DRIVING HOME THE COWS.
By KATE PUTNAM OSGOOD.
Under the willows, and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober pace; The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face.
Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go; Two already were lying dead Under the feet of the trampling foe.
But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun, And stealthily followed the foot-path damp.
Across the clover and through the wheat, With resolute heart and purpose grim, Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, And the blind bat’s flitting startled him.
Thrice since then had the lanes been white, And the orchards sweet with apple-bloom; And now when the cows came back at night, The feeble father drove them home.