters + Of the long-ago, + It was not so cold as now-- + O! No! No! + Then, as I remember, + Snowballs to eat + Were as good as apples now. + And every bit as sweet! + + + II + + + In the jolly winters + Of the dead-and-gone, + Bub was warm as summer, + With his red mitts on,-- + Just in his little waist- + And-pants all together, + Who ever hear him growl + About cold weather? + + + III + + + In the jolly winters + Of the long-ago-- + Was it HALF so cold as now? + O! No! No! + Who caught his death o' cold, + Making prints of men + Flat-backed in snow that now's + Twice as cold again? + + + IV + + + In the jolly winters + Of the dead-and-gone, + Startin' out rabbit-huntin'-- + Early as the dawn,-- + Who ever froze his fingers, + Ears, heels, or toes,-- + Or'd 'a' cared if he had? + Nobody knows! + + + V + + + Nights by the kitchen-stove, + Shellin' white and red + Corn in the skillet, and + Sleepin' four abed! + Ah! the jolly winters + Of the long-ago! + We were not as old as now-- + O! No! No! + + + + +JUNE + + + O queenly month of indolent repose! + I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume, + As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom + I nestle like a drowsy child and doze + The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws + The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom + And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom + Before thy listless feet. The lily blows + A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade; + And, wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear, + Thy harvest-armies gather on parade; + While, faint and far away, yet pure and clear, + A voice calls out of alien lands of shade:-- + All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year! + + + + +THE TREE-TOAD + + + "'S cur'ous-like," said the tree-toad, + "I've twittered fer rain all day; + And I got up soon, + And hollered tel noon-- + But the sun, hit blazed away, + Tell I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole, + Weary at hart, and sick at soul! + + "Dozed away fer an hour, + And I tackled the thing agin: + And I sung, and sung, + Tel I knowed my lung + Was jest about give in; + And THEN, thinks I, ef hit don't rain NOW, + They's nothin' in singin', anyhow! + + "Onc't in a while some farmer + Would come a-drivin' past; + And he'd hear my cry, + And stop and sigh-- + Tel I jest laid back, at last, + And I hollered rain tel I thought my th'oat + Would bust wide open at ever' note! + + "But I FETCHED her!--O _I_ FETCHED her!-- + 'Cause a little while ago, + As I kindo' set, + With one eye shet, + And a-singin' soft and low, + A voice drapped down on my fevered brain, + A-sayin',--'EF YOU'LL JEST HUSH I'LL RAIN!'" + + + + +A SONG OF LONG AGO + + + A song of Long Ago: + Sing it lightly--sing it low-- + Sing it softly--like the lisping of the lips we + used to know + When our baby-laughter spilled + From the glad hearts ever filled + With music blithe as robin ever trilled! + + Let the fragrant summer breeze, + And the leaves of locust-trees, + And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the + wings of honey-bees, + All palpitate with glee, + Till the happy harmony + Brings back each childish joy to you and me. + + Let the eyes of fancy turn + Where the tumbled pippins burn + Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled + grass and fern,-- + There let the old path wind + In and out and on behind + The cider-press that chuckles as we grind. + + Blend in the song the moan + Of the dove that grieves alone, + And the wild whir of the locust, and the + bumble's drowsy drone; + And the low of cows that call + Through the pasture-bars when all + The landscape fades away at evenfall. + + Then, far away and clear, + Through the dusky atmosphere, + Let the wailing of the killdee be the only + sound we hear: + O sad and sweet and low + As the memory may know + Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago! + + + + +OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM + + + I have jest about decided + It 'ud keep a town-boy hoppin' + Fer to work all winter, choppin' + Fer a' old fireplace, like I did! + Lawz! them old times wuz contrairy!-- + Blame' backbone o' winter, 'peared-like + WOULDN'T break!--and I wuz skeered-like + Clean on into FEB'UARY! + Nothin' ever made me madder + Than fer Pap to stomp in, layin' + In a' extra forestick, say'in', + "Groun'-hog's out and seed his shadder!" + + + + +ROMANCIN' + + + I' b'en a-kindo' "musin'," as the feller says, and I'm + About o' the conclusion that they hain't no better + time, + When you come to cipher on it, than the times we ust to + know + When we swore our first "dog-gone-it" sorto' solum-like + and low! + + You git my idy, do you?--LITTLE tads, you understand-- + Jest a-wishin' thue and thue you that you on'y wuz a + MAN.-- + Yit here I am, this minit, even sixty, to a day, + And fergittin' all that's in it, wishm' jest the other way! + + I hain't no hand to lectur' on the times, er dimonstrate + Whare the trouble is, er hector and domineer with Fate,-- + But when I git so flurried, and so pestered-like and blue, + And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what I + do!