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BROOK SONG, THE CANARY AT THE FARM, A CLOVER, THE COUNTRY PATHWAY, A GRIGGSBY'S STATION HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM JUNE KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE "MYLO JONES'S WIFE" OLD-FASHIONED ROSES OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME OLD OCTOBER OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM ORCHARD LANDS OF LONG AGO, THE ROMANCIN' SEPTEMBER DARK SONG OF LONG AGO, A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS, A THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER TREE-TOAD, THE UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE WET-WEATHER TALK WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES WHERE THE CHILDREN USED TO PLAY WORTERMELON TIME

RILEY FARM-RHYMES

THE ORCHARD LANDS OF LONG AGO

The orchard lands of Long Ago! O drowsy winds, awake, and blow The snowy blossoms back to me, And all the buds that used to be! 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!

O memory! alight and sing Where rosy-bellied pippins cling, And golden russets glint and gleam, As, in the old Arabian dream, The fruits of that enchanted tree The glad Aladdin robbed for me! And, drowsy winds, awake and fan My blood as when it overran A heart ripe as the apples grow In orchard lands of Long Ago!

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock, And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin' turkey-cock, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence; O, it's then's the times a feller is a-feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest, As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here-- Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days Is a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn, And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn; The stubble in the furries--kindo' lonesome-like, but still A-preachin' sermuns to us of the barns they growed to fill; The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed; The hosses in theyr stalls below--the clover overhead!-- O, it sets my hart a-clickin' like the tickin' of a clock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keeps Is poured around the cellar-floor in red and yeller heaps; And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folks is through With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!... I don't know how to tell it--but ef sich a thing could be As the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call around on ME-- I'd want to 'commodate 'em--all the whole-indurin' flock-- When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock!

WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES

In Spring, when the green gits back in the trees, And the sun comes out and STAYS, And yer boots pulls on with a good tight squeeze, And you think of yer bare-foot days; When you ORT to work and you want to NOT, And you and yer wife agrees It's time to spade up the garden-lot, When the green gits back in the trees Well! work is the least o' MY idees When the green, you know, gits back in the trees!

When the green gits back in the trees, and bees Is a-buzzin' aroun' ag'in In that kind of a lazy go-as-you-please Old gait they bum roun' in; When the groun's all bald whare the hay-rick stood, And the crick's riz, and the breeze Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood, And the green gits back in the trees,-- I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these, The time when the green gits back in the trees!

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!

WET-WEATHER TALK

It hain't no use to grumble and complane; 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.

With SOME, of course, it's different-- I've saw YOUNG men that knowed it all, And didn't like the way things went On this terrestchul ball;-- But all the same, the rain, some way, Rained jest as hard on picnic day; Er, when they railly WANTED it, It mayby wouldn't rain a bit!

In this existunce, dry and wet Will overtake the best of men-- Some little skift o' clouds'll shet The sun off now and then.-- And mayby, whilse you're wundern who You've fool-like lent your umbrell' to, And WANT it--out'll pop the sun, And you'll be glad you hain't got none!

It aggervates the farmers, too-- They's too much wet, er too much sun, Er work, er waitin' round to do Before the plowin' 's done: And mayby, like as not, the wheat, Jest as it's lookin' hard to beat, Will ketch the storm--and jest about The time the corn's a-jintin' out.

These-here CY-CLONES a-foolin' round-- And back'ard crops!--and wind and rain!-- And yit the corn that's wallerd down May elbow up again!-- They hain't no sense, as I can see, Fer mortuls, sich as us, to be A-faultin' Natchur's wise intents, And lockin' horns with Providence!

It hain't no use to grumble and complane; It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice.-- When God sorts out the weather and sends rain, W'y, rain's my choice.

THE BROOK-SONG

Little brook! Little brook! You have such a happy look-- Such a very merry manner, as you swerve and curve and crook-- And your ripples, one and one, Reach each other's hands and run Like laughing little children in the sun!

