California Agriculturist and Live Stock Journal. 



be about as effective as anything, where 

 UflBe has not the time to make clean work 

 ^th snuff or tobacco smoke or sulphur 

 "fumes. The same treatment for slugs is 

 also good; but, of course, a thorough 

 hunt evening ami morning, with a dish 

 to put them in for final scalding, is still 

 better. 



The woolly nphis, which infests apple 

 trees and some others, can be best exter- 

 minated by a strong soap-suds of whale- 

 oil soap, or of strong common suds -n-ith 

 some kerosene or carbolic acid mixed in. 

 Tie a swap on a pole or broom-handle, 

 and make clean work if you can. The 

 roots of infested trees can be helped by 

 the application of a bushel of gas-house 

 hme spaded all about the roots. 



The scale bark-louse is temble on or- 

 ange trees, the oleander and several other 

 trees and plants. The same wash, with 

 the addition of a little blue stone, will, 

 after a few applications, get the best of 

 them. If one has but a few trees it will 

 pay to handle them for such insects and 

 gn'ibs as are enemies to the garden. 



I've thonght when a neighbor's wife or child wss 



carried away, 

 That to have no luHS was gain; but now, I can 



hardly say; 

 He seems to possess them still, under the ridges 



of clay. 



And share and share in a life is, somehow, a 



diflerent thing 

 From a property held by deed, and the riches 



that oft take wing; 

 I feel 80 close in the breast!— I think it must be 



the sirring. 



I'm drying np like a brook when the woods have 



been ck-ared around; 

 You're sure it must always run, you are used to 



the sight and sound. 

 But it shrinkH till there's only left a stony rut in 



the ground. 



There's nothing to do but take the days as they 



come and go. 

 And not to worry with thoughts that nobody 



likes to show, 



Harvest Song. 



O thanks for the bountiful harvest. 

 And thanks far the joy that It bring; 



The harvest of hay fron: the meadows, 

 Where the bobolink cheerily sings. 



O thanks for the com, bright and golden. 

 And thanks for the wheat and the grain, 



For the bountiful, bountiful harvests. 

 That add to the harvester's gain. 



We rejoice in the fruits of the spason. 

 For the apple, the peach an<l thi- pear; 



And the hosts of wild plums and berries 

 That grow without culture or core. 



We've a love for the ripe, rich pumpkin; 



And 'tis a love that seldom dies; 

 But the love is many times stronger 



For our mother's good pumpkin pies. 



We delight in large fields of i-a>)bngo, 

 (We've an Irishman's "tooth" just now) 



John Reed's IMEusings. 



BY BAYARD TAYLOR. 



SEE, as I lean on the fence, how wearily 

 11- trudges Dan, 



11^ With the feel of spring in his bones, like a 

 . weak and elderly man; 



I've had it many a time, but we must work 

 when we can. 



But day after day to toil, and ever from sua to 

 sun, . , ,i 1 



Though up to the season's front and nothing be 

 left undone, , , . . 



Is ending at twelve like a clock, and oegmmng 

 again at one. 



The frngs make a sorrowful noise, and yet it's 



the time they mate; 

 There's something comes with the spring, a 



lightness or else a weight; 

 There's something comes with the spring, and it 



seems to me it's fate. 



It's the hankering after a life yon have never 



learned to know; 

 Ifs the discontent with a life that is alwaysthus 



and so; , . 



Ifs the wondering what we are. and where we 



are ecing to go. 



My life is Incky enough, I fancy, to most mens 



For thTmore a family grows, the oftener some 

 one dies, , , .. , ., 



And it's now run on so long, it couldn t be other- 

 wise. 



And sister Jane and myself, we have learned to 



claim and yield; 

 She rules in the house at will, and I in the barn 



and field, „ .^^ , 



So, nigh upnn thirty years!-asjf written and 



signed and sealed, 



I couldn't change if I would; I've lost the how 

 and the when; u .i,. 



One day my time will be up, and Jane be the 

 mistress then. 



For single women are tough and live down the 

 Bingle men. 



She kept jne so to herself, she was always the 

 stronger hand. r . i j 



And my lot showed well enough, when I looked 

 around in the land; , . , .. ■♦ 



But I'm tired and sore at heart, and I don t quite 

 understand. 



I wonder how it had been if I'd taken what 



others need. 

 The plague, they say, of a wife, the care ot a 



younger brood? TTj-t-u 



If Edith Pleasanton new were with me as t-tutn 



Eeed ? 



Suppose that a son well grown were there in the 



place of Dan, 

 And I felt myself in bira, as I was when my 



work began! 

 I should feel no older, sure, and certainly more 



a man. 



A daughter, besides, in the house; nay, let there 

 |. be two or three I 



J] We never can overdo '.he luck that can never 

 be,— 

 And what has come to the most might also have 

 come to me. 



