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 THE DISCURAGED FARMER

    The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees;
    And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees,
    And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the sly,
    Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly.
    The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wings
    And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings;
    And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz,
    And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.

    You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow—
    Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a-carin' how;
    So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing—
    But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing:
    And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest,
    She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest;
    And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' right,
    Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite!

    They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day,
    And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away,
    And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still;
    It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will.
    Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out,
    And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt;
    But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet,
    Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!

    Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and dry
    Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky?
    Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way,
    Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day?
    Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?—Does he walk, er does he run?
    Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they've allus done?
    Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er voice?
    Ort a mortul be complanin' when dumb animals rejoice?

    Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot;
    The June is here this morning, and the sun is shining hot.
    Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day,
    And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away!
    Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide,
    Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied;
    Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew,
    And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you.


    "MYLO JONES'S WIFE"

    Mylo Jones's wife" was all
    I heerd, mighty near, last Fall—
    Visitun relations down
    T'other side of Morgantown!
    Mylo Jones's wife she does
    This and that, and "those" and "thus"!—
    Can't 'bide babies in her sight—
    Ner no childern, day and night,
    Whoopin' round the premises—
    Ner no nothin' else, I guess!

    Mylo Jones's wife she 'lows
    She's the boss of her own house!—
    Mylo—consequences is—
    Stays whare things seem some like his,—
    Uses, mostly, with the stock—
    Coaxin' "Old Kate" not to balk,
    Ner kick hoss-flies' branes out, ner
    Act, I s'pose, so much like her!
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