The Farmer fixed his hat and specks
And pursed his lips together,
The maple wav'd above his head,
Each gold and scarlet feather:
The Teacher's Honest heart sank down:
How could his soul be merry?
He knew—though teaching in a town,
No maple bears a cherry.
Soft blew the wind; the great old tree,
Like Saul to David's singing,
Nodded its jewelled crown, as he
Swayed to the harp-strings' ringing;
A something rosy—not a leaf
Stirs up amid the branches;
A miracle may send relief
To lovers fond and anxious!
O rosy is the velvet cheek
Of one 'mid red leaves sitting!
The sunbeams played at hide-and-seek
With the needles in her knitting.
"O Pa!" The Farmer prick'd his ears,
Whence came that voice so merry?
(The Teacher's thoughtful visage clears)
"The maple bears a cherry!"
The Farmer tilted back his hat:
"Well, gal—as I'm a human,
I'll always hold as doctrine that
Thar's nothin' beats a woman!
When crown'd that maple is with snow,
And Christmas bells are merry,
I'll let you have her, Jack—that's so!
Be sure you're good to Cherry!"
SOME OF FARMER STEBBIN'S OPINIONS.
No, Parson, 'tain't been in my style,
(Nor none ov my relations)
Tew dig about the gnarly roots
Ov prophetic spekkleations,
Tew see what Malachai meant;
Or Solomon was hintin';
Or reound what jog o' Futur's road
Isaiah was a-squintin'.
I've lost my rest a-keepin' out
The hogs from our cowcumbers;
But never lost a wink, you bet,
By wrastlin' over Numbers.
I never took no comfort when
The year was bald with losses,
A-spekkleatin' on them chaps
That rode them varus hosses.
It never gave my soul a boost
When grief an' it was matin',
Tew figger out that that thar Pope
Wus reely twins with Satan.
I took no stock in countin' up
How menny hed ov cattle
From Egypt's ranches Moses drove;
I never fit a battle
On p'ints that frequently gave rise
Tew pious spat an' grumble,
An' makes the brethren clinch an' yell
In spiritooal rough-an'-tumble.
I never bet on Paul agin
The argyments ov Peter,
I never made the good old Book
A kind ov moral teeter;
Tew pass a choreless hour away,
An' get the evenin' over;
I swallered it jest as it stood,
From cover clar tew cover.
Hain't had no time tew disputate,
Except with axe an' arm,
With stump an' rampike and with stuns,
Upon my half clar'd farm.
An' when sech argyments as them—
Fill six days out ov seven;
A man on Sabbath wants tew crawl
By quiet ways tew heaven.