Golden Numbers Part 20

_Evening at the Farm_

Over the hill the farm-boy goes.

His shadow lengthens along the land, A giant staff in a giant hand; In the poplar-tree, above the spring, The katydid begins to sing; The early dews are falling;-- Into the stone-heap darts the mink; The swallows skim the river's brink; And home to the woodland fly the crows, When over the hill the farm-boy goes, Cheerily calling, "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"

Farther, farther, over the hill, Faintly calling, calling still, "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Into the yard the farmer goes, With grateful heart, at the close of day: Harness and chain are hung away; In the wagon-shed stand yoke and plough, The straw's in the stack, the hay in the mow, The cooling dews are falling;-- The friendly sheep his welcome bleat, The pigs come grunting to his feet, And the whinnying mare her master knows, When into the yard the farmer goes, His cattle calling,-- "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"

While still the cow-boy, far away, Goes seeking those that have gone astray,-- "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'!"

Now to her task the milkmaid goes.

The cattle come crowding through the gate, Lowing, pushing, little and great; About the trough, by the farm-yard pump, The frolicsome yearlings frisk and jump, While the pleasant dews are falling;-- The new milch heifer is quick and shy, But the old cow waits with tranquil eye, And the white stream into the bright pail flows, When to her task the milkmaid goes, Soothingly calling, "So, boss! so, boss! so! so! so!"

The cheerful milkmaid takes her stool, And sits and milks in the twilight cool.

Saying "So! so, boss! so! so!"

To supper at last the farmer goes.

The apples are pared, the paper read, The stories are told, then all to bed.

Without, the crickets' ceaseless song Makes shrill the silence all night long; The heavy dews are falling.

The housewife's hand has turned the lock; Drowsily ticks the kitchen clock; The household sinks to deep repose, But still in sleep the farm-boy goes Singing, calling,-- "Co', boss! co', boss! co'! co'! co'!"

And oft the milkmaid, in her dreams, Drums in the pail with the flashing streams, Murmuring "So, boss! so!"

JOHN TOWNSEND TROWBRIDGE.

_Home Song_

Stay, stay at home, my heart, and rest; Home-keeping hearts are happiest, For those that wander they know not where Are full of trouble and full of care, To stay at home is best.

Weary and homesick and distressed, They wander east, they wander west, And are baffled, and beaten and blown about By the winds of the wilderness of doubt; To stay at home is best.

Then stay at home, my heart, and rest; The bird is safest in its nest: O'er all that flutter their wings and fly A hawk is hovering in the sky; To stay at home is best.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

_Etude Realiste_

I

A baby's feet, like seash.e.l.ls pink, Might tempt, should heaven see meet, An angel's lips to kiss, we think,-- A baby's feet.

Like rose-hued sea-flowers toward the heat They stretch and spread and wink Their ten soft buds that part and meet.

No flower-bells that expand and shrink Gleam half so heavenly sweet, As shine on life's untrodden brink,-- A baby's feet.

II

A baby's hands, like rosebuds furled, Where yet no leaf expands, Ope if you touch, though close upcurled,-- A baby's hands.

Then, even as warriors grip their brands When battle's bolt is hurled, They close, clenched hard like tightening bands.

No rose-buds yet by dawn impearled Match, even in loveliest lands, The sweetest flowers in all the world,-- A baby's hands.

III

A baby's eyes, ere speech begin, Ere lips learn words or sighs, Bless all things bright enough to win A baby's eyes.

Love while the sweet thing laughs and lies, And sleep flows out and in, Sees perfect in them Paradise!

Their glance might cast out pain and sin, Their speech make dumb the wise, By mute glad G.o.dhead felt within A baby's eyes.

ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE.

_We Are Seven_

------A simple child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That cl.u.s.tered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair;-- Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?"

"How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they? I pray you tell."

She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea.

"Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be."

Then did the little maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie, Beneath the churchyard tree."

"You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the churchyard laid Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"

The little Maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side.

"My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit And sing a song to them.

"And often after sunset, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer And eat my supper there.

"The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till G.o.d released her of her pain; And then she went away.

"So in the churchyard she was laid; And, when the gra.s.s was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I.

"And when the ground was white with snow And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?"