-- + + I jest gee-haw the hosses, and onhook the swingle-tree, + Whare the hazel-bushes tosses down theyr shadders over + me; + And I draw my plug o' navy, and I climb the fence, and + set + Jest a-thinkin' here, i gravy' tel my eyes is wringin'-wet! + + Tho' I still kin see the trouble o' the PRESUNT, I kin see-- + Kindo' like my sight wuz double-all the things that + UST to be; + And the flutter o' the robin and the teeter o' the wren + Sets the willer-branches bobbin' "howdy-do" thum Now + to Then! + + The deadnin' and the thicket's jest a-bilin' full of June, + From the rattle o' the cricket, to the yallar-hammer's + tune; + And the catbird in the bottom, and the sapsuck on the + snag, + Seems ef they can't-od-rot 'em!-jest do nothin' else + but brag! + + They's music in the twitter of the bluebird and the jay, + And that sassy little critter jest a-peckin' all the day; + They's music in the "flicker," and they's music in the + thrush, + And they's music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in the + brush! + + They's music all around me!--And I go back, in a dream + Sweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep,--and in the + stream + That list to split the medder whare the dandylions + growed, + I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down the + road. + + Then's when I' b'en a-fishin'!--And they's other fellers, + too, + With theyr hick'ry-poles a-swishin' out behind 'em; and + a few + Little "shiners" on our stringers, with theyr tails tip-- + toein' bloom, + As we dance 'em in our fingers all the happy jurney + home. + + I kin see us, true to Natur', thum the time we started out, + With a biscuit and a 'tater in our little "roundabout"!-- + I kin see our lines a-tanglin', and our elbows in a jam, + And our naked legs a-danglin' thum the apern o' the dam. + + I kin see the honeysuckle climbin' up around the mill, + And kin hear the worter chuckle, and the wheel a-growl- + in' still; + And thum the bank below it I kin steal the old canoe, + And jest git in and row it like the miller ust to do. + + W'y, I git my fancy focussed on the past so mortul plane + I kin even smell the locus'-blossoms bloomin' in the lane; + And I hear the cow-bells clinkin' sweeter tunes 'n + "Money-musk"' + Fer the lightnin' bugs a-blinkin' and a-dancin' in the dusk. + + And when I've kep' on "musin'," as the feller says, tel I'm + Firm-fixed in the conclusion that they haint no better + time, + When you come to cipher on it, than the old times,--I + de-clare + I kin wake and say "dog-gone-it'" jest as soft as any + prayer! 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You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Riley Farm-Rhymes + +Author: James Whitcomb Riley + +Release Date: December, 2003 [Etext #4783] +[This file was last updated on March 18, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT RILEY FARM-RHYMES *** + + + + +Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + + + + + +RILEY FARM-RHYMES + +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 + + +BROOK SONG, THE +CANARY AT THE FARM, A +CLOVER, THE +COUNTRY PATHWAY, A +GRIGGSBY'S STATION +HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM +JUNE +KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE +"MYLO JONES'S WIFE" +OLD-FASHIONED ROSES +OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME +OLD OCTOBER +OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM +ORCHARD LANDS OF LONG AGO, THE +ROMANCIN' +SEPTEMBER DARK +SONG OF LONG AGO, A +TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS, A +THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER +TREE-TOAD, THE +UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE +WET-WEATHER TALK +WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY +WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN +WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES +WHERE THE CHILDREN USED TO PLAY +WORTERMELON TIME + + + + + +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 de- + light. + +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 Prog- + ress," 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, + The Spring is coming round this way. + +When morning-time is bright with sun + And keen with wind, and both confuse +The dancing, glancing eyes of one + With tears that ooze and ooze-- + And nose-tips weep as well as they, + The Spring is coming round this way. + +When suddenly some shadow-bird + Goes wavering beneath the gaze, +And through the hedge the moan is heard + Of kine that fain would graze + In grasses new, I smile and say, + The Spring is coming round this way. + +When knotted horse-tails are untied, + And teamsters whistle here and there. +And clumsy mitts are laid aside + And choppers' hands are bare, + And chips are thick where children play, + The Spring is coming round this way. + +When through the