CRANDALL— THE FARMER POET 



5i 



"Could 1 but sit iu the rear of a boat 

 on a placid sea and fish, and fish, and 

 fish, even if I never caught a fish !" As 

 he swings the axe and thinks of the 

 fisherman that pulls the oars, he says, 

 "Could I but stoj) for a time this 

 swinging as he can stop that pulling!" 

 And there you will discover the germ 

 of one of the finest poems that Mr. 

 Crandall ever wrote, "Lean on Your 

 Oars and Rest Awhile." 



Lean on Your Oars and Rest Awhile. 



Lean on your oars and rest awhile — 



This is the sweetest part of the stream — 

 Shadowy branches over the aisle 



Lure us to linger, list, and dream. 

 While the wings in the verdure gleam, 



Dream and drift the rest of the mile; 

 Under the thrushes, over the bream, 



Lean on your oars and rest awhile. 



Think of the old days under the trees — 



All the murmurs and music of May — 

 And mating robins and booming bees, 



The big blue roof all over the day. 

 Oh, it is well to go back and think 



Of the dear mother, and see her smile 

 The old sweet way, the while you drink 



Deep of her love, and rest awhile. 



For while you lie and drift and rest — 



This, the sweetest part of the stream — 

 Faces of all you have loved the best 



Softly shall move within your dream. 

 Life is — to love; and loving is life; 



Dropping the world and its petty guile, 

 Learn the lesson, and, far from strife. 



Lie on vour oars and rest awhile. 



C. H. C. 



When the day is done, the farmer 

 takes his pipe and under the shade of 

 the trees he thinks and thinks of the 

 former days under the trees, when as 

 a boy, he played amid the murmur of 

 the leaves, the music of May, and 

 heard half unconsciously the robins' 

 song and the gentle murmur of the 

 homing bees. The remembrance of 

 these comes now like the loving ca- 

 resses of a mother gone long ago. 

 Then his mind wanders to those days 

 when, as a farmer boy, he looked to- 

 ward the time when he might go fish- 

 ing, when the toil of stirring hay 

 should give place to the drifting of a 

 boat. That skiff floats on the sweet- 

 est part of life's stream. There he 

 leans on his oars, and rests awhile. 



A lady recently came to ArcAdiA 

 and said that she wanted to study the 

 birds. She had come from a distant 

 state, because she had heard that the 

 ornithology of this part of Connecti- 

 cut is rich and varied, having both 

 shore birds and land birds in great 

 numbers. She wanted to add to her 

 list. She had "checked up" one hun- 

 dred and thirty-five in the previous 

 year. "Done what?" I said. "Checked 

 up," she repeated, "don't you know 

 what that means ?" Yes, alas ! I do. 

 It means that the birds meant little 

 to you if checking up is the whole 



THE PRACTICAL POETRY OF MOWING 



