PROGRAMME FOR A HARVEST HOME.
TUNE.—“Marching Through Georgia.”
Through the golden summertime we’ve all been sowing seeds;
Oh they’ve sprung to blossoms or to tall and ugly weeds;
Children have we sown the seed of wrong or kindly deeds,
All through the bright days of summer.
Chorus.
The seeds we planted along life’s onward way,
Are swiftly growing, growing every day;
What the harvest time shall be, it is for us to say—
Let us be cheerful in sowing.
RECITATION.—A Sermon in Rhyme
If you have a friend worth loving,
Love him. Yes, and let him know
That you love him, ere life’s evening
Tinge his brow with sunset glow.
Why should good words ne’er be said
Of a friend till he is dead?
If you hear a song that thrills you,
Sung by any child of song,
Praise it. Do not let the singer
Wait deserved praises long.
Why should one who thrills your heart
Lack the joy you may impart?
If a silvery laugh goes rippling
Through the sunshine on his race,
Share it. ’Tis the wise man’s saying
For both joy and grief a place.
There’s health and goodness in the mirth
In which an honest laugh has birth.
If your work is made more easy
By a friendly helping hand,
Say so. Speak out brave and truly
Ere the darkness veil the land.
Should a brother workman dear
Falter for a word of cheer?
Scatter thus your seeds of kindness,
All enriching as you go—
Leave them. Trust the Harvest Giver,
He will make each seed to grow.
So, until its happy end
Your life shall never lack a friend.
FARMER JOHN.
(For a man dressed in farmer’s costume.)
Home from his journey Farmer John
Arrived this morning safe and sound;
His black off and his old clothes on;
“Now I’m myself,” says Farmer John;
And he thinks, “I’ll look round.”
Up leaps the dog: “Get down, you pup!
Are you so glad you would eat me up?”
The old cow lows at the gate to greet him,
The horses prick up their ears to meet him:
“Well, well, old Bay!
Ha, ha, old Gray!
Do you get good food when I’m away?
You haven’t a rib,” says Farmer John;
“The cattle are looking round and sleek;
The colt is going to be a roan,
And a beauty, too; how he has grown!
We’ll wean the calf next week.”
“I’ve found this out,” says Farmer John,
“That happiness is not bought and sold,
And clutched in a life of waste and hurry,
In nights of pleasure and days of worry;
And wealth isn’t all in gold,
Mortgages, stocks, and ten per cent.,
But in simple ways and sweet content;
Few wants, pure hope, and noble ends,
Some land to till, and a few good friends
Like you, old Bay,
And you, old Gray:
That’s what I learned by going away.”
J. T. Trowbridge.
RECITAL—The Husbandman.
(For boys and girls.)
First:
Earth, of man the bounteous mother,
Feeds him still with golden grain;
He who best would aid a brother
Shares with him his loaded wain.
Second:
Many a power within her bosom,
Noiseless hidden, works beneath;
Hence are seed and leaf and blossom,
Golden ear, and clustered wreath.
Third:
These to swell with strength and beauty
Is the royal task of man;
Man’s a king; his throne is duty,
Since his work on earth began.
Fourth:
Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage—
These, like men, are fruits of earth;
Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage.
All from dust receive their birth.
Fifth:
What the dream but vain rebelling,
If from earth we sought to flee?
’Tis our stored and ample dwelling;
’Tis from it the skies we see.
Sixth:
Wind and frost, and hour and season,
Land and water, sun and shade—
Work with these, as bids thy reason,
For they work thy toil to aid.
All in concert:
Sow thy seed and reap in gladness!
Man himself is all a seed;
Hope and hardship, joy and sadness—
Slow the plant to ripeness lead.
John Sterling.
ORATION—The Nobility of Labor.
I call upon those whom I address to stand up for the nobility of labor. It is Heaven’s great ordinance for human improvement. Let not that great ordinance be broken down. What do I say? It is broken down; and it has been broken down for ages. Let it, then, be built up again; here, if anywhere, on these shores of a new world—of a new civilization. But how, I may be asked, is it broken down? Do not men toil? it may be said. They do, indeed, toil; but they, too, generally do it because they must. Many submit to it as, in some sort, a degrading necessity; and they desire nothing so much on earth as escape from it. They fulfill the great law of labor in the letter, but break it in the spirit; fulfill it with the muscle, but break it with the mind.
To some field of labor, mental or manual, every idler should fasten, as a chosen and coveted theatre of improvement. But so is he not impelled to do, under the teachings of our imperfect civilization. On the contrary, he sits down, folds his hands, and blesses himself in his idleness. This way of thinking is the heritage of the absurd and unjust feudal system, under which serfs labored, and gentlemen spent their lives in fighting and feasting. It is time that this opprobrium of toil were done away with.
Ashamed to toil, art thou? Ashamed of thy dingy workshop and dusty labor-field; of thy hard hands, scarred with service more honorable than that of war; of thy soiled and weather-stained garments, on which Mother Nature has embroidered, ’midst sun and rain, ’midst fire and steam, her own heraldic honors? Ashamed of these tokens and titles, and envious of the flaunting robes of imbecile idleness and vanity? It is treason to nature—it is impiety to Heaven—it is breaking Heaven’s great ordinance. Toil, I repeat—toil, either of the brain, or of the heart, or of the hand, is the only true manhood, the only true nobility!
Orville Dewey.
RECITATION—The Corn Song.
(For a lad who holds a tall stalk of corn in left hand.)
Heap high the farmer’s wintry hoard;
Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has autumn poured
From her most lavish horn!
Let other lands, exulting, glean
The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine;
We better love the hardy gift
Our rugged vales bestow,
To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest-fields with snow.
Where’er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,
Who will not thank the kindly earth,
And bless our farmer girls?
Then shame on all the proud and vain,
Whose folly laughs to scorn
The blessing of our hardy grain,
Our wealth of golden corn!
Let earth withhold her goodly root,
Let mildew blight the rye,
Give to the worm the orchard’s fruit,
The wheat-field to the fly.
But let the good old crop adorn
The hills our fathers trod;
Still let us, for his golden corn,
Send up our thanks to God!
J. G. Whittier.
SINGING—Tune: “Rockingham.”
Great God! our heart-felt thanks to Thee!
We feel Thy presence everywhere;
And pray that we may ever be
The objects of Thy guardian care.
We sowed!—by Thee our work was seen,
And blessed; and instantly went forth
Thy mandate; and in living green
Soon smiled the fair and fruitful earth.
We toiled!—and Thou didst note our toil;
And gav’st the sunshine and the rain,
Till ripened on the teeming soil
The fragrant grass, and golden grain.
And now, we reap!—and oh, our God!
From this, the earth’s unbounded floor,
We send our song of thanks abroad,
And pray Thee, bless our hoarded store!
W. D. Gallagher.
