Part 6 (1/2)

DAWN, NOON AND DEWFALL.

I.

Dawn, noon and dewfall! Bluebird and robin Up and at it airly, and the orchard-blossoms bobbin'!

Peekin' from the winder, half-awake, and wis.h.i.+n'

I could go to sleep agin as well as go a-fis.h.i.+n'!

II.

On the apern o' the dam, legs a-danglin' over, Drowsy-like with sound o' worter and the smell o' clover: Fish all out a visitin'--'cept some dratted minnor!

Yes, and mill shet down at last and hands is gone to dinner.

III.

Trompin' home acrost the fields: Lightnin'-bugs a-blinkin'

In the wheat like sparks o' things feller keeps a-thinkin':-- Mother waitin' supper, and the childern there to cherr me!

And fiddle on the kitchen-wall a-jist a-eechin' fer me!

NESSMUK.

I hail thee, Nessmuk, for the lofty tone Yet simple grace that marks thy poetry!

True forester thou art, and still to be, Even in happier fields than thou hast known.

Thus, in glad visions, glimpses am I shown Of groves delectable--”preserves” for thee-- Ranged but by friends of thine--I name thee three:--

First, Chaucer, with his bald old pate new-grown With changeless laurel; next, in Lincoln-green, Gold-belted, bowed and bugled, Robin Hood; And next, Ike Walton, patient and serene: These three, O Nessmuk, gathered hunter-wise, Are camped on hither slopes of Paradise To hail thee first and greet thee, as they should.

AS MY UNCLE USED TO SAY.

I've thought a power on men and things, As my uncle ust to say,-- And ef folks don't work as they pray, i jings!

W'y, they ain't no use to pray!

Ef you want somepin', and jes dead-set A-pleadin' fer it with both eyes wet, And _tears_ won't bring it, w'y, you try _sweat_, As my uncle ust to say.

They's some don't know their A, B, Cs, As my uncle ust to say, And yit don't waste no candle-grease, Ner whistle their lives away!

But ef they can't write no book, ner rhyme No ringin' song fer to last all time, They can blaze the way fer the march sublime, As my uncle ust to say.

Whoever's Foreman of all things here, As my uncle ust to say, He knows each job 'at we 're best fit fer, And our round-up, night and day: And a-sizin' _His_ work, east and west, And north and south, and worst and best I ain't got nothin' to suggest, As my uncle ust to say.

THE SINGER.

While with Ambition's hectic flame He wastes the midnight oil, And dreams, high-throned on heights of fame, To rest him from his toil,--

Death's Angel, like a vast eclipse, Above him spreads her wings, And fans the embers of his lips To ashes as he sings.

A FULL HARVEST.

Seems like a feller'd ort 'o jes' to-day Git down and roll and waller, don't you know, In that-air stubble, and flop up and crow, Seein' sich c.r.a.ps! I'll undertake to say There're no wheat's ever turned out thataway Afore this season!--Folks is keerless tho', And too fergitful--'caze we'd ort 'o show More thankfulness!--Jes' looky hyonder, hey?-- And watch that little reaper wadin' thue That last old yaller hunk o' harvest-ground-- Jes' natchur'ly a-slicin' it in-two Like honey-comb, and gaumin' it around The field--like it had nothin' else to do On'y jes' waste it all on me and you!