UNDER THE MAPLES 



the cows to and from the pasture, I planted myself 

 there, and whatever comes back to me now from 

 that source is honestly my own. The second crop 

 which I gather is not much more tangible than that 

 which the poet gathers, but the farmer as little 

 suspects its existence as he does that of the poet. I 

 can use what he would gladly reject. His daisies, 

 his buttercups, his orange hawkweed, his yarrow, 

 his meadow-rue, serve my purpose better than they 

 do his. They look better on the printed page than 

 they do in the haymow. Yes, and his timothy 

 and clover have their literary uses, and his new- 

 mown hay may perfume a line in poetry. When 

 one of our poets writes, "wild carrot blooms nod 

 round his quiet bed," he makes better use of this 

 weed than the farmers can. 



Certainly a midsummer day in the country, with 

 all its sights and sounds, its singing birds, its 

 skimming swallows, its grazing or ruminating cattle, 

 its drifting cloud-shadows, its grassy perfumes from 

 the meadows and the hillsides, and the farmer with 

 his men and teams busy with the harvest, has 

 material for the literary artist. A good hay day is 

 a good day for the writer and the poet, because it 

 has a certain crispness and pureness; it is positive; 

 it is rich in sunshine; there is a potency in the blue 

 sky which you feel; the high barometer raises your 

 spirits; your thoughts ripen as the hay cures. You 

 can sit in a circle of shade beneath a tree in the 



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