California Agriculturist and Live Stock Journal. 



^octvu. 



I FORGIVE. 



BY I9AAC KINLEY. 



j^H, never were words bo fondly meet 

 By tongue of mortal spoKen; 

 Oh, ne'er was uttered thought so sweet 

 As that dear, holy token — 

 I forgive. 



I speak the soothing, sacred word; 



It hath no tone of sorrow. 

 There's joy wheree'er its sound is heard, 



It brings no sting to-morrow. 

 I forgive, 



Yet I've had wrongs, and madly deep 



My spirit hath been stirred; 

 But passion soothed itself to sleep 



When in my heart was heard, 

 " I forgive." 



Forgive each word, forgive each deed, 

 If aught of wrong is done thee, 



For soon thy aching heart will bleed 

 If vengeful thoughts have won thee. 

 I forgive. 



Each angered thought we must control, 

 The fires of passion smother, 



No malice cherish in the soul, 

 No evil for a brother. 

 I forgive. 



Forgive, forglvel 'lis God's command— 



Forgive and be forgiven; 

 Forgive and take the profiered hand 

 That leads thee on to heaven- 

 I forgive. 

 San Jose lustitiite, Nov., 1875. 



The Farmer King. 



The farmer sat in his old arm-chair, 



Rosy and fair. 



Contented there. 



"Kate, I declare," 

 He said to his wife who was knitting near, 



" We need not fear 



The hard times here. 

 Though the leaf of life is yellow and sere, 



" I' m the king F.nd you are the queen 



Of this fiiir scene, 



These fields of green 



And gold between. 

 These cattle grazing upon the hill, 



Taking their fill. 



And sheep so still. 

 Like many held by a single will; 



"These barnyard fowls are our subjects all; 



They heed the cull, 



And like a squall. 



On fast wings fall, 

 Whenever we scatter for them the grain; 



'Tis not in vain 



We live and reign. 

 In this our happy and calm domain. 



"And whether the day be dim or fine, 



In rain and shine, 



These lands of mine, 



And fields of thine. 

 In cloudy shade and in sunny glow. 



Will overflow 



With crops that grow. 

 When gold is high and when it's low. 



•'Unvexed with shifting of stocks and shares. 



And bulls and bears, 



Stripes and cares, 



And the affairs 

 Of speculation in mart and street; 



In this retreat 



Sweet peace can meet 

 With plenty on her rural beat." 



The Independent Farmer. 



BY HENB T W. HEUBERT. 



How pleasant it seems to live on a farm, 



Where Nature's so gaudily dressed. 

 And sit 'neath the shade of the old locust tree. 



As the sun is just sinking to rest; 

 Bttt not half bo pleasant to hoe in the field. 



Where the witch-grass is six inches high, 

 With the hot scorching sun pouring down on your 

 i back — 



Seems each moment as though he would die! 



DccxnB earn moment as though he woui< 



r*8 pleasant to sit in the cool porch door, 

 ^ While you smoke, half-reclined at your 

 -K)oktng out o'er your beautiful ft.ld of gi 



ease, 

 grass 



As it sways to and fro in the breeze; 

 But not quite so pleasant to start with your scythe. 



Ere the morning sun smiles o'er the land. 

 And work till your clothes are completely wet through 



And blisters cover your hands. 



In keeping a dairy there's purely delight; 



And it speaks of contentment and plenty. 

 To see a large stable well filled wilh choice cows. 



Say numbering fifteen to twenty; 

 And yet it seems hard when you've worked from the 

 dawn 



Till the sun disappears from your sight, 

 To think of the cows you have yet got to milk 



Before you retire for the night. 



But the task fairly over you cheer up once more. 



And joyfully seek your repose. 

 To dream of the cream-pots with luxury filled, 



And milk-pans in numberless rows: 

 But the sweet dreani is broken when early next day 



You're politely requested to chum, 

 And for three weary hours, with strength ebbing fast, 



The victim despondingly turns! 



But in raising your pigs thero is truly a charm. 



When they sell at the present high price; 

 And of all the young stocks which a farmer can raise, 



There's nothing that looks half so nice. 

 How cheerful one feels when he leaves them at night. 



The encouraging number of eleven 1 

 But his joy slightly wanes when he goes out next day, 



And of live ones can count only seven! 



But no one disputes that the farmer is blessed 



With true independence and labor, 

 Whose food don't depend on the whims of mankind. 



Like that of his mercantile neighbor. 

 For God in His mercy looks down from above 



And patiently gives him his bread, 

 Provided he works eighteen hours every day. 



And devotes only six to his bed. 



Waiting for Luck. 



Ho! ye who are listlees and moping, 



Sit dismally twirling your thumbs. 

 And gloomily waiting and watching 



For something that thus never comes; 

 You might just as well, foolish mortals, 



Expect you'll by lightning be struck; 

 One will happen as soon as the other. 



Don't stand around waiting for luck. 



There's a saying— a good and a true one— 



(Take courage, you poor one who delves 

 With a stout heart so bravely) that "Heaven 



Will help those who first help themselves." 

 And you'll find, if you wish for good forttme, 



A pretty good way is to tuck 

 Up your shirt-sleeves and start out and find it; 



Don't sit around waiting for luck. 



You may pine and mope on forever — 



Find lault and deplore your hard fate- 

 But you'd better remember the pioverb. 



And act on it ere it's too late. 

 You may pout and grumble forever; 



Just so long you'll find you are stuck 

 In mire of sloth aud abasement. 



