Riley Farm-Rhymes Part 4

OLD-FASHIONED ROSES

They ain't no style about 'em, And they're sorto' pale and faded, Yit the doorway here, without 'em, Would be lonesomer, and shaded With a good 'eal blacker shadder Than the morning-glories makes, And the sunshine would look sadder Fer their good old-fashion' sakes,

I like 'em 'cause they kindo'-- Sorto' MAKE a feller like 'em!

And I tell you, when I find a Bunch out whur the sun kin strike 'em, It allus sets me thinkin'

O' the ones 'at used to grow And peek in thro' the c.h.i.n.kin'

O' the cabin, don't you know!

And then I think o' mother, And how she ust to love 'em-- When they wuzn't any other, 'Less she found 'em up above 'em!

And her eyes, afore she shut 'em, Whispered with a smile and said We must pick a bunch and putt 'em In her hand when she wuz dead.

But, as I wuz a-sayin', They ain't no style about 'em Very gaudy er displaying But I wouldn't be without 'em,-- 'Cause I'm happier in these posies, And the hollyhawks and sich, Than the hummin'-bird 'at noses In the roses of the rich.

A COUNTRY PATHWAY

I come upon it suddenly, alone-- A little pathway winding in the weeds That fringe the roadside; and with dreams my own, I wander as it leads.

Full wistfully along the slender way, Through summer tan of freckled shade and shine, I take the path that leads me as it may-- Its every choice is mine.

A chipmunk, or a sudden-whirring quail, Is startled by my step as on I fare-- A garter-snake across the dusty trail Glances and--is not there.

Above the arching jimson-weeds flare twos And twos of sallow-yellow b.u.t.terflies, Like blooms of lorn primroses blowing loose When autumn winds arise.

The trail dips--dwindles--broadens then, and lifts Itself astride a cross-road dubiously, And, from the fennel marge beyond it, drifts Still onward, beckoning me.

And though it needs must lure me mile on mile Out of the public highway, still I go, My thoughts, far in advance in Indian-file, Allure me even so.

Why, I am as a long-lost boy that went At dusk to bring the cattle to the bars, And was not found again, though Heaven lent His mother all the stars

With which to seek him through that awful night.

O years of nights as vain!--Stars never rise But well might miss their glitter in the light Of tears in mother-eyes!

So--on, with quickened breaths, I follow still-- My avant-courier must be obeyed!

Thus am I led, and thus the path, at will, Invites me to invade

A meadow's precincts, where my daring guide Clambers the steps of an old-fashioned stile, And stumbles down again, the other side, To gambol there awhile

In pranks of hide-and-seek, as on ahead I see it running, while the clover-stalks Shake rosy fists at me, as though they said-- "You dog our country--walks

"And mutilate us with your walking-stick!-- We will not suffer tamely what you do, And warn you at your peril,--for we'll sic Our b.u.mblebees on you!"

But I smile back, in airy nonchalance,-- The more determined on my wayward quest, As some bright memory a moment dawns A morning in my breast--

Sending a thrill that hurries me along In faulty similes of childish skips, Enthused with lithe contortions of a song Performing on my lips.

In wild meanderings o'er pasture wealth-- Erratic wanderings through dead'ning-lands, Where sly old brambles, plucking me by stealth, Put berries in my hands:

Or the path climbs a bowlder--wades a slough-- Or, rollicking through b.u.t.tercups and flags, Goes gayly dancing o'er a deep bayou On old tree-trunks and snags:

Or, at the creek, leads o'er a limpid pool Upon a bridge the stream itself has made, With some Spring-freshet for the mighty tool That its foundation laid.

I pause a moment here to bend and muse, With dreamy eyes, on my reflection, where A boat-backed bug drifts on a helpless cruise, Or wildly oars the air,

As, dimly seen, the pirate of the brook-- The pike, whose jaunty hulk denotes his speed-- Swings pivoting about, with wary look Of low and cunning greed.

Till, filled with other thought, I turn again To where the pathway enters in a realm Of lordly woodland, under sovereign reign Of towering oak and elm.

A puritanic quiet here reviles The almost whispered warble from the hedge.

And takes a locust's rasping voice and files The silence to an edge.

In such a solitude my sombre way Strays like a misanthrope within a gloom Of his own shadows--till the perfect day Bursts into sudden bloom,

And crowns a long, declining stretch of s.p.a.ce, Where King Corn's armies lie with flags unfurled.

And where the valley's dint in Nature's face Dimples a smiling world.

And lo! through mists that may not be dispelled, I see an old farm homestead, as in dreams, Where, like a gem in costly setting held, The old log cabin gleams.

O darling Pathway! lead me bravely on Adown your alley-way, and run before Among the roses crowding up the lawn And thronging at the door,--

And carry up the echo there that shall Arouse the drowsy dog, that he may bay The household out to greet the prodigal That wanders home to-day.

WORTERMELON TIME

Old wortermelon time is a-comin' round again, And they ain't no man a-livin' any tickleder'n me, Fer the way I hanker after wortermelons is a sin-- Which is the why and wharefore, as you can plainly see.

Oh! it's in the sandy soil wortermelons does the best, And it's thare they'll lay and waller in the sunshine and the dew Tel they wear all the green streaks clean off of theyr breast; And you bet I ain't a-findin' any fault with them; ain't you?

They ain't no better thing in the vegetable line; And they don't need much 'tendin', as ev'ry farmer knows; And when theyr ripe and ready fer to pluck from the vine, I want to say to you theyr the best fruit that grows.

It's some likes the yeller-core, and some likes the red.

And it's some says "The Little Californy" is the best; But the sweetest slice of all I ever wedged in my head, Is the old "Edingburg Mounting-sprout," of the west

You don't want no punkins nigh your wortermelon vines-- 'Cause, some-way-another, they'll spile your melons, sh.o.r.e;-- I've seed 'em taste like punkins, from the core to the rines, Which may be a fact you have heerd of before

But your melons that's raised right and 'tended to with care, You can walk around amongst 'em with a parent's pride and joy, And thump 'em on the heads with as fatherly a air As ef each one of them was your little girl er boy.

I joy in my hart jest to hear that rippin' sound When you split one down the back and jolt the halves in two, And the friends you love the best is gethered all around-- And you says unto your sweethart, "Oh, here's the core fer you!"

And I like to slice 'em up in big pieces fer 'em all, Espeshally the childern, and watch theyr high delight As one by one the rines with theyr pink notches falls, And they holler fer some more, with unquenched appet.i.te.