Men who reap on the fruitful plain
Skirting the town,
Lift their eyes to the shifting vane
As the sun goes down;
Slowly the farmer’s loaded wain
Climbs the slope in the falling light,
Bold is the voice that pipes for rain,—
Bob White! Bob White!
Still from the hillside, pipes for rain—
Bob White!
Lo, a burst at the darkened pane,
Angry and loud!
Waters murmur and winds complain
To the rolling cloud;
Housed at the farm, the careless swain,
Weaving snares while the fire burns bright,
Tunes his lips to the old refrain,—
Bob White! Bob White!
O, the sound of the blithe refrain—
Bob White!
—Dora Read Goodale in “St. Nicholas.”
Autumn.
(Recitation for a grammar-grade pupil.)
The autumn skies are flushed with gold,
And fair and bright the rivers run :
These are but streams of winter cold,
And painted mists that quench the sun.
In secret boughs no sweet birds sing,
In secret boughs no bird can shroud :
These are but leaves that take to wing,
And wintry winds that pipe so loud.
‘Tis not trees’ shade, but cloudy glooms
That on the cheerless valley fall,
The flowers are in their grassy tombs,
And tears of dew are on them all.
—Thomas Hood.
