“But if the sun,” said Farmer Brown,
“Should bring a dry September,
With vines and stalks all wilted down,
And fields scorched to an ember—”
“Why, then, ’twill rain,” said Marjorie,
The little girl upon his knee.
“Ah, me!” sighed Farmer Brown, that fall,
“Now, what’s the use of living?
No plan of mine succeeds at all—”
“Why, next month comes Thanksgiving!