Part 15 (1/2)
The farmer is a happy man, His life is free from care, With naught to make his spirit sad Or make him want to swear; All day among the c.o.c.kle burrs He gaily grubs and hoes, And money never troubles him, Unless 'tis what he owes.
How sweet at early dawn of day To rise before the sun, And hustle briskly round the barn Till all the ch.o.r.es are done; To feed the cows, and milk them, too, In brightly s.h.i.+ning pails, The while they tread upon your corns And thump you with their tails.
How sweet to hie into the field, From breakfast smoking hot, And chase a plough all day around A forty acre lot, And, when it strikes against a stone, Drawn by the horses stout, To have the handles prance around And punch your daylights out.
How sweet at noon to lie at ease Beneath some spreading tree, And hold a secret session With an ardent b.u.mble bee, And when your rheumatism makes Your legs refuse to go, How sweet to lie upon your back And watch your mortgage grow.
And when the busy cares of day Have faded with the light, How sweet to lie in peaceful sleep Throughout the dewy night, And to hear the partner of your joys, At the first faint tinge of dawn, Shout, ”Come, old granger, hump yourself The cows are in the corn.”
MORTIMER C. BROWN.
_THE SON OF A SOLDIER_
BY OWEN OLIVER.
(_Reprinted from ”To-Day” by kind permission of the Author._)
You'll be sure to know my daddy, 'Cause he wears a coat of red.
An' a rifle, an' a bay'net, An' a helmet on his head.
An' he's very big an' handsome, An' his name is Sergeant Smith, An' he's gone to fight the Boers That our Queen is angry with.
He's the good Queen's faithful soldier, So he's angry, too, of course-- I expects they _will_ be frightened When they know my daddy's cross!
Daddy took me up and nursed me 'For he went on Friday week; ”Sonny-boy,” he said, ”Here's sixpence, Bless you, lad!” and kissed my cheek, ”Mind you write to me and tell me How you're doing at your books, How the baby's learning walking, How your little sister looks, How you're good and helping mother-- That's the news I want to find.”
Mine is only printing writing, But my daddy doesn't mind.
I'm my daddy's little soldier, An I've often heard him say, Soldiers ought to do their duty Though their officer's away.
Mamma says my duty's doing Just what daddy said I should; But it's hard to do my lessons; And its harder to be good!
Teacher says, ”Just keep on trying, They'll come easy by-an'-by;”
Mamma says I do grow better, And she'll write an' say I try.
Won't he smile! unless they've shot him!
Mamma said perhaps they would; An' she cried and cried till I cried-- But I don't believe they could.
No one couldn't hurt my daddy; If they did, when I grow tall, I shall take a sword and rifle, An' I'll go and kill them all.
If I woke up big to-morrow, Off to battle I should go; Then I'd see who'd touch my daddy-- Please, dear G.o.d, do make me grow!
_THE MILE._
BY DAVID M'KEE WRIGHT.