The Project Gutenberg eBook ofRiley Farm-RhymesThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: Riley Farm-RhymesAuthor: James Whitcomb RileyRelease date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #4783]Most recently updated: February 7, 2013Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks, David Widgerand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RILEY FARM-RHYMES ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: Riley Farm-RhymesAuthor: James Whitcomb RileyRelease date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #4783]Most recently updated: February 7, 2013Language: EnglishCredits: Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks, David Widgerand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
Title: Riley Farm-Rhymes
Author: James Whitcomb Riley
Author: James Whitcomb Riley
Release date: December 1, 2003 [eBook #4783]Most recently updated: February 7, 2013
Language: English
Credits: Produced by Robert Rowe, Charles Franks, David Widgerand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK RILEY FARM-RHYMES ***
The deadnin' and the thicket's jes' a b'ilin' full o' June,From the rattle o' the cricket, to the yaller-hammer's tune;And the catbird in the bottom and the sap-suck on thesnag,Seems's ef they cain't—od-rot-'em!—jes' do nothin' elsebut brag!There' music in the twitter o' the bluebird and the jay,And that sassy little critter jes' a-peckin' all the day;There' music in the "flicker," and there' music in thethrush,And there' music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in thebrush!—There' music all around me!—And I go back—in a dreamSweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep:—And, in thestreamThat used to split the medder wher' the dandylionsgrowed,I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down theroad.
CONTENTSTO THE GOOD OLD-FASHIONED PEOPLERILEY FARM-RHYMESTHE ORCHARD LANDS OF LONG AGOWHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKINWHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREESWET-WEATHER TALKTHE BROOK-SONGTHOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER"MYLO JONES'S WIFE"HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARMA CANARY AT THE FARMWHERE THE CHILDREN USED TO PLAYGRIGGSBY'S STATIONKNEE-DEEP IN JUNESEPTEMBER DARKTHE CLOVEROLD OCTOBEROLD-FASHIONED ROSESA COUNTRY PATHWAYWORTERMELON TIMEUP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINEWHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAYA TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYSOLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYMEJUNETHE TREE-TOADA SONG OF LONG AGOOLD WINTERS ON THE FARMROMANCIN'
CONTENTS
TO THE GOOD OLD-FASHIONED PEOPLE
RILEY FARM-RHYMES
THE ORCHARD LANDS OF LONG AGO
WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN
WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES
WET-WEATHER TALK
THE BROOK-SONG
THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER
"MYLO JONES'S WIFE"
HOW JOHN QUIT THE FARM
A CANARY AT THE FARM
WHERE THE CHILDREN USED TO PLAY
GRIGGSBY'S STATION
KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE
SEPTEMBER DARK
THE CLOVER
OLD OCTOBER
OLD-FASHIONED ROSES
A COUNTRY PATHWAY
WORTERMELON TIME
UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE
WHEN EARLY MARCH SEEMS MIDDLE MAY
A TALE OF THE AIRLY DAYS
OLD MAN'S NURSERY RHYME
JUNE
THE TREE-TOAD
A SONG OF LONG AGO
OLD WINTERS ON THE FARM
ROMANCIN'
The orchard lands of Long Ago!O drowsy winds, awake, and blowThe snowy blossoms back to me,And all the buds that used to be!Blow back along the grassy waysOf truant feet, and lift the hazeOf happy summer from the treesThat trail their tresses in the seasOf grain that float and overflowThe orchard lands of Long Ago!Blow back the melody that slipsIn lazy laughter from the lipsThat marvel much if any kissIs sweeter than the apple's is.Blow back the twitter of the birds—The lisp, the titter, and the wordsOf merriment that found the shineOf summer-time a glorious wineThat drenched the leaves that loved it so,In orchard lands of Long Ago!O memory! alight and singWhere rosy-bellied pippins cling,And golden russets glint and gleam,As, in the old Arabian dream,The fruits of that enchanted treeThe glad Aladdin robbed for me!And, drowsy winds, awake and fanMy blood as when it overranA heart ripe as the apples growIn orchard lands of Long Ago!
