Riley Farm-Rhymes | Page 2

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-butter, 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 bum 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--pleaseWhen
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 God 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 God 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 bumblebee
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!
THOUGHTS FER