Green Things Growing

The Corn-Song

Heap high the farmer's wintry hoard!

Heap high the golden corn!
No richer gift has Autumn poured
From out her lavish horn!

Let other lands, exulting, glean

The apple from the pine,
The orange from its glossy green,
The cluster from the vine;

We better love the hardy gift

Our rugged vales bestow,

To cheer us when the storm shall drift
Our harvest-fields with snow.

Through vales of grass and meads of flowers,
Our ploughs their furrows made,
While on the hills the sun and showers
Of changeful April played.

We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain,
Beneath the sun of May,

And frightened from our sprouting grain
The robber crows away.

All through the long, bright days of June
Its leaves grew green and fair,

And waved in hot midsummer's noon
Its soft and yellow hair.

And now with autumn's moonlit eves,

Its harvest-time has come,

We pluck away the frosted leaves,

And bear the treasure home.

There richer than the fabled gift
Apollo showered of old,

Fair hands the broken grain shall sift,

And knead its meal of gold.

Let vapid idlers loll in silk

Around their costly board;
Give us the bowl of samp and milk,
By homespun beauty poured!

Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth
Sends up its smoky curls,

Who will not thank the kindly earth,
And bless our farmer girls!

Then shame on all the proud and vain,
Whose folly laughs to scorn
The blessing of our hardy grain,
Our wealth of golden corn!

Let earth withhold her goodly root,
Let mildew blight the rye,

Give to the worm the orchard's fruit,
The wheat field to the fly:

Green Things Growing

Green Things Growing

But let the good old crop adorn
The hills our fathers trod;

Still let us for his golden corn,

Send up our thanks to God!

JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

Columbia's Emblem

Blazon Columbia's emblem

The bounteous, golden Corn!

Eons ago, of the great sun's glow

And the joy of the earth, 'twas born.

From Superior's shore to Chili,

From the ocean of dawn to the west,
With its banners of green and silken sheen
It sprang at the sun's behest;

And by dew and shower, from its natal hour,
With honey and wine 'twas fed,

Till on slope and plain the gods were fain
To share the feast outspread:

For the rarest boon to the land they loved
Was the Corn so rich and fair,

Nor star nor breeze o'er the farthest seas
Could find its like elsewhere.

In their holiest temples the Incas

Offered the heaven-sent Maize

Grains wrought of gold, in a silver fold,
For the sun's enraptured gaze;

And its harvest came to the wandering tribes

As the gods' own gift and seal,

And Montezuma's festal bread

Was made of its sacred meal.

Narrow their cherished fields; but ours

Are broad as the continent's breast,
And, lavish as leaves, the rustling sheaves
Bring plenty and joy and rest;

For they strew the plains and crowd the wains
When the reapers meet at morn,

Till blithe cheers ring and west winds sing
A song for the garnered Corn.

The rose may bloom for England,
The lily for France unfold;
Ireland may honor the shamrock,
Scotland her thistle bold;

But the shield of the great Republic,

The glory of the West,

Shall bear a stalk of the tasseled Corn-
The sun's supreme bequest!
The arbutus and the golden rod

The heart of the North may cheer,
And the mountain laurel for Maryland
Its royal clusters rear,

And jasmine and magnolia

The crest of the South adorn; But the wide Republic's emblem Is the bounteous, golden Corn!

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

Green Things Growing

Green

Things Growing

Scythe Song

Mowers, weary and brown, and blithe,
What is the word methinks ye know,
Endless over-word that the Scythe

Sings to the blades of the grass below?
Scythes that swing in the grass and clover,
Something, still, they say as they pass;
What is the word that, over and over,

Sings the Scythe to the flowers and grass!

Hush, ah hush, the Scythes are saying,
Hush, and heed not, and fall asleep;
Hush, they say to the grasses swaying,
Hush, they sing to the clover deep!
Hush 'tis the lullaby Time is singing-
Hush, and heed not, for all things pass,
Hush, ah hush! and the Scythes are swinging
Over the clover, over the grass!

ANDREW LANG.

Time to Go

They know the time to go!
The fairy clocks strike their inaudible hour
In field and woodland, and each punctual flower
Bows at the signal an obedient head

And hastes to bed.

* By courtesy of Longmans, Green & Co.