For people so seldom talk of tnings they want lo 

 know. 



There's times when the way is plain, and every- 

 thing nearly right. 



And then, of a sudden, you stand like a man with 

 a cloudea sight; 



A bush seems often a beast, in the dusK of the 

 falling night. 



I must move; my joints are stiff; the weather is 



breeding rain; 

 And Dan ia huraying on with his plow-team up 



the lane. 

 I'll go to the village store; I'd rather not talk to 



Jane. 



And what we don't want for the table 

 Will be food for the nag and the cow. 



We've a relish for the sweet potato, 



As well as for the Irish kind; 

 And to eating of the "Grant" tomato 



Our habits and tastes are inclined. 



'Tis a fact— and none will deny it— 

 That much of our living is bread; 



Were it not for the habit of eating. 

 The life that now is would be dead. 



O thankp for the bountiful harvest! 



And thanks for the joy that it brings! 

 We rejoice in the gifts of Katnre, 



Whence much of our happiness springs. 



G-o IXTork Upon a Farm. 



Will 8. Hays, the eminent Southern song 

 writer and compober, has published a song en- 

 titled "Go and Learn a Trade." Justatthis time, 

 with factories and shops closing up, and mechan- 

 ics begging for bread in Bomc sections of the 

 country, it seems to me that wuch asong is quite 

 out of place. In view of this fact, I beg to offer 

 your readers the following agricultural song: 



The song I sing to you to-day 



1b nut to learu a trade; 

 For I am sad the truth to say — 



That song aside is laid. 

 The milts are running on half-time, 



The shops give forth no noise, 

 And it is hard to (Ind a dime 



Among the 'preutice boys. 



Chorus— 



'I he song that I shall sing to you 



Your troubled hearts will caliu; 

 If you have nothing else to do, 



"Go work upon a farm." 



The stores arc filled with idle clerks. 



Because the times are dull; 

 And he his duty plainly shirks— 



When shops and mills are full— 

 Who seeks tu learn a trade, or t«Dd 



The counter of a store. 

 In hopes tho future yet will scad 



A fortune to his door. 



Chorns — 



Ah, vain are all such hopes as tbcBC, 



That surely end Id harml 

 Don't seek to i^it 'ncath shady trees — 



••Go work upon a farm.'* 



Oh! why should men in cities pine, 



Or idly stay iu town? 

 Why loaf aoout, and rroHsly whine 



That ••things are upside down;" 

 Can this briug bread to wile and child. 



And make the futun.- bright? 

 Can this turn the weather mild. 



Or furnish heat and light'/ 



Chorus— 



feueh men shouM listen to my . ong. 

 And in it hud a charm; 



It tells them how to t'et "long— 



"Go work upon a farm." 



Let no man starve for want of bread — 



The product of the soil — 

 Fur all can stiU he amply fed. 



Who will but shaft- the toil— 

 The honest, nianlv t-iil tha» br ngs 



The harvest season round, 

 When the glad larmer K»>»i s ngs, 



Because of inhtful grouud. 



Chorus— 



This, then, shall be the song we sing. 

 The whole world to alarm. 



And loudly let the choius ring— 

 "Go work upon a farm." 

 —[Sidney Herbert, in Semi-Tropical. 



A Farmer's Song. 



We envy not the princely man, 



In city or iu town. 

 Who wonders whetht-r pumpkin vines 



Run up the hill or down; 

 We care net fi r his marble halls. 



Nor yet his heaps of gold — 

 We would not own his honlid heart 



For all his wealth thrice told. 



We are the favored ones of earth, 



We breathe p\ire air each morn; 

 We sow; we reap the golden grain; 



We gather in the com; 

 We toil: we live on what we earn. 



And more than this we do — 

 We hear of st.irving millionH rouud, 



And gladly feed them too. 



The lawyer lives on princely fees. 



Yet drags a weary life; 

 He never knows a peaceful hour — 



His atmosphere is strife. 

 The merchant thumbs his ynrd-stick o'er. 



Grows ragged at his toil; 

 He's n-it the man God meant him for — 



Why don't you till the soil? 



The doctor plods through storm and cold. 



Plods at his patient's will; 

 Wben dead and gone he plods again 



To get his lengthy bill. 

 The printer (bless his noble soul!) 



He grasps the mighty earth. 

 And stamps it on our daily sheet, 



To cheer the farmer's hearth. 



We sing the honor of the plow. 



And honor to the press — 

 Two noble instruments of toil. 



With each a power to bless. 

 The bone, the nerve, of this fast age. 



True wealth of human kind — 

 One tills the ever generous earth. 



The other tills the mind. 



-[Boston Investigator. 



Treat laboring man and beast well. 



