Page 35 - Poetry-Country

But his joy slightly wanes when he goes out next day,
And of live one can count only seven!

‘Tis pleasant to sit by a warm Winter fire
When night draws her curtain around,
With both wife and children to make home complete,
And peace and contentment abound;
But ecstasy fades when you shoulder your ax,
And trudge off a mile through the snow,
While the cutting west wind drives the snow in your face,
So you scarcely can see where you go.
But no one disputes that the farmer is blessed
With true independence and labor—
Whose food don’t depend on the whims of mankind
Like that of his mercantile neighbor;
For God, in his mercy, looks down from above,
And paternally gives him his bread,
Provided—he works eighteen hours every day,
And devotes only six to his bed!

— Henry W. Herbert (New England Farmer)

Hoeing and Praying

Said Farmer Jones in a whining tone,
To his good old neighbor Gray,
“I’ve worn my knees through to the bone,
But it ain’t no use to pray.
“Your corn looks just twice as good as mine,
Though you don’t pretend to be
A shinin’ light in the church to shine
An’ tell salvation free.

“I’ve prayed to the Lord a thousand times
To make that ere corn grow;
An’ why your’n beats it so an’ climbs
I’d give a deal to know.”

Said Farmer Gray to his neighbor Jones,
In his quiet and easy way,
“When prayers get mixed with lazy bones
They don’t make farming pay.

~ 33 ~