THE HUSKERS. 17 Ungathered, bleaching in the sun, the heavy corn crop stood. Bent low, by autumn's wind and rain, through husks that, dry and sere, Unfolded from their ripened charge, shone out the yellow ear; Beneath, the turnip lay concealed, in many a verdant fold, And glistened in the slanting light the pumpkin's sphere of gold. There wrought the busy harvesters; and many a creaking wain Bore slowly to the long barn-floor its load of husk and grain; Till broad and red, as when he rose, the sun sank down, at last, And like a merry guest's farewell, the day in brightness passed. And lo! as through the western pines, on meadow, stream and pond, Flamed the red radiance of a sky, set all afire beyond, Slowly o'er the Eastern sea-bluffs a milder glory shone, And the sunset and the moonrise were mingled into one! As thus into the quiet night the twilight lapsed away, And deeper in the brightening moon the tranquil shadows lay; From many a brown old farm-house, and hamlet without name, Their milking and their home-tasks done, the merry huskers came. Swung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow, Shone dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scene below; The growing pile of husks behind, the golden ears before, And laughing eyes and busy hands and brown cheeks glimmering o'er. Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart, Talking their old times over, the old men sat apart While, up and down the unhusked pile, or nestling in its shade, At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the happy children played. Urged by the good host's daughter, a maiden young and fair, Lifting to light her sweet blue eyes and pride of soft brown hair, The master of the village school, sleek of hair and smooth of tongue, To the quaint tune of some old psalm, a huskingballad sung. THE CORN SONG. HEAP high the farmer's wintry hoard! Let other lands, exulting, glean THE HUSKERS. We better love the hardy gift Our rugged vales bestow, To cheer us when the storm shall drift Through vales of grass and meads of flowers, We dropped the seed o'er hill and plain, And frightened from our sprouting grain All through the long, bright days of June, And now, with Autumn's moonlit eves, And bear the treasure home. There, richer than the fabled gift Fair hands the broken grain shall sift Let vapid idlers loll in silk, Around their costly board; Where'er the wide old kitchen hearth Sends up its smoky curls, Who will not thank the kindly earth, 19 Then shame on all the proud and vain, Let earth withhold her goodly root, But let the good old crop adorn THE LUMBERMEN. WILDLY round our woodland quarters, Through the tall and naked timber, Gleam the sunsets of November, O'er us, to the southland heading, On the night-frost sounds the treading Noiseless creeping, while we're sleeping, Frost his task-work plies; Soon, his icy bridges heaping, Shall our log-piles rise. When, with sounds of sinothered thunder, On some night of rain, THE LUMBERMEN. Luke and river break asunder Down the wild March flood shall bear them Or where Steam, the slave, shall tear them With his teeth of steel. Be it starlight, be it moonlight, In these vales below, When the earliest beams of sunlight All our blows repeat. Where the crystal Ambijejis Where, through lakes and wide morasses, Where, through clouds, are glimpses given Rock and forest piled to heaven, Where are mossy carpets better Than the Persian weaves, And than Eastern perfumes sweeter 21 |