78 Old Bays on the Farm 



out o' me, but when that there chap down at the 

 Institute meetin' started in tellin' us to cultivate 

 poetry, 'stead o' corn an' turnips, it kind o' riled 

 me," replied the old man in a mollifying tone. 



"You ain't the only one in the neighbourhood 

 that's been guilty o' writin' poetry," broke in his 

 aged friend. ''Why, jest the other day some o' 

 my grandchildren was makin' limericks fer some 

 newspaper prize an' they wanted me to help 'em. 

 I don't know anythin' about limericks, but, maybe, 

 I could make a rhyme, I says. An' I did, but I 

 never got it finished. I started out somethin' like 

 thist 



"When I was young my ancient Dad 

 Would cut for me a blue-beech gad, 

 An' start me off to the bush-lot where 

 The white-faced ox an' the brindled steer 

 Was browsin' 'round 



an' there I stopped dead still. Couldn't lift my 

 feet an inch further. Ye ought to be mighty glad, 

 Jo, that yer wife's keepin' them verses o' yours 

 done up in tissue paper an' blue ribbons. There 

 ain't anybody keepin' any o' my verses between 

 the covers of the Good Book or anywheres else, 

 an' lookin' at 'em often, an' learnin' 'em off. 

 Ye see, I never got anythin' finished up right, an' 

 poems that ain 't finished is no more use 'n a wheel- 

 barrow 'thout a wheel." 



''Well, maybe, Jim, that Institute talker was 

 right, after all, 'bout cultivatin' poetry," said the 



