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THE GUIDE TO NATURE 



"My steeds go stepping down the lane. 

 How glad they reach the water-trough!" 



again the meadow bars shall fall as 

 the cows come home from the pas- 

 ture. What glorious music it is to 

 him ! How different from the flight 

 of the birds, for hearing some one 

 say, "Come, Love, there is no more 

 work to do." Such are the thoughts 

 that arise in his soul, and urge him 

 onward toward the day's duties, and 

 enable him to appreciate the rest that 

 will follow. It is his peculiar talent 

 to transmit that feeling for the day's 

 work and the night's rest, to thou- 

 sands that toil in the fields. Where is 

 the farmer that will not appreciate his 

 poem that he calls "The Happy 

 Farmer?" 



The Happy Farmer. 



O'er mountain peaks the morning breaks, 

 The robin at my window wakes, 

 And calls me now to guide the plow 

 Down where the waving willows bow. 

 My sturdy team goes swiftly round 

 And swiftly turns the fragrant ground, 

 While breezes blow and grasses grow, 

 And birds of passage northward go. 



Fly on, swift birds, across the land! 



And blow, ye winds, from strand to strand ! 



For well I know, where'er ye go, 



Ye see no happier man below. 



For my heart is light and my love is true, 



And the day is full of work to do! 



The plow is still and blushes till 

 The heavens o'er the western hill, 

 As homeward now, with tossing mane, 

 My steeds go stepping down the lane. 

 How glad they reach the water-trough ! 

 And grateful now, with harness off, 

 They follow to the pasture ground, 

 And break away with playful bound. 



Xow softly fall the meadow bars, 



And silently steal out the stars. 



And as I watch the splendid night 



I hear a footstep falling light, 



And some one saying, sweet and true, 



"Come, love, there's no more work to do!" 



Speaking of the farmer's rest will 

 remind those that have toiled with the 

 plow or with the scythe, of the strenu- 

 ous life that the farmer leads. It is 

 everyday toil, delightful toil, it is true, 

 but despite the fancies of the poet, and 

 the alluring misrepresentations of the 

 people so enthusiastic over the en- 

 chantments of the soil, it still remains 

 toil, nothing but toil if one can see in 

 it only the toil. But to the farmer the 

 toil itself is a joy. He would not de- 

 sert his occupation for the frivolities 

 and artificialities of the city, but he 

 does appreciate the rest that comes 

 at the end of his honest labor. How 

 different is an active city man's rest 

 from that of the farmer! Ten hours, 

 twelve hours in his city office ; the 

 work drives him. When his time 

 for rest arrives, he dashes away in his 

 automobile, and with his family goes 

 whirring through the country with the 

 same rush, the same dash, the same 

 spirit that have inspired him all day 

 long in that city office. But that is 

 no rest for the farmer. He thinks of 

 the fisherman as enjoying the ideal 

 rest. As he plods in the furrow be- 

 ll ind the plow, or swings the scythe 

 in the scorching field, he thinks. 



