144 STATE HORTICULTURAL SOCIETY. 



Yet, they once played a part in some fond mother's yearnings. 



Were once a sweet babe on some fair mother's breast. 

 They were leaves on life's tree; and the mother's discemings 



Seen hopes for the babe that she loved and caressed. 



But, the weak germ of manhood had dwarfed in his growing. 



He failed as a power, and jell like the leaves. 

 And today he stands idle; no life or light showing — • 



While his farm and home stands as but tares among sheaves. 

 These tumble down homesteads are poor advertisers. 



They blurr every landscape, and fetter all pride. 

 And their owners, like leaves, if, in ground fertihzer, 



Would spell all their worth to our state fair and wide. 



Our trees will soon wake to the voices of springtime; 



And the earth will grow mellow beneath the warm sun. 

 The ice fettered streamlet will break from its moorings 



And hustle away on its long ocean nm. 

 So awake and be ready to start with the season. 



Arise with the lark; and past losses retrieve. 

 For to falter in this is but one form of treason — 



Thus clogging life's stream with a bunch of dead leaves. 



These are not idle words put in rhyme for your pleasure, 



But a true urgent plea from a farmer like you. 

 I suffer life's hardships and cares without measure; 



And I know how you feel when you're down and look blue. 

 Yet, I've found for these ailments a great panacea. 



And, before I apply it — I roll up my sleeves. 

 And I fly into work with the single idea, 



That sunshine lurks somewhere among my dead leaves. 



How oft; when I rise in the bright early mornings, 



And hark to the waking of nature's great world, 

 How my heart leaps in rapture at earths fair adorning — 



Its homes, from whose chimneys the smoke upward curled. 

 And the welcoming birds from the branches above me. 



Inspires my days with their sweet glad refrain. 

 Yes, I lose every thought of the dead leaves about me. 



And see but the fields with their rich growing grain. 



There's joy in the thought that we're part of creation. 



And to know that we're first at the Giver's right hand. 

 We fashion the food for the entire nation — - 



Through the fruits from our orchards, and grains from our land. 

 Aye, it seems that this fact would arouse every being 



To strive for the highest there is in success. 

 It seems that 'twould coax every soul into seeing — 



The intrinsic worth of the realm we possess. 



From the loftiest throne, or the kings gilded palace — 



From the Capitol's dome to the laborer's cot. 

 Comes the voices of millions who sip from our chalice 



Or feed from the stores that our labors have brought. 

 We are kings under bondage] Yet, we stay the world's hunger! 



And the deep laden ship — and the long winding train — 

 Would rot at their moorings or rust as waste plunder 



Should the fanner cease raising his fruit, stock, and grain. 



Could I say the one word that would start into action. 



The hearts of discouraged ones here in this room — 

 Could this poem contain the one central attraction; 



Of brushing the shadows from some body's gloom — 

 Could I roll back the curtain that shuts out the sunlight; 



And place in each path but a single sweet rose — 

 I'd return to my home a keen satisfaction 



In doing my mite toward the wearj^'s repose. 