twigs the farmer tramps, + And troughs are chunked beneath the trees, +And fragrant hints of sugar-camps + Astray in every breeze,-- + When early March seems middle May, + The Spring is coming round this way. + +When coughs are changed to laughs, and when + Our frowns melt into smiles of glee, +And all our blood thaws out again + In streams of ecstasy, + And poets wreak their roundelay, + The Spring is coming round this way. + + + + + +A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS + + +Oh! tell me a tale of the airly days-- + Of the times as they ust to be; +"Piller of Fi-er" and "Shakespeare's Plays" + Is a' most too deep fer me! +I want plane facts, and I want plane words, + Of the good old-fashioned ways, +When speech run free as the songs of birds + 'Way back in the airly days. + +Tell me a tale of the timber-lands-- + Of the old-time pioneers; +Somepin' a pore man understands + With his feelins's well as ears. +Tell of the old log house,--about + The loft, and the puncheon flore-- +The old fi-er-place, with the crane swung out, + And the latch-string thrugh the door. + +Tell of the things jest as they was-- + They don't need no excuse!-- +Don't tech 'em up like the poets does, + Tel theyr all too fine fer use!-- +Say they was 'leven in the fambily-- + Two beds, and the chist, below, +And the trundle-beds that each helt three, + And the clock and the old bureau. + +Then blow the horn at the old back-door + Tel the echoes all halloo, +And the childern gethers home onc't more, + Jest as they ust to do: +Blow fer Pap tel he hears and comes, + With Tomps and Elias, too, +A-marchin' home, with the fife and drums + And the old Red White and Blue! + +Blow and blow tel the sound draps low + As the moan of the whipperwill, +And wake up Mother, and Ruth and Jo, + All sleepin' at Bethel Hill: +Blow and call tel the faces all + Shine out in the back-log's blaze, +And the shadders dance on the old hewed wall + As they did in the airly days. + + + + + +OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME + + +I + + +In the jolly winters + Of the long-ago, +It was not so cold as now-- + O! No! No! +Then, as I remember, + Snowballs to eat +Were as good as apples now. + And every bit as sweet! + + +II + + +In the jolly winters + Of the dead-and-gone, +Bub was warm as summer, + With his red mitts on,-- +Just in his little waist- + And-pants all together, +Who ever hear him growl + About cold weather? + + +III + + +In the jolly winters + Of the long-ago-- +Was it HALF so cold as now? + O! No! No! +Who caught his death o' cold, + Making prints of men +Flat-backed in snow that now's + Twice as cold again? + + +IV + + +In the jolly winters + Of the dead-and-gone, +Startin' out rabbit-huntin'-- + Early as the dawn,-- +Who ever froze his fingers, + Ears, heels, or toes,-- +Or'd 'a' cared if he had? + Nobody knows! + + +V + + +Nights by the kitchen-stove, + Shellin' white and red +Corn in the skillet, and + Sleepin' four abed! +Ah! the jolly winters + Of the long-ago! +We were not as old as now-- + O! No! No! + + + + + +JUNE + + +O queenly month of indolent repose! + I drink thy breath in sips of rare perfume, + As in thy downy lap of clover-bloom +I nestle like a drowsy child and doze +The lazy hours away. The zephyr throws + The shifting shuttle of the Summer's loom + And weaves a damask-work of gleam and gloom +Before thy listless feet. The lily blows + A bugle-call of fragrance o'er the glade; + And, wheeling into ranks, with plume and spear, + Thy harvest-armies gather on parade; + While, faint and far away, yet pure and clear, + A voice calls out of alien lands of shade:-- + All hail the Peerless Goddess of the Year! + + + + + +THE TREE-TOAD + + +"'S cur'ous-like," said the tree-toad, + "I've twittered fer rain all day; + And I got up soon, + And hollered tel noon-- +But the sun, hit blazed away, + Tell I jest clumb down in a crawfish-hole, + Weary at hart, and sick at soul! + +"Dozed away fer an hour, + And I tackled the thing agin: + And I sung, and sung, + Tel I knowed my lung + Was jest about give in; + And THEN, thinks I, ef hit don't rain NOW, + They's nothin' in singin', anyhow! + +"Onc't in a while some farmer + Would come a-drivin' past; + And he'd hear my cry, + And stop and sigh-- + Tel I jest laid back, at last, + And I hollered rain tel I thought my th'oat + Would bust wide open at ever' note! + +"But I FETCHED her!--O _I_ FETCHED her!