IN SUGARING TIME.
Helen M. Winslow, in Harper’s Bazaar.
It’s sugarin’-time up country; an’ settin’ here in town
I seem to hear the “drip, drip, drip” of sap a-tricklin down
Into them wooden buckets in our old sugar place,
Afore Josiah died, an’ our only daughter, Grace,
Insisted ’twasn’t noways safe for me to live alone
Up in that old brown farm-house that long’s I live I own;
An’ naught would do but I must come an’ stay along o’her,
Where sugarin’ might be hayin’ time, an’ all this bustlin’ stir;
Where smells o’spring, an’ tricklin’ sap, and wild flowers never come.
There ain’t no chance for such things around Grace’s city home;
An’ sugarin’-time no different ain’t from summer or from fall.
I wisht Josiah’n me was back—a-workin’ hard an’ all.
The children on these brick paved-walks they make me think of Jim,
What we had hoped would stay by us—the farm was meant for him.
He died when he was twenty. Yes, there was young Josiah,
Professor in a college now, with hope of something higher.
An Grace, our girl, she married what they called a railroad king,
An lives on Beacon Street, in all the styles that she can swing.
But all the same, when April comes, I see ’em all again,
Jest runnin’ wild around that farm, them three, an in
All sorts of mischief daily, from early spring to fall.
I wisht the hull of us was back—a-workin’ hard an’ all.
I seem to see the tossels shakin’ out up on the trees;
I seem to smell the perfume of the May-flowers in the breeze;
I seem to feel the summer a-coming ’crost the hills;
I seem, up in the pastur’, to hear the singin’ rills;
I see the mowin’ lot, an’ hear the sharpen’ of the blades;
I hear the cattle lowin’; I go berryin’ in the glades;
I smell the harvest ripenin’ over in the corner lot;
I see Josiah bringin’ home that last new pair he bought;
I remember how together, when the children went away—
Grown big an’ married—by the fire we sat at close of day;
An’ how together we had lived there fifty year—come fall.
I wisht Josiah’n’ me was back—a-workin’ hard an’ all.
It’s sugarin’-time up country; but never once again
Shall I, now goin’ on eighty, see the spring a-comin’ in
The old way, thro’ the maple trees, ’crost the pastur’s brown;
For I must stay—in sugarin’-time—on Beacon Street in town.
The children never, as of old, shall I tuck in at night,
Their little feet so tired, but their happy hearts so light.
They wouldn’t go back if they could, an’ I’m too old they say;
An’ sence Josiah isn’t there, I let ’em have their way.
It’s sugarin’-time up country, though, an’ memories, like the sap,
Start up an’ set me longin’ for Mother Natur’s lap,—
An’ him, an’ Jim,—the farm, the hens, the horses in the stall.
It’s sugarin’-time up country; I’m homesick—that is all.