Volume I Part 21 (1/2)

BY ST. JOHN HONEYWOOD

I

When Darby saw the setting sun, He swung his scythe, and home he run, Sat down, drank off his quart, and said, ”My work is done, I'll go to bed.”

”My work is done!” retorted Joan, ”My work is done! your constant tone; But hapless woman ne'er can say, 'My work is done,' till judgment day.

You men can sleep all night, but we Must toil.”--”Whose fault is that?” quoth he.

”I know your meaning,” Joan replied, ”But, Sir, my tongue shall not be tied; I will go on, and let you know What work poor women have to do: First, in the morning, though we feel As sick as drunkards when they reel; Yes, feel such pains in back and head As would confine you men to bed, We ply the brush, we wield the broom, We air the beds, and right the room; The cows must next be milked--and then We get the breakfast for the men.

Ere this is done, with whimpering cries, And bristly hair, the children rise; These must be dressed, and dosed with rue, And fed--and all because of you: We next”--Here Darby scratched his head, And stole off grumbling to his bed; And only said, as on she run, ”Zounds! woman's clack is never done.”

II

At early dawn, ere Phoebus rose, Old Joan resumed her tale of woes; When Darby thus--”I'll end the strife, Be you the man and I the wife: Take you the scythe and mow, while I Will all your boasted cares supply.”

”Content,” quoth Joan, ”give me my stint.”

This Darby did, and out she went.

Old Darby rose and seized the broom, And whirled the dirt about the room: Which having done, he scarce knew how, He hied to milk the brindled cow.

The brindled cow whisked round her tail In Darby's eyes, and kicked the pail.

The clown, perplexed with grief and pain, Swore he'd ne'er try to milk again: When turning round, in sad amaze, He saw his cottage in a blaze: For as he chanced to brush the room, In careless haste, he fired the broom.

The fire at last subdued, he swore The broom and he would meet no more.

Pressed by misfortune, and perplexed, Darby prepared for breakfast next; But what to get he scarcely knew-- The bread was spent, the b.u.t.ter too.

His hands bedaubed with paste and flour, Old Darby labored full an hour: But, luckless wight! thou couldst not make The bread take form of loaf or cake.

As every door wide open stood, In pushed the sow in quest of food; And, stumbling onward, with her snout O'erset the churn--the cream ran out.

As Darby turned, the sow to beat, The slippery cream betrayed his feet; He caught the bread trough in his fall, And down came Darby, trough, and all.

The children, wakened by the clatter, Start up, and cry, ”Oh! what's the matter?”

Old Jowler barked, and Tabby mewed, And hapless Darby bawled aloud, ”Return, my Joan, as heretofore, I'll play the housewife's part no more: Since now, by sad experience taught, Compared to thine my work is naught; Henceforth, as business calls, I'll take, Content, the plough, the scythe, the rake, And never more transgress the line Our fates have marked, while thou art mine.

Then, Joan, return, as heretofore, I'll vex thy honest soul no more; Let's each our proper task attend-- Forgive the past, and strive to mend.”

WHEN THE FROST IS ON THE PUNKIN

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

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-c.o.c.k, And the clackin' of the guineys, and the cluckin' of the hens, And the rooster's hallelooyer as he tiptoes on the fence, Oh, it's then's the time a feller is a feelin' at his best, With the risin' sun to greet him from a night of gracious rest, As he leaves the house bareheaded and goes out to feed the stock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.

There's sompin kind o' hearty-like about the atmosphere When the heat of summer's over and the coolin' fall is here.

Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossoms on the trees, And the mumble of the hummin'-birds and the buzzin' of the bees; But the air's so appetizin', and the landscape through the haze Of a crisp and sunny morning of the early autumn days Is a picture that no painter has the colorin' to mock, When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder's in the shock.