-- + 'Cause a little while ago, + As I kindo' set, + With one eye shet, + And a-singin' soft and low, + A voice drapped down on my fevered brain, + A-sayin',--'EF YOU'LL JEST HUSH I'LL RAIN!'" + + + + + +A SONG OF LONG AGO + + +A song of Long Ago: +Sing it lightly--sing it low-- +Sing it softly--like the lisping of the lips we + used to know +When our baby-laughter spilled +From the glad hearts ever filled +With music blithe as robin ever trilled! + +Let the fragrant summer breeze, +And the leaves of locust-trees, +And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the + wings of honey-bees, +All palpitate with glee, +Till the happy harmony +Brings back each childish joy to you and me. + +Let the eyes of fancy turn +Where the tumbled pippins burn +Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled + grass and fern,-- +There let the old path wind +In and out and on behind +The cider-press that chuckles as we grind. + +Blend in the song the moan +Of the dove that grieves alone, +And the wild whir of the locust, and the + bumble's drowsy drone; +And the low of cows that call +Through the pasture-bars when all +The landscape fades away at evenfall. + +Then, far away and clear, +Through the dusky atmosphere, +Let the wailing of the killdee be the only + sound we hear: +O sad and sweet and low +As the memory may know +Is the glad-pathetic song of Long Ago! + + + + + +OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM + + +I have jest about decided + It 'ud keep a town-boy hoppin' + Fer to work all winter, choppin' +Fer a' old fireplace, like I did! +Lawz! them old times wuz contrairy!-- + Blame' backbone o' winter, 'peared-like + WOULDN'T break!--and I wuz skeered-like +Clean on into FEB'UARY! + Nothin' ever made me madder +Than fer Pap to stomp in, layin' +In a' extra forestick, say'in', + "Groun'-hog's out and seed his shadder!" + + + + + +ROMANCIN' + + +I' b'en a-kindo' "musin'," as the feller says, and I'm + About o' the conclusion that they hain't no better + time, +When you come to cipher on it, than the times we ust to + know +When we swore our first "dog-gone-it" sorto' solum-like + and low! + +You git my idy, do you?--LITTLE tads, you understand-- +Jest a-wishin' thue and thue you that you on'y wuz a + MAN.-- +Yit here I am, this minit, even sixty, to a day, +And fergittin' all that's in it, wishm' jest the other way! + +I hain't no hand to lectur' on the times, er dimonstrate +Whare the trouble is, er hector and domineer with Fate,-- +But when I git so flurried, and so pestered-like and blue, +And so rail owdacious worried, let me tell you what I + do!-- + +I jest gee-haw the hosses, and onhook the swingle-tree, +Whare the hazel-bushes tosses down theyr shadders over + me; +And I draw my plug o' navy, and I climb the fence, and + set +Jest a-thinkin' here, i gravy' tel my eyes is wringin'-wet! + +Tho' I still kin see the trouble o' the PRESUNT, I kin see-- +Kindo' like my sight wuz double-all the things that + UST to be; +And the flutter o' the robin and the teeter o' the wren +Sets the willer-branches bobbin' "howdy-do" thum Now + to Then! + +The deadnin' and the thicket's jest a-bilin' full of June, +From the rattle o' the cricket, to the yallar-hammer's + tune; +And the catbird in the bottom, and the sapsuck on the + snag, +Seems ef they can't-od-rot 'em!-jest do nothin' else + but brag! + +They's music in the twitter of the bluebird and the jay, +And that sassy little critter jest a-peckin' all the day; +They's music in the "flicker," and they's music in the + thrush, +And they's music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in the + brush! + +They's music all around me!--And I go back, in a dream +Sweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep,--and in the + stream +That list to split the medder whare the dandylions + growed, +I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down the + road. + +Then's when I' b'en a-fishin'!--And they's other fellers, + too, +With theyr hick'ry-poles a-swishin' out behind 'em; and + a few +Little "shiners" on our stringers, with theyr tails tip-- + toein' bloom, +As we dance 'em in our fingers all the happy jurney + home. + +I kin see us, true to Natur', thum the time we started out, +With a biscuit and a 'tater in our little "roundabout"!-- +I kin see our lines a-tanglin', and our elbows in a jam, +And our naked legs a-danglin' thum the apern o' the dam. + +I kin see the honeysuckle climbin' up around the mill, +And kin hear the worter chuckle, and the wheel a-growl- + in' still; +And thum the bank below it I kin steal the old canoe, +And jest git in and row it like the miller ust to do. + +W'y, I git my fancy focussed on the past so mortul plane +I kin even smell the locus'-blossoms bloomin' in the lane; +And I hear the cow-bells clinkin' sweeter tunes 'n + "Money-musk"' +Fer the lightnin' bugs a-blinkin' and a-dancin' in the dusk. + +And when I've kep' on "musin'," as the feller says, tel I'm +Firm-fixed in the conclusion that they haint no better + time, +When you come to cipher on it, than the old times,--I + de-clare +I kin wake and say "dog-gone-it'" jest as soft as any + prayer! + + + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Riley Farm-Rhymes, by James Whitcomb Riley + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT RILEY FARM-RHYMES *** + +This file should be named rlfrr10.txt or rlfrr10.zip +Corrected EDITIONS of our etexts get a new NUMBER, rlfrr11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, rlfrr10a.txt + +Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team. + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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