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's inthe shock,And you hear the kyouck and gobble of the struttin'turkey-cock,And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of thehens,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 peacefulrest,As he leaves the house, bare-headed, and goes out to feedthe stock,When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in theshock.They's something kindo' harty-like about the atmusfereWhen the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall ishere—Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on thetrees,And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and buzzin' of thebees;But the air's so appetizin'; and the landscape through thehazeOf a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn daysIs a pictur' that no painter has the colorin' to mock—When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in theshock.The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,And the raspin' of the tangled leaves, as golden as themorn;The stubble in the furries—kindo' lonesome-like, but stillA-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 theshock!Then your apples all is getherd, and the ones a feller keepsIs poured around the cellar-floor in red and yeller heaps;And your cider-makin's over, and your wimmern-folksis throughWith their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse andsaussage, too!...I don't know how to tell it—but ef sich a thing could beAs the Angels wantin' boardin', and they'd call aroundon ME—I'd want to 'commodate 'em—all the whole-indurin'flock—When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in theshock!
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 agreesIt's time to spade up the garden-lot,When the green gits back in the treesWell! work is the least o' MY ideesWhen the green, you know, gits back in the trees!When the green gits back in the trees, and beesIs a-buzzin' aroun' ag'inIn that kind of a lazy go-as-you-pleaseOld gait they bum roun' in;When the groun's all bald whare the hay-rick stood,And the crick's riz, and the breezeCoaxes 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' WintertimeIs all pulled out and gone!And the sap it thaws and begins to climb,And the swet it starts out onA feller's forred, a-gittin' downAt 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!
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 commonalityOf men that's lived as long as meHas watched the world enugh to learnThey'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 wentOn 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 wetWill overtake the best of men—Some little skift o' clouds'll shetThe sun off now and then.—And mayby, whilse you're wundern whoYou'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 doBefore 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 aboutThe 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 downMay elbow up again!—They hain't no sense, as I can see,Fer mortuls, sich as us, to beA-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.
Little brook! Little brook!You have such a happy look—Such a very merry manner, as you swerve andcurve and crook—And your ripples, one and one,Reach each other's hands and runLike laughing little children in the sun!Little brook, sing to me:Sing about a bumblebeeThat tumbled from a lily-bell and grumbledmumblingly,Because he wet the filmOf his wings, and had to swim,While the water-bugs raced round andlaughed at him!Little brook-sing a songOf a leaf that sailed alongDown the golden-braided centre of your currentswift and strong,And a dragon-fly that litOn the tilting rim of it,And rode away and wasn't scared a bit.And sing—how oft in gleeCame a truant boy like me,Who loved to lean and listen to your liltingmelody,Till the gurgle and refrainOf your music in his brainWrought a happiness as keen to himas pain.Little brook-laugh and leap!Do not let the dreamer weep:Sing him all the songs of summer till he sink insoftest sleep;And then sing soft and lowThrough his dreams of long ago—Sing back to him the rest he used toknow!
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 thesly,Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on hiswingsAnd 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 theplow—Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr nota-carin' how;So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on thewing—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 greenerstill;It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will.Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drowndedout,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 anddryThrough 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 doeshe run?Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare just like they'veallus done?Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs ervoice?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 meand you.
"Mylo Jones's wife" was allI heerd, mighty near, last Fall—Visitun relations downT'other side of Morgantown!Mylo Jones's wife she doesThis 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 'lowsShe'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, nerAct, I s'pose, so much like HER!Yit the wimmern-folks tells youShe's PERFECTION.—Yes they do!Mylo's wife she says she's foundHome hain't home with MEN-FOLKS roundWhen they's work like HERN to do—Picklin' pears and BUTCHERN, too,And a-rendern lard, and thenCookin' fer a pack of menTo come trackin' up the floreSHE'S scrubbed TEL she'll scrub no MORE!—Yit she'd keep things clean ef theyMade her scrub tel Jedgmunt Day!Mylo Jones's wife she sewsCarpet-rags and patches clothesJest year IN and OUT!—and yitWhare's the livin' use of it?She asts Mylo that.—And heGits back whare he'd ruther be,With his team;—jest PLOWS—and don'tNever 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 excuseFer his pore relations toHang 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 seeSich a womern rulin' ME!—Ruther take and turn in andRaise 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!
Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me andJohn,Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-timecomes 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 turnedout!A better quarter-section ner a richer soil warn't foundThan this-here old-home place o' ourn fer fifty milesaround!—The house was small—but plenty-big we found it fromthe dayThat John—our only livin' son—packed up and wentaway.You see, we tuk sich pride in John—his mother more'nme—That's natchurul; but BOTH of us was proud as proudcould be;Fer the boy, from a little chap, was most oncommonbright,And seemed in work as well as play to take the samedelight.He allus went a-whistlin' round the place, as glad at heartAs robins up at five o'clock to git an airly start;And many a time 'fore daylight Mother's waked me upto say—"Jest listen, David!—listen!—Johnny's beat the birdsto-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 hereThan his grandpap in Paradise could answer in a year!And READ! w'y, his own mother learnt him how to readand spell;And "The Childern of the Abbey"—w'y, he knowed thatbook as wellAt fifteen as his parents!—and "The Pilgrim'sProgress," too—Jest knuckled down, the shaver did, and read 'em throughand through.At eighteen, Mother 'lowed the boy must have a betterchance-That we ort to educate him, under any circumstance;And John he j'ined his mother, and they ding-donged andkep' on,Tel I sent him off to school in town, half glad that he wasgone.But—I missed him—w'y, of course I did!—The Fall andWinter throughI 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 homeag'in.He'd come, sometimes—on Sund'ys most—and stay theSund'y out;And on Thanksgivin'-Day he 'peared to like to be about:But a change was workin' on him—he was stiller thanbefore,And didn't joke, ner laugh, ner sing and whistle anymore.And his talk was all so proper; and I noticed, with a sigh,He was tryin' to raise side-whiskers, and had on a stripedtie,And a standin'-collar, ironed up as stiff and slick as bone;And a breast-pin, and a watch and chain and plug-hat ofhis own.But when Spring-weather opened out, and John was tocome homeAnd he'p me through the season, I was glad to see himcome,But my happiness, that evening, with the settin' sun wentdown,When he bragged of "a position" that was offered him intown."But," says I, "you'll not accept it?" "W'y, of course Iwill," says he.—"This drudgin' on a farm," he says, "is not the life ferme;I've set my stakes up higher," he continued, light andgay,"And town's the place fer ME, and I'm a-goin' rightaway!"And go he did!—his mother clingin' to him at the gate,A-pleadin' and a-cryin'; but it hadn't any weight.I was tranquiller, and told her 'twarn't no use to worryso,And onclasped her arms from round his neck round mine—and let him go!I felt a little bitter feelin' foolin' round aboutThe aidges of my conscience; but I didn't let it out;—I simply retch out, trimbly-like, and tuk the boy's hand,And though I didn't say a word, I knowed he'd under-stand.And—well!—sence then the old home here was mightylonesome, shore!With me a-workin' in the field, and Mother at the door,Her face ferever to'rds the town, and fadin' more andmore—Her only son nine miles away, a-clerkin' in a store!The weeks and months dragged by us; and sometimes theboy would writeA letter to his mother, sayin' that his work was light,And not to feel oneasy about his health a bit—Though his business was confinin', he was gittin' usedto it.And sometimes he would write and ast howIwas gittin'on,And ef I had to pay out much fer he'p sence he was gone;And how the hogs was doin', and the balance of the stock,And talk on fer a page er two jest like he used to talk.And he wrote, along 'fore harvest, that he guessed hewould git home,Fer business would, of course, be dull in town.