James Whitcomb Riley

“ THE CLOVER Some sings of the lily, and daisy, and rose, And the pansies and pinks that the Summertime throws In the green grassy lap of the medder that lays Blinkin' up at the skyes through the sunshiney days; But what is the lily and all of the rest Of the flowers, to a man with a hart in his brest That was dipped brimmin' full of the honey and dew Of the sweet clover-blossoms his babyhood knew? I never set eyes on a clover-field now, Er fool round a stable, er climb in the mow, But my childhood comes back jest as clear and as plane As the smell of the clover I'm sniffin' again ”

“ When morning-time is bright with sun And keen with wind, and both confuse The dancing, glancing eyes of one With tears that ooze and ooze— And nose-tips weep as well as they, The Spring is coming round this way. When suddenly some shadow-bird Goes wavering beneath the gaze, And through the hedge the moan is heard Of kine that fain would graze In grasses new, I smile and say, The Spring is coming round this way. ”

“ Blow back along the grassy ways Of truant feet, and lift the haze Of happy summer from the trees That trail their tresses in the seas Of grain that float and overflow The orchard lands of Long Ago! Blow back the melody that slips In lazy laughter from the lips That marvel much if any kiss Is sweeter than the apple's is. Blow back the twitter of the birds— The lisp, the titter, and the words Of merriment that found the shine Of summer-time a glorious wine That drenched the leaves that loved it so, In orchard lands of Long Ago! ”

“ And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest, She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest; And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' right, Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite! They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day, And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away, And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still; It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will. Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out, And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt ”

“ Let the fragrant summer breeze, And the leaves of locust-trees, And the apple-buds and blossoms, and the wings of honey-bees, All palpitate with glee, Till the happy harmony Brings back each childish joy to you and me. Let the eyes of fancy turn Where the tumbled pippins burn Like embers in the orchard's lap of tangled grass and fern,— There let the old path wind In and out and on behind The cider-press that chuckles as we grind. ”

“ It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.— When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y, rain's my choice. Men ginerly, to all intents— Although they're apt to grumble some— Puts most theyr trust in Providence, And takes things as they come— That is, the commonality Of men that's lived as long as me Has watched the world enugh to learn They're not the boss of this concern. ”

“ When the whole tail-feathers o' Wintertime Is all pulled out and gone! And the sap it thaws and begins to climb, And the swet it starts out on A feller's forred, a-gittin' down At the old spring on his knees— I kindo' like jest a-loaferin' roun' When the green gits back in the trees— Jest a-potterin' roun' as I—durn—please- When the green, you know, gits back in the trees! ”

“ When knotted horse-tails are untied, And teamsters whistle here and there. And clumsy mitts are laid aside And choppers' hands are bare, And chips are thick where children play, The Spring is coming round this way. ”

“ WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY When country roads begin to thaw In mottled spots of damp and dust, And fences by the margin draw Along the frosty crust Their graphic silhouettes, I say, The Spring is coming round this way. ”

“ I love music—that's I love it When it's free—and plenty of it;— But I kindo' git above it, At a dollar-eighty-five! Reason's plain as I'm a—sayin',— Jes' the idy, now, o' layin' Out yer money, and a-payin' Fer a wilder-cage and bird, When the medder-larks is wingin' Round you, and the woods is ringin' With the beautifullest singin' That a mortal ever heard! Sahry's sot, tho'.—So I tell her He's a purty little feller, With his wings o' creamy-yeller, And his eyes keen as a cat ”

“ Ort a mortul be complainin' when dumb animals rejoice? Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot; The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot. Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day, And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away! Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide, Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied; Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew, And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you. ”

“ Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars, And was not found again, though Heaven lent His mother all the stars With which to seek him through that awful night. O years of nights as vain!—Stars never rise But well might miss their glitter in the light Of tears in mother-eyes! ”

“ Do not let the dreamer weep: Sing him all the songs of summer till he sink in softest sleep; And then sing soft and low Through his dreams of long ago— Sing back to him the rest he used to know!
THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees; And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees, And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the sly, Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly. The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wings And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings ”

“ And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves and trees, And the stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silver mice, And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and knees, And the new-moon hangin' ore us like a yeller-cored slice. Oh! it's wortermelon time is a-comin' round again, And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me, Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin— Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.
UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE Up and down old Brandywine, In the days 'at's past and gone— With a dad-burn hook-and line And a saplin' pole—swawn! ”

“ OLD-FASHIONED ROSES They ain't no style about 'em, And they're sorto' pale and faded, Yit the doorway here, without 'em, Would be lonesomer, and shaded With a good 'eal blacker shadder Than the morning-glories makes, And the sunshine would look sadder Fer their good old-fashion' sakes, I like 'em 'cause they kindo'— Sorto' MAKE a feller like 'em! ”

“ Oh! it's in the sandy soil wortermelons does the best, And it's thare they'll lay and waller in the sunshine and the dew Tel they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyr breast; And you bet I ain't a-findin' any fault with them; ain't you? They ain't no better thing in the vegetable line; And they don't need much 'tendin', as ev'ry farmer knows; And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine, I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows. It's some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red. ”

“ Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you un- derstand How dearer yit than all the world is this old home that we Will spend Thanksgivin' in fer life—jest Mother, you and me!" Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John, Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-time comes on; And then, I want to say to you, we NEED sich he'p about, As you'd admit, ef you could see the way the crops turn out!
A CANARY AT THE FARM Folks has be'n to town, and Sahry Fetched 'er home a pet canary,— And of all the blame', contrary, Aggervatin' things alive! ”

“ Mylo's wife she says she's found Home hain't home with MEN-FOLKS round When they's work like HERN to do— Picklin' pears and BUTCHERN, too, And a-rendern lard, and then Cookin' fer a pack of men To come trackin' up the flore SHE'S scrubbed TEL she'll scrub no MORE!— Yit she'd keep things clean ef they Made her scrub tel Jedgmunt Day! Mylo Jones's wife she sews Carpet-rags and patches clothes Jest year IN and OUT!—and yit Whare's the livin' use of it? She asts Mylo that.—And he Gits back whare he'd ruther be, With his team;—jest PLOWS—and don't Never sware—like some folks won't! ”

“ But—I missed him—w'y, of course I did!—The Fall and Winter through I never built the kitchen-fire, er split a stick in two, Er fed the stock, er butchered, er swung up a gambrel-pin, But what I thought o' John, and wished that he was home ag'in. He'd come, sometimes—on Sund'ys most—and stay the Sund'y out ”