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184 



THE illi:n^oi8 FAKMER. 



June 



The Probable Clip of 1864. 



We learn from a correspondent in Michigan, who 

 is well situated for getting a good knowledge of 

 the condition and prospects of Wool in that State, 

 that the clip of 1864 in Michigan yill probably be 

 twelve millions of pouuds, and possibly more. The 

 estimate of well informed parties in Ohio, is that 

 the clip of this State will not be less than twenty- 

 four millions. We would be much obliged if the 

 Secretaries of State Agricultural Societies, or any 

 other informed friends of the wool growing interest, 

 would send us the estimate of the probable clip of 

 their respective States. — Wool Grower. 

 - ■•► 



Kelly's Island Grapes. 



The Isabella grapes on Kelly's Island are gene- 

 rally killed. The Catawba are sending out a few 

 buds ; some young vines will make pretty fair 

 growth, while the buds on the best and largest 

 wood are pretty generally killed. The Delawares 

 are all alive, and putting out vigorously. It is ex- 

 pected that there will not be a half crop this year. 



Fom the Country Gent, and Cultivator 



Barnyard Lyrics. 



A robin builds my trees among, 

 Mid blossoms that perfumes distil ; 



I know that with her fledgolings young. 

 She means her downy nest to fill. 



I walked beneath the Mayduke tree, 



Where, sheltered, hangs her safe retreat • 



From rude alarm all round her free. 

 We daily there confiding meet. 



I stand beneath the leafy shade. 

 Where from the soft maternal glow. 



Each quickening pledge that there she laid, 

 Its mystic being it shall owe. 



My step she knows, she knows my face, 

 Familiar seems each garden tree ; 



Each year she seeks her ancient place. 

 As long from rude invasion free. 



At noon her songs melodious rise, 

 Their echoes all the homestead fill ; 



When twilight comes o'er evening skies. 

 She sings upon my window sill. 



I doubt not He who reigns above, 

 By whom all prayer sincere is heard. 



Counts this an ofFeringof the love 

 That thus attunes my darling bird. 



Each warbler through creation wide, 

 A grateful tribute skyward brings; 



The meanest thing with voice supplied. 

 His little anthem daily sings. 



I would not harm, I could not slay 

 These songsters of the sunny earth ; 



I would not rudely drive away 



E'en the shrill cricket from my hearth. 



I love the soft, confiding things 



That cluster round my homestead old; 



They need not all have glossy wings, 

 They may be either tame or bold. 



The wrens have built their tiny nests. 

 In bush and tree my garden lo ;. i : 



A box the bluebird's eye arrests, 

 And there his early home is found. 



With gourd and squash, unsightly all. 

 My garden trees are thickly hung; 



In barn and shed and open stall, 



Attractive homes are round them strung. 



The swallows build the eaves below, 

 Beside them builds the dull pewee, 



And mounting high and plunging low. 

 The kingbird seems at heme to be. 



A vine's ambitious tendrils sweep 

 A lofty cedar's utmost bight; 



Its dense recesses safely keep 

 My noisy catbirds out of t>ight. 



'Tis thus around my friendly home 

 I bid the gentle warblers stay ; 



If long and wide by d ly they roam, 

 Not one at night will truant play. 



When insect crowds my fruit devour, 

 When bugs the garden truck would kill. 



My birds I see, ^'y daybreak's hour. 

 Attack the foe with hungry bill.' 



From limb to limb, from spray to spray. 



They seek the leafy vampire out; 

 The worm that crawls at break of daj , 

 Is sure to find the birds about. 



Though high upon the topmost leaf, 

 Though snug within a flowret gay. 



His time is couie, the shrift is brief 

 He's gone unto the nest away. 



My ripening fruits their care attest, 

 My grapes a melting record show; 



My crops I find are alw^ays best 



When birds are swarming high and low. 



'Tis tiue the robin claims a share, 

 'Tis true the cherries he will take ; 



I know the catbird's bill of fare 

 He'll often of the grapevine make. 



I let them have their dainty fill. 



The luscious taste with me to learn; 



For thus I pay with right good will, 

 Whate'er my feathered laborers earn. 



Oh ? brothers of the plow and hoe ! 



Oh ! tillers in the sunny field ! 

 Oh ! maids that weed the garden row ! 



Oh I all whose hearts are yet unsteeled ! 



The birds that in the landscape sing, 

 Their gentle lives I bid you spare; 



Your fields can show no living thing 

 That more deserves your tender care. 



My pets my presence never shun, 

 It wakes no sharp, alarmed cry ; 



I never yet, by bow or gun. 



Have made a single, warbler die. 



No loafers rude my farm invade. 

 No game to sportsmen it supplies ; 



No wolfish dog lor thieving made. 

 My home approaches but he dies. 



Oh, youth ! oh, age ! oh, maidens fair ! 



Attend my last imploring words — 

 I bid you in compassion spare 



All these, our dear domestic birds. 

 May, 1864. 



U.i/ 



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