—ButDIDN'T come:—We got a postal later, sayin' when they had no tradeThey filled the time "invoicin' goods," and that was whyhe stayed.And then he quit a-writin' altogether: Not a word—Exceptin' what the neighbers brung who'd been to townand heardWhat store John was clerkin' in, and went round to in-quireIf they could buy their goods there less and sell theirproduce higher.And so the Summer faded out, and Autumn wore away,And a keener Winter never fetched around Thanksgivin'-Day!The night before that day of thanks I'll never quite fergit,The wind a-howlin' round the house-it makes me creepyyit!And there set me and Mother—me a-twistin' at theprongsOf a green scrub-ellum forestick with a vicious pair oftongs,And Mother sayin', "DAVID! DAVID!" in a' undertone,As though she thought that I was thinkin' bad-wordsunbeknown."I've dressed the turkey, David, fer to-morrow," Mothersaid,A-tryin' to wedge some pleasant subject in my stubbornhead,—"And the mince-meat I'm a-mixin' is perfection mightynigh;And the pound-cake is delicious-rich—" "Who'll eat'em?" I—says—I."The cramberries is drippin'-sweet," says Mother, runnin'on,P'tendin' not to hear me;—"and somehow I thought ofJohnAll the time they was a-jellin'—fer you know they alluswasHis favorITE—he likes 'em so!" Says I "Well, s'posehe does?""Oh, nothin' much!" says Mother, with a quiet sort o'smile—"This gentleman behind my cheer may tell you afterwhile!"And as I turnt and looked around, some one riz up andleantAnd putt his arms round Mother's neck, and laughed inlow content."It's ME," he says—"your fool-boy John, come back toshake your hand;Set down with you, and talk with you, and make you un-derstandHow dearer yit than all the world is this old home thatweWill spend Thanksgivin' in fer life—jest Mother, youand me!"Nobody on the old farm here but Mother, me and John,Except, of course, the extry he'p when harvest-timecomes 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 turnout!
Folks has be'n to town, and SahryFetched 'er home a pet canary,—And of all the blame', contrary,Aggervatin' things alive!I love music—that's I love itWhen 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 herHe's a purty little feller,With his wings o' creamy-yeller,And his eyes keen as a cat;And the twitter o' the critterTears to absolutely glitter!Guess I'll haf to go and git herA high-priceter cage 'n that!
The old farm-home is Mother's yet and mine,And filled it is with plenty and to spare,—But we are lonely here in life's decline,Though fortune smiles around us everywhere:We look across the goldOf the harvests, as of old—The corn, the fragrant clover, and the hayBut most we turn our gaze,As with eyes of other days,To the orchard where the children used to play.O from our life's full measureAnd rich hoard of worldly treasureWe often turn our weary eyes away,And hand in hand we wanderDown the old path winding yonderTo the orchard where the children used to playOur sloping pasture-lands are filled with herds;The barn and granary-bins are bulging o'er:The grove's a paradise of singing birds-The woodland brook leaps laughing by the doorYet lonely, lonely still,Let us prosper as we will,Our old hearts seem so empty everyway—We can only through a mistSee the faces we have kissedIn the orchard where the children used to play.O from our life's full measureAnd rich hoard of worldly treasureWe often turn our weary eyes away,And hand in hand we wanderDown the old path winding yonderTo the orchard where the children used to play.
