Riley Farm-Rhymes.

by James Whitcomb Riley.

TO THE GOOD OLD-FASHIONED 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 brush!--

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 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-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!

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 b.u.m 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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 b.u.mblebee 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!