THE POETRY OF THE FARM. 15 



The clearing grew ; a little spot 



Was planted late, but throve— Why not ? 



The dark, rich loam was fertile field 



And surely would a harvest yield. 



The wife beside the cottage door 



Sowed seeds of which she had a store. 



That soon, green springing from the earth, 



Were lovely only at their birth, 



And later, e'en an artist's eye 



Were 'raptured with their changeful dye; 



While clambering vines beside the door 



Yield shade and blossoms evermore. 



Fair cousins these of those wild flowers 



Which graced adjacent sylvan bowers— 



Seed sown by Nature's hand— not ours. 



Thrice welcome now the gentle rain 

 That patters on the window pane, 

 And as the crystal drops come down 

 The thirsty earth so dry and brown, 

 Seems, as it drinks from well-filled cup, 

 To offer a thanksgiving up. 

 Anon the vivid lightnings flash. 

 And awful thunders o'er them crash: 

 But safe within each other's arms 

 They fear not Nature's wild alarms; 

 They know that he who sends the storm 

 Will sure his promises perform; 

 With child-like faith they wait to gain 

 The early and the latter rain. 

 Rich largess shall to them be given. 

 For faith and works are blest of heaven. 



All through the warm, soft summer days 

 They watched the ranks of growing maize 

 Whose long green leaves and tassels brown 

 Seem fit to wreathe in Ceres' crown. 

 Ere yet the autumu leaves appear 

 The corn is full within the ear; 

 And richer yet between the rows 

 The luscious golden pumpkin grows. 

 Some vegetables stand apart. 

 In size to cheer a gardener's lieart ; 

 While mother earth aneath her breast 

 Hides stores to challenge all the rest. 

 When autumn spreads her carpet down 

 In richest gold and red and brown, 

 She brings of nuts an ample store 

 And leaves them at the cabin door. 



So, like the squu-rel and the bee— 



Their neighbors — they industriously 



From Nature's granary gather store 



Till winter comes and shuts the door. 



The air is chill— the white snow lies 



Around the cot and fills the skies; 



But busy cares, indoors and out. 



Put lonely thoughts to sudden rout. 



The evenings long by cheerful fire 



Bring thoughts which might the muse inspire. 



The inviting page is duly scanned. 



While in the thrifty housewife's hand 



The shining needle swiftly flies; > 



She, listening as her task she plies. 



When comes the thought of other days, 



And friends, once wont to blame or praist". 



From full heart swells the rising tear 



But all of home is centred lieri^. 



