274 



AROUND AN OLD HOMESTEAD. 



daces the sound of the scythe, and interprets it so well, 

 that I shall here transcribe it: 



"Mowers, wearj' and broivn, and blithe, 



What is the word methinlis je know, 

 Endless over-word that the Scythe 



Sings to the blades of the grass below? 

 Scathes that swing in the grass and clover, 



Something, still, they say as they pass; 

 What is the word that, over and over. 



Sings the Sc^'the to the flowers and grass ? 



"Husk, ah hush, the Scythes are saying. 



Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep; 

 Hush, they say to the grasses swaying. 



Hush, they sing to the clo^'er deep ! 

 Hush, — 'tis the lullaby Time is singing — 



Hush, and heed not, for all things pass. 

 Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging 



Over the clover, over the grass!" 



No part of the year is more 

 poetic in the whole round of 

 farming than haying and grain 

 harvest. The farm that does 

 not have its grassy meadows 

 and fields of wheat, with all 

 the life and scenes of the har- 

 vest-time, is no farm at all. 

 The harvest is the most pic- 

 turesque work of the year, as 

 well as the most romantic. 

 Sugar-making alone can ap- 

 proach it. It is the delight 

 of memory to recall the din- 

 ners brought out in pails to 



' LITTLE BROWN JUG, DO n't I LOVE , ^ ,j , 1 1 ■ i r 



THEE I" the fields, the cool drmk from 



