Riley Farm-Rhymes | Page 7

the clover and tell it
good-bye,
And lovin'ly nestle my face in its bloom
While my soul
slips away on a breth of purfume
OLD OCTOBER
Old October's purt' nigh gone,
And the frosts is comin' on
Little

HEAVIER every day--
Like our hearts is thataway!
Leaves is
changin' overhead
Back from green to gray and red,
Brown and
yeller, with their stems
Loosenin' on the oaks and e'ms;
And the
balance of the trees
Gittin' balder every breeze--
Like the heads
we're scratchin' on!
Old October's purt' nigh gone.
I love Old October so,
I can't bear to see her go--
Seems to me like
losin' some
Old-home relative er chum--
'Pears like sorto' settin' by

Some old friend 'at sigh by sigh
Was a-passin' out o' sight
Into
everlastin' night!
Hickernuts a feller hears
Rattlin' down is more
like tears
Drappin' on the leaves below--
I love Old October so!
Can't tell what it is about
Old October knocks me out!--
I sleep well
enough at night--
And the blamedest appetite
Ever mortal man
possessed,--
Last thing et, it tastes the best!--
Warnuts, butternuts,
pawpaws,
'Iles and limbers up my jaws
Fer raal service, sich as new

Pork, spareribs, and sausage, too.--
Yit, fer all, they's somepin'
'bout
Old October knocks me out!
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 chinkin'
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 butterflies,
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
bumblebees 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 buttercups 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