1856. 



NEW ENGLAND FARMER. 



271 



APRIL 19, 1775, AND APRIL 19, 1866. 



Written for the Annual Festival op the Concord Far- 

 mers' Club, April 19, 1856. 



Four score years and one have past, 



And this the natal day, 

 Since Concord heard the war-cry blast 



For battle's fierce array : 



Since o'er these hills, or through the vale 



When April's sunshine beamed. 

 As sire to son has told the tale, 



Old England's banner streamed. 



It crossed the Atlantic's surging tide 



At tyranny's command. 

 To cast its shadow far and wide 



O'er this our native land. 



It came with drum, and squeaking fife, 



And bristling bayonets bright, — 

 With men equipped for bloody strife. 



Freedom's young bud to blight. 



On war-clad steeds, with swords unsheathed, 



Their leaders rode in pride ; 

 Nor deemed that here in Concord breathed 



Bold hearts to check their stride. 



Our fathers left their peaceful toil, 



To meet the invading band. 

 To free their hearths, their homes, their soil, 



From tyranny's rude hand. 



And bade them hurl that banner down, 



Xor plant their standard here ; 

 We serve no king, we own no crown, 



Nor earthly monarch fear. 



The conflict of that glorious morn 



Yon monument shall tell 

 To generations yet unborn, 



Of those who fought — who fell. 



That struggle o'er, these fields are ours 



To plant, to sow, to till ; 

 They teem with fruit, they're bright with flowers, 



And spacious granaries fill. 



In valleys low, by hill-side steep, 



Or where the plains extend. 

 Are grazing herds, or bleating sheep, 



Or ripening harvests bend. 



Ascend yon hill with verdure clad. 



Or crowned with towering trees ; 

 Not the blest view that Moses had 



Could more delight or please — 



When on the mount the patriarch stood, 



Led by Jehovah's hand. 

 He saw beyond old Jordan's flood, 



Canaan — promised land. 



So from our Pisgah's heights we view, 



Where'er the eye may roam. 

 Bathed in the sunlight or the dew, 



The farmer's happy home. 



His acres broad arov.nd him lay 



In furrow or in sward, 

 His toils are hard from day to day, 



But — Plenty's the reward. 



With toil-worn hands, by sweat of brow, 



The Primeval Fiat said, 

 "Go till the earth, its surface plow, 



By labor earn your bread. 



For thy transgression, this the doom, 



From Paradise to go. 

 Where Eden's flowers perennial bloom 



And fruits uncultured grow. 



Thistles and thorns the earth shall yield, 

 Dust shall return to dust. 



Cursed for thy sin is every field — 

 But in my promise trust. 



Earth shall bring forth her sure increase, 



Seed time nor harvest fail, 

 I've arched in htaven my bow of peace 



Where watery vapors sail." 



Nor yet alone was Adam doomed 



His Paradise to leave ; 

 Where'er he went the flowers still bloomed. 



And with him wandered Eve. 



Her daughters fair are with us here, 



We have them by our side. 

 Our cares to sooth, life's paths to cheer. 



As matron, sister, bride. 



Home is not home where they are not, 



The garden is a waste. 

 The hearth a cold, unsocial spot, 



Unless by woman graced. 



In every varying scene of life. 



Where'er our lot be cast. 

 Woman as mother, sister, wife, 



Is earliest and last. 

 Concord, Mass., April 19, 1856. 



Fur the New England Farmer. 



THE AMERICAN GOLDFINCH. 



There is a peculiar trait in the habits of this bird 

 which I have never seen mentioned by any Natural- 

 ist, and am at a loss to conceive why it should have 

 escaped their notice, when such habits digress ma- 

 terially from the general custom of all other birds. 

 I allude to the time of their breeding. It is a fact 

 which I have for many years noticed, that these 

 birds do not commence building their nests until 

 the month of July, while many kinds, who remain 

 with us through the whole season, have reared their 

 first brood, and have commenced laying their eggs 

 for the second. By careful observation and study 

 with regard to this fact, I am led to the conclusion 

 that, although the old birds find a sufficient quanti- 

 ty of food at all seasons of the year, and the kind 

 that is adapted to their wants, they would be unable 

 to find in spring or early summer those new and 

 milky seeds which are the necessary food for their 

 young, for those seeds that have escaped vegetation 

 are exceedingly hard and dry by age, and would 

 be highly injurious to them as food. Had they 

 been constructed with a pouch, as some birds are, 

 into which the hardest grain or seeds may be re- 

 ceived, and in a short time softened by the chyle 

 formed in such pouch or stomach, as is the pigeon's, 

 they might commence their breeding earlier in the 

 season, and not delay the time until a certain peri- 

 od arrives. 



In the study of nature one is surprised to see the 

 beauty and harmony that exists through all the 

 works of Him who is the contriver of them all. — 

 How wonderful it is that the Goldfinch, by a law of 

 their nature, should not be allowed to bring forth 

 their young before, nor after, but at the very time 

 when those seeds used by them for food have com- 

 menced their formation, or have passed into the 

 milk, in which state they are more easily dit^solved 

 in their stomach, and at which time an abundant 

 supply may always be found. 



They sometimes feed their young on the pulps 

 of barley, oats, and even Indian corn ; but their 

 principal and favorite food is the seeds of the au- 

 tumnal hawk-weed and thistle. 



