The Redwood Gazette

THE FARM LANE.

It opens from the farmyard gate
And dips across the orchard's breast.
Curves round a ledge, then clambers straight
To the wide woodland on the crest.
Green at the curve a thicket stands,
Pillared with stems of elms and oaks,
And plumed with speckled sapling-wands
Where brambles hang their summer cloaks.
Broad from the upland's brow the scene
Of meadow, grove and field expand;
Grain billowing in its breezy green.
And furrowed breasts of seeded land.
The old red farmstead on its bank:
The chimney like a tower of stone:
The woodshed opening from its flank;
The barn and haystack's russet cone.
Pleasant at eve that busy lane.
When all the farm's tired habitants
Come trooping home, a loosening chain,
From their far-off accustomed haunts.
Her cross-step course old Crookhorn points.
Through sorrel-dots and johnswort-stars,
The shadows flickering in her joints,
Down to the corner-lowered bars.
Her red flank dark with crusted soil.
She swings her head in drooping doze:
While past her, weary with his toil,
Loosed from the plow, old Dobbin goes.
The colt pricks sharp his speaking ear,
Stamps his slim foot and shrilly neighs
Beside his dam that, sluggish, near,
Stoops, loudly breathing, to her gaze.
The guinea-fowls in brindled spots
Break as Bay's hoofs the flock divide;
And Carlo curls in changing knots.
Now biting knee, now lapping side.
When the soft twilight's amber glow
And dewy sweetness fills the scene.
Blocks of prone black, strewn thickly, show
Where couch the cattle on the green,
As fragrant darkness blots the lane
The beetle breaks the calm intense;
The fire-fly wafts its glittering grain;
The tree-toad purrs upon the fence.
But when reigns midnight's starry state,
The beetle seeks its chink; no more
The glowworm signals to her mate:
The fire-fly's transient throb is o'er.
And as the daybreak steals in gray
The cattle mounds to rise begin;
The dark massed weeds to break away:
The banks and ruts their shapes to win.
In autumn, corn in golden glow.
Hillocks of hay and amber wheat,
And apples heaped in tempting show
The gladdened looks of labor greet
In winter, smooth the lane in white;
The walls o'ertopped; all access barred
Until the straining horses fight
Their wallowing passage to the yard.
But now the sunset colors stream;
Herd the sheep; in severing train
The cattle pace; all gaily gleam
While crowding down the golden lane
See, Clodpole mounts the wagon-horse
Sidewise, and slings the harness o'er;
Then from the near field takes his course,
Slow, jogging toward the stable door.
His whistle and the robin's lay
Mingle as he recedes from sight;
And now the new moon's silver ray
Brightens to gold, and so good-night.
--Alfred B. Street, in Galaxy for August.