Staunton Spectator

THE OLD HARVESTER AND HIS CRADLE.

'Tis harvest time, and, for acquaintance sake,
I take my old time reaping cradle down,—
And so of other days sweet memories awake,
A relic of the past I proudly own,—
My father bought the blade, the fingers drew,
The handle shaped, and framed all true and well,
And oft with mother, (as I've heard them tell)
It would go from farm to farm, and reap the harvest through.
To gain an honest living from the soil,
But when, a valiant youth, from home I went
This cradle with a blessing on my toil.
Was all my father gave to me without a cent.
For years I swung the blade with manly pride,
Led harvesters through seas of yellow grain,
And felt an inward joy that could not be decried.
Laid down the swaths in wavy heaps amain.
I honor and commend thee much, old friend.
For thou hast proved a friend in every deed,
Hast brought my children bread in time of need,
And, though but wood and steel, hast served a worthy end.
Now both of us have grown so very old!
There's little left of thee; my strength is gone
Nor can I walk, without my staff alone;
Then let us bid adieu to fields of waving gold.
As to the newer modes of reaping, thou
Hast yielded up the place bequeathed to thee
And wait the reaper, Death, before whom all must bow.
So give I way to those succeeding me,
For, as a man with reaper's hook and scythe,
The Monster harvests somewhere every day:
The sheaves are souls borne from earth away:
Some, to unending bliss; some to torments in to writhe.
June 25th, 1887.
R.M. TUTTLE.