THE BARN. 97 



Song," there are not many poems upon cows; but there 

 is one, entitled "When the cows come home," by Mrs. 

 Agnes E. Mitchell, which is so full of sweet breaths 

 from the pasture that I shall leave a few stanzas of it 

 with you, as presenting, in a better form than I ever 

 shall be able to do the real, abiding poetry of our 

 friends the cows, and their life among the grasses: 



" With a klingle, klangle, klingle, 

 'Way down the dusty dingle, 

 The cows are coming home ; 

 Now sweet and clear, and faint and low, 

 The airy tinklings come and go. 

 Like chimings from some far-off tower. 

 Or patterings from an April shower 



That makes the daises grow. 

 Ko-kling, ko-klang, koklinglelingle, 

 'Way down the darkening dingle 

 The cows come slowly home. 

 And old-time friends, and twilight plays, 

 And starry nights and sunny days 

 Come trooping up the misty ways 



When the cows come home. 



"With a tinkle, tankle, tinkle. 

 Through fern and periwinkle. 

 The cows are coming home ; 

 A-loitering in the checkered stream. 

 Where the sun-rays glance and gleam, 

 Starine, Peachbloom, and Phoebe Phyllis 

 Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies. 

 In a drowsy dream. 

 To-link, to-link, tolinklinkl^. 

 O'er banks with buttercups a-twinkle 

 The cows come slowly home ; 

 And up through memory's deep ravine 

 Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen, 

 And the crescent of the silver queen. 

 When the cows ccme home. 