Little brook, sing to me: Sing about a bumblebee That tumbled from a lily-bell and grumbled mumblingly, Because he wet the film Of his wings, and had to swim, While the water-bugs raced round and laughed at him!

Little brook-sing a song Of a leaf that sailed along Down the golden-braided centre of your current swift and strong, And a dragon-fly that lit On the tilting rim of it, And rode away and wasn't scared a bit.

And sing--how oft in glee Came a truant boy like me, Who loved to lean and listen to your lilting melody, Till the gurgle and refrain Of your music in his brain Wrought a happiness as keen to him as pain.

Little brook-laugh and leap! 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 the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz, And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.

You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow-- Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a-carin' how; So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing-- But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing: 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; But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet, Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!

Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and dry Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky? Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way, Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day? Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?--Does he walk, er does he run? Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare just like they've allus done? Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er voice? 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.

"MYLO JONES'S WIFE"

"Mylo Jones's wife" was all I heerd, mighty near, last Fall-- Visitun relations down T'other side of Morgantown! Mylo Jones's wife she does This and that, and "those" and "thus"!-- Can't 'bide babies in her sight-- Ner no childern, day and night, Whoopin' round the premises-- NER NO NOTHIN' ELSE, I guess!

Mylo Jones's wife she 'lows She's the boss of her own house!-- Mylo--consequences is-- Stays whare things seem SOME like HIS,-- Uses, mostly, with the stock-- Coaxin' "Old Kate" not to balk, Ner kick hoss-flies' branes out, ner Act, I s'pose, so much like HER! Yit the wimmern-folks tells you She's PERFECTION.--Yes they do!

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! Think ef HE'D CUT LOOSE, I gum! 'D he'p his heavenly chances some!

Mylo's wife don't see no use, Ner no reason ner excuse Fer his pore relations to Hang round like they allus do! Thare 'bout onc't a year--and SHE-- She jest GA'NTS 'em, folks tells me, On spiced pears!--Pass Mylo one, He says "No, he don't chuse none!" Workin'men like Mylo they 'D ort to have MEAT ev'ry day!

Dad-burn Mylo Jones's wife! Ruther rake a blame caseknife 'Crost my wizzen than to see Sich a womern rulin' ME!-- Ruther take and turn in and Raise a fool mule-colt by hand' MYLO, though--od-rot the man!-- Jest keeps ca'm--like some folks CAN-- And 'lows sich as her, I s'pose, Is MAN'S HE'PMEET'--Mercy knows!

HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM

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 NEEDED he'p about, As you'd admit, ef you'd a-seen the way the crops turned out!

A better quarter-section ner a richer soil warn't found Than this-here old-home place o' ourn fer fifty miles around!-- The house was small--but plenty-big we found it from the day That John--our only livin' son--packed up and went away.

You see, we tuk sich pride in John--his mother more'n me-- That's natchurul; but BOTH of us was proud as proud could be; Fer the boy, from a little chap, was most oncommon bright, And seemed in work as well as play to take the same delight.

He allus went a-whistlin' round the place, as glad at heart As robins up at five o'clock to git an airly start; And many a time 'fore daylight Mother's waked me up to say-- "Jest listen, David!--listen!--Johnny's beat the birds to-day!"

High-sperited from boyhood, with a most inquirin' turn,-- He wanted to learn ever'thing on earth they was to learn: He'd ast more plaguy questions in a mortal-minute here Than his grandpap in Paradise could answer in a year!

And READ! w'y, his own mother learnt him how to read and spell; And "The Childern of the Abbey"--w'y, he knowed that book as well At fifteen as his parents!--and "The Pilgrim's Progress," too-- Jest knuckled down, the shaver did, and read 'em through and through.

At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a better chance- That we ort to educate him, under any circumstance; And John he j'ined his mother, and they ding-donged and kep' on, Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he was gone.

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.

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