Part 1 (1/2)
Riley Farm-Rhymes.
by James Whitcomb Riley.
TO THE GOOD OLD-FAs.h.i.+ONED PEOPLE
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 the snag, Seems's ef they cain't--od-rot-'em!--jes' do nothin' else but brag!
There' music in the twitter o' the bluebird and the jay, And that sa.s.sy little critter jes' a-peckin' all the day; There' music in the ”flicker,” and there' music in the thrush, And there' music in the snicker o' the chipmunk in the brus.h.!.+--
There' music all around me!--And I go back--in a dream Sweeter yit than ever found me fast asleep:--And, in the stream That used to split the medder wher' the dandylions growed, I stand knee-deep, and redder than the sunset down the road.
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 gra.s.sy 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 t.i.tter, and the words Of merriment that found the s.h.i.+ne 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-c.o.c.k, 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-b.u.t.ter, 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!