Pap's got his pattent-right, and rich as all creation;But where's the peace and comfort that we all hadbefore?Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!The likes of us a-livin' here! It's jest a mortal pityTo see us in this great big house, with cyarpets on thestairs,And the pump right in the kitchen! And the city! city!city!—And nothin' but the city all around us ever'wheres!Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple,And never see a robin, nor a beech or ellum tree!And right here in ear-shot of at least a thousan' people,And none that neighbors with us or we want to go andsee!Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—Back where the latch-string's a-hangin' from the door,And ever' neighbor round the place is dear as a relation—Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!I want to see the Wiggenses, the whole kit-and-bilin',A-drivin' up from Shallor Ford to stay the Sundaythrough;And I want to see 'em hitchin' at their son-in-law's andpilin'Out there at 'Lizy Ellen's like they ust to do!I want to see the piece-quilts the Jones girls is makin';And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hiredhand,And joke her 'bout the widower she come purt' nigha-takin',Till her Pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save hisland.Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—Back where they's nothin' aggervatin' any more,Shet away safe in the woods around the old location—Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!I want to see Marindy and he'p her with her sewin',And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead andgone,And stand up with Emanuel to show me how he'sgrowin',And smile as I have saw her 'fore she putt her mournin'on.And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower eighty,Where John, our oldest boy, he was tuk and burried—forHis own sake and Katy's,—and I want to cry with KatyAs she reads all his letters over, writ from The War.What's in all this grand life and high situation,And nary pink nor hollyhawk a-bloomin' at the door?—Le's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby's Station—Back where we ust to be so happy and so pore!
I
Tell you what I like the best—'Long about knee-deep in June,'Bout the time strawberries meltsOn the vine,—some afternoonLike to jes' git out and rest,And not work at nothin' else'
II
Orchard's where I'd ruther be—Needn't fence it in fer me!—Jes' the whole sky overhead,And the whole airth underneath—Sorto' so's a man kin breatheLike he ort, and kindo' hasElbow-room to keerlesslySprawl out len'thways on the grassWhere the shadders thick and softAs the kivvers on the bedMother fixes in the loftAllus, when they's company!
III
Jes' a-sorto' lazin' there—S'lazy, 'at you peek and peerThrough the wavin' leaves above,Like a feller 'at's in loveAnd don't know it, ner don't keer!Ever'thing you hear and seeGot some sort o' interest—Maybe find a bluebird's nestTucked up there conveenentlyFer the boy 'at's ap' to beUp some other apple-tree!Watch the swallers skootin' past'Bout as peert as you could ast,Er the Bob-white raise and whizWhere some other's whistle is
IV
Ketch a shadder down below,And look up to find the crow—Er a hawk,—away up there,'Pearantly FROZE in the air!—Hear the old hen squawk, and squatOver ever' chick she's got,Suddent-like!—and she knows whereThat-air hawk is, well as you!—You jes' bet yer life she do!—Eyes a-glitterin' like glass,Waitin' till he makes a pass!
V
Pee-wees' singin', to expressMy opinion, 's second class,Yit you'll hear 'em more er less;Sapsucks gittin' down to biz,Weedin' out the lonesomeness;Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass,In them base-ball clothes o' his,Sportin' round the orchard jes'Like he owned the premises!Sun out in the fields kin sizz,But flat on yer back, I guess,In the shade's where glory is!That's jes' what I'd like to doStiddy fer a year er two!
VI
Plague! ef they ain't somepin' inWork 'at kindo' goes ag'in'My convictions!—'long aboutHere in June especially!—Under some old apple-tree,Jes' a-restin' through and throughI could git along withoutNothin' else at all to doOnly jes' a-wishin' youWuz a-gittin' there like me,And June was eternity!
VII
Lay out there and try to seeJes' how lazy you kin be!—Tumble round and souse yer headIn the clover-bloom, er pullYer straw hat acrost yer eyesAnd peek through it at the skies,Thinkin' of old chums 'at's dead,Maybe, smilin' back at youIn betwixt the beautifulClouds o' gold and white and blue.Month a man kin railly loveJune, you know, I'm talkin' of!
VIII
March ain't never nothin' new!Aprile's altogether tooBrash fer me! and May—I jes''Bominate its promises,Little hints o' sunshine andGreen around the timber-land—A few blossoms, and a fewChip-birds, and a sprout er two,—Drap asleep, and it turns in'Fore daylight and SNOWS ag'in!—But when JUNE comes—Clear my th'oatWith wild honey!—Rench my hairIn the dew! and hold my coat!Whoop out loud! and th'ow my hat!—June wants me, and I'm to spare!Spread them shadders anywhere,I'll git down and waller there,And obleeged to you at that!