A POEM. 219 



A POEM. 



MRS. S. IKWIN, i;XCELSIOR. 



Rea<l at the Annual Meeting of the Miiiiie!*i>t;i State Jlorticulturjil Society , 

 December 5th, 18!)5. 



VlNECKOFT, May 17, 1805, 



It is hard to he a farmer when possessed of bookish taste 



And feel that either mind or farm is sure to run to waste; 



My soul cries out for knowled^ic witli a yreed I dare not utter, 



Since 'tis the farm and not the books that briuKS the breail and butter. 



I know 'tis oftimes hinted by the folks who do not know. 



That fruiters lie in hatnmocked shade and watch the berries rtow. 



Then whistle for the hired help to load them in a van. 



Drive to the nearest market and sell them— if they can. 



To us who learned our lesson, such talk bespeaks "poor sense," 

 For the price of fruit, like "the price of peace," is eternal vigilance. 

 Since every drowsy, stupid bu.tc, each insect in the air. 

 Each crawling worm, each Hying bird, expects an ample share. 



The breezes through the orchard come heavy lade with news. 

 Which daily mails re-echo, but to read I must refuse; 

 For in looking through the orchard, I descry beneath the leaves 

 The densely peopled cities that the caterpillar weaves. 



The birds upon the branches, pouring forth a flood of song, 



Will soon be ravaging the grapes, "a hundred thousand strong;" 



Then we must reconnoiter, tired, hungry, cold or hot. 



And wage a Herce, vindicative war, with powder, caps and shot. 



And then, besides these battles, there's a thousand things to do. 

 Like making fence and burning brush and berries to renew. 

 Garden to i)lant and trees to prune, raising each buried vine. 

 Planting the posts and stretching wires and tying up with twine; 



Plowing and leveling the ground between the endless rows, 

 Where up and down, the summer long, the cultivator goes; 

 And when the vines begin to climb, then we begin to hustle— 

 You'd not believe how fast they grow, they make big stories rustle. 



Over and over, up and down, forever pruning, tying. 



Some one must go with railroad speed or cycle record vying. 



Spraying with new insecticides, then lest the crop be lost 



We range old stumps about in heaps to "smudge" in case of frost. 



To hoe, to weed, to spade, to mulch arc things that come of course, 

 And then there is the housework and the care of cow and horse, 

 The little ones to work for, love, school, sew for and to feed— 

 But without these small incentives, life would be blank indeed. 



We find no rest on rainy days, awaiting adverse weather. 

 Thousands of baskets, snugly stored rtiust then be put together; 

 Full eighteen hours of steady work, before at close of day 

 I lay me down too tired to read, almost too tired to pray. 



I'ntil, if safely guided on, through bugs, birds, fungus, frost. 

 We pack and send to market, then reckon up the cost; 

 And if above the wear and tear, encouragement we win, 

 We work awhile at something else and then again begin. 



I am thinking of your topics as I go al^out my work. 

 Hut if I sit me down to write I'm brought up with a jerk 

 .\nd tind no time to "Fancy" since "Duty" stern and strong, 

 "Marches" me without "Music" in "Silence" right along. 



