Riley Farm-Rhymes | Page 8

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 space,
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,
shore;--
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
appetite.
Boys takes to it natchurl, and I like to see 'em eat--
A slice of
wortermelon's like a frenchharp in theyr
hands,
And when they "saw" it through theyr mouth sich music
can't be beat--
'Cause it's music both the sperit and the stummick

understands.
Oh, they's more in wortermelons than the purty-colored
meat,
And the overflowin' sweetness of the worter squshed
betwixt
The up'ard and the down'ard motions of a feller's teeth,
And it's the
taste of ripe old age and juicy childhood
mixed.
Fer I never taste a melon but my thoughts flies away
To the
summertime of youth; and again I see the dawn,
And the fadin'
afternoon of the long summer day,
And the dusk and dew a-fallin',
and the night a-comin'
on.
And thare's the corn around us, and the lispin' leaves and
trees,
And the stars a-peekin' down on us as still as silver
mice,
And us boys in the wortermelons on our hands and knees,

And the new-moon hangin' ore us like a yeller-cored
slice.
Oh! it's 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.
UP AND DOWN OLD BRANDYWINE
Up and down old Brandywine,

In the days 'at's past and gone--
With a dad-burn hook-and line
And a saplin' pole--swawn!
I've had more fun, to the square
Inch, than ever ANYwhere!

Heaven to come can't discount MINE
Up and down old Brandywine!
Hain't no sense in WISHIN'--yit
Wisht to goodness I COULD jes
"Gee" the blame' world round and
git
Back to that old happiness!--
Kindo' drive back in the shade
"The old Covered Bridge" there laid

'Crosst the crick, and sorto' soak
My soul over, hub and spoke!
Honest, now!--it hain't no DREAM
'At I'm wantin',--but THE FAC'S
As they wuz; the same old stream,
And the same old times, i jacks!--
Gim me back my bare feet--and
Stonebruise too!--And scratched and
tanned!
And let hottest dog-days shine
Up and down old
Brandywine!