"Orook, orook, orook!"
It is the half-grown turkeys going,
In the hot sunshine, through the fields;
Their black feet trampling down the mowing.
Across the clover rosy red,
Through the tall brake-leaves in the hollow,
The old hen-turkey, calling, goes;
And close behind the others follow.
"Old birds know best," the young ones say,
"And we let mother choose the way."
The dancing oats, all tasselled green,
Are full of grasshoppers and crickets;
The raspberry-bushes, red with fruit,
Grow round the rocks in thorny thickets;
The partridge-plants beside the wall
Lift up their clustered purple berries;
And from the wind-stirred branches fall
Upon the grass the small wild cherries:
Just where they are the old hen knows,
And all her noisy brood she shows.
Why feast all day?—the trodden oats
Will scarce be worth the mowing;—
"'Tis time," the old bird says, "at last
We home again were going."
Back through the clover-bloom she strides,
Down through the braky hollow:
She flies up on the fence to roost,
And all the others follow.
"We always have," the young ones say,
"When mother leads, a pleasant day."
MARIAN DOUGLAS.
OUR CHARLEY.
HARLEY was our horse, and a more gentle and kind horse never drew a carriage. He would carry four boys on his back, and walk off from the watering-trough to the barn as carefully as if he knew that small boys could not hold on very well. He seemed to feel that the boys were in his charge.
What I am going to tell happened one spring day. It was warm and beautiful out, and the doors and windows of the house were left open for the fresh air to circulate freely. Charley was turned into the front-yard to nibble the green grass for a while. It must have seemed good to him after eating straw and hay all winter.
He ate and ate until he had eaten all he wanted, and probably felt as boys and girls sometimes do when they have room for nothing more, except pie, or pudding, or whatever the dessert may be.