Dou'i sit around waiting for luck. 



There is wealth to be had — go and seek it; 



And with it get honor and fame. 

 By the sweat of your brow you can gain them, 



And carve for yourself a proud name. 

 But to do this takes tact and ambition. 



Persistency, hope and some pluck. 

 Are you readyV then lose not a moment! 



Don't Bit around waiting for luck! 



Autumnal- 



BY J. G. WHITTIER. 



The Summer warmth has left the sky, 

 The Summer songs have died away. 



And withered in the footpaths lie 

 The fallen leaves, but yesterday 

 With ruby and with topaz gay. 



The grass is growing on the hill; 



No pale, belated flowers recall 

 The astral fringes of the rills; 



And drearily the dead vines fall. 



Frost-blackened from th? roadside wall. 



Yet, through the gray and somber wood, 

 .\gainst the dusk of fir and pine, 



Last of their floral sisterhood. 

 The hazel's yellow blossoms shine— 

 The tawny gold of Afric's mine. 



Small beauty hath my unsung flower 

 For Spring to own or Summer hail; 



But in the season's saddest hours, 

 To skies that weep and winds that wai! 



. Its glad surprises never fail. 



O, days grown cold! O. life grown old! 

 No rose of Jnnemay bloom again; 



But like the hazel's twisted gold, 

 Through early front and latter rain 

 Shall hints of Summer time remain. 



And. as within the hazel's bough, 



A gift of mystic virtue dwells, 

 That points to golden ores below. 



And in dry, desert places tells 



AV'here flow unseen the cool, sweet welle- 



So. in the wise diviner's hand. 

 Be mine the hazel's grateful part. 



To feel, beneath a thirsty land, 

 The living waters thrill and start, 

 The beating of the ri\'ulet'B heart, 



Sufficeth me the gift to light 

 With latest bloom the dark, cold days; 



To call some hidden spring to sight. 

 That iji these dry and dusty ways 

 Shall sing its pleaeant song of praise. 



O. Love! the hazel-wand may fail. 

 But thou canst lend the surer spell, 



That, passing over Baca's vale, 

 Repeats the old-time miracle. 

 And makes the desert land a well. 



The Autumn of the World. 



The last wan petals leave the rose, 

 The latest swallows plume for flight, 



The Sumnier's gone where no one knows. 

 With dead men's love and spent years' light. 

 And warm hearts buried out of sight. 



Red roses are the crown of youth; 

 The warm light strikes on lover's lips. 



Laugh, then, and fondle, happy mouth; 

 And yet remember, sweet time slips — 

 Death hun'ies on with full eclipse. 



So short, so sad! O, let not Death 

 Find only faded flowers and wine. 



When, hungry for the joyous breath 

 That dreams not of the year's decline. 

 He lays his cold, white mouth to thine. 



Cling to the flying hours; and yet 

 Let one pure hope, one great desire. 



Like snng on dying lips be set. 

 That, ere we fall in scattered fire. 

 Our hopes may lift the world s heart higher. 



Here in the Autumn month of Time, 

 Before the great New Year can break, 



Some little way our feet should climb, 

 Some little mark our words should make. 

 For liberty's and manhood's sake. 



Clear brain and sympathetic heart, 

 A spirit on flame with love for man. 



Hand swift to labor, slow to part — 

 If any good since time began 

 The soul can fashion, such souls can. 



And so when we are dead and past, 

 The undying world will some day reach 



Its glorious hour of dawn at last. 

 And across Time's sunken beach 

 May smile, one moment, each to each. 



Autumn's Last Rosary. 



BY THOMAS HOOD. 



The squirrel gloats over his accomplished hoard, 

 ^[The ants have brimmed their garnres with ripe 



grain, 

 And honey-bees have stored 



The sweets of Summer in their luscious cells. 

 The swallows all have winged across the main; 

 But here the Autumn melancholy dwells 

 And sighs her tuneful spells 

 Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. 

 Alone, alone. 

 Upon a mossy stone 

 She sits and reckons up the dead and gone, 

 With the last leaves for a love-rosary. 

 While all the withered world looks drearily. 

 Like a dim picture of the drowned past 



In the hushed mind's mysterious far-away, 

 Doubtful what ghostly thing will .teel the last 

 Into that distance, gray upon the gray. 



The First Breath of Autumn. 



1 heard a voice of Axitumu in the trees 



Calling for me, who in far Summer lands 

 Dwelt and made merry. In the fragrant case 



Of the unpeopled uplands, on the sands 



Of Proteus' home, I had cast off the bandft 

 Which bound me to my fellows and their cares, 

 Living, as 'twere, in Eden unawares. 



Entranced by music of the salty strands; 

 The morning birds there cheated morning air 



To linger till the silent breast ot noon 

 Laid htr rich warmth upon the dear earth's heart. 



And lingered there in turn, till sunset soon 

 Grown angry, called her swiftly to depart; 



Thus loitering, heard I Autumn cry, " Prepare." 

 — [Harper's Magazine for October, 



BoRPERRD with trees whose gay leaves fly 

 On every breath that sweeps the sky 

 The fresli, dark acres furrowed lie. 



And ask the sower's hand. 

 Loose the tired steed and let him go 

 To pasture where the gentians blow; 

 And we, who till the grateful ground. 

 Fling we the golden shower around. 

 Fiing wide tne generous grain. We fiing 

 O'er the dark mold the green of Spring, 



