Good mornin', sir! A clearin' sky —
What? Want to talk with me, sir?
You tracked across that piece o' rye,
But we won't disagree, sir.

I'm sure you're welcome on this sod.
The piece was heavy-seeded;
The finest catch there, where you trod,
Since the old farm was deeded.

Whoa, boy! It's gettin' warm ag'in —
That colt is just a-learnin' —
Come, boy! Come, Fan, come in! Come in!
They're rather slow a-turnin'.

The air, I guess, don't smell so sweet
Where you live, in the city,
No grass or shade-trees on the street?
Now, that must be a pity.

I calculate a farmer lacks
Some things you make a show of;
But there may be some curious facts
That city folks don't know of.

You see the nest on that pine bough?
Do you know what there's hid in't?
D'ye know what bird 'tis singin' now?
No? Well, I thought you didn't.

You mus'n't think a pleasin' thing
Is lost on country people;
The birds that in that maple sing
Beat chimes in any steeple.

And as for good, fresh thinkin' stuff,
Paved streets can't be so givin';
While this one field has got enough
To last you while you're livin'.

Kin Boston beat that row of stumps
The little lot is fenced with?
Who-o-o-a! Woodchuck holes are wuss'n mumps!
The beasts might be dispensed with.

You'd like to hold the plow awhile?
All right, sir. I am willin'.
Whoa, there, I say! Don't go a mile!
You'd ought to kept its bill in.

What threw the plow out? Oh, a stone.
They're rather apt to turn her.
I guess I'll go it best alone —
You do well for a learner.

Why, I have seen men lean and try
To push the plow before 'em!
'Twould make a horse laugh till he'd cry;
But one fool makes a quorum.

I s'pose they think that Kingdom Come
Depends on them for motion;
But of the Power that's pullin' some
They haven't the slightest notion.

It's like good times to plow sod loam, —
To hear the coulter rippin',
And the soft earth, like fallin' foam,
Into the furrer drippin'.

But when you strike a stretch o' stone
It's sickness and low prices!
The plow not only shakes each bone
But kinder wakes yer vices.

A plow's a contrary concern,
A young calf can't outdo it;
To guide the point the handles turn
The opposite way to it.

Cut furrer wide, lean handles right —
You know how 'tis, I dare say —
Lift up, and it dives out of sight,
And t'other way, vice versey.

Not married? Well, you'll hardly swim
Before you go in swimmin';
But p'raps you'll find that in this whim
A plow is like some wimmin!

Nags like the furrer — softer ground —
Their crowdin's apt to balk us;
They're like two politicians bound
To carry the same caucus.

The colt lags, don't he? 'Pon my soul,
I guess the mare's the stronger!
I'll move that clevis up a hole
And make his end the longer.

Young hoss, if you don't stop that prank
I'm 'fraid you'll get a floggin'.
This knoll grows quack-grass mighty rank —
The meanest stuff for cloggin'!

I'm blamed if quack-grass ain't like sin,
It grows where land's the poorest;
Ag'in a hoe it's sure to win —
Guess buryin's the surest.

I tried a new plow at the fair;
'Twas neat, but I refused it.
This " Rough and Ready " stands the tear,
And our folks allus used it.

Old plows and old beliefs are strong,
And good yet if kept shinin'!
Things that have stood the strain so long
Kin stand some underminin'.

I like to watch before the plow
The grass a-tumblin' over;
The big and little have to bow,
The June-grass and the clover.

A plow reminds me, then, of Time.
Does't other folks, I wonder?
There goes a violet in its prime —
I hate to turn them under.

But when above the buried weeds
The yellow wheat is wavin',
'Twill teach that buried years and deeds
Still live, if worth the savin'.

A lifetime dwindles like these lands
In which the lot's divided;
When the dead-furrer's reached one stands
And wonders where it's slided.

Tell how I run a furrer straight,
And keep my sights when sowin'?
Yer competition would be late,
So I don't mind yer knowin'.

I set that pole this side the lot,
Then start from over yonder,
And range that pole with some fur spot
And never let it wander.

I've sometimes thought if we would range
Our daily walk with Natur'.
Our lives with things that never change,
We'd draw our furrer straighter.

I'm apt at preachin'? So I've heard.
Yes, I 'tend church on Sunday.
Why, if I didn't hear the Word
I couldn't work on Monday.

Ah, ha! That whistle blows for noon,
And dinner-time, I'm thinkin';
Well, I don't think it blows too soon, —
I feel like eatin' an' drinkin'.

Ned's callin' me, my little son, —
Jest five years ter his story; —
He makes us seven, countin' one
That's now a child o' glory.

How proud that team steps now that they
Are p'intin' for the stable!
A pretty tune their trappin's play,
Judgin' as I am able.

Come in the house and see my Nell —
I think she ain't bad lookin' —
And she's just as reliable
At counselin' as cookin'!