Making Hay

By Mary B. C. Slade

Through the meadow-grass, dewy, and tall, and green,
Drives, whirring and whizzing, the mowing-machine,
The horses are prancing, the sharp blades shine,
And the grass lies low in a level line.
To and fro fly the birds, and chipper and chatter,
And seem to be wondering what is the matter;
While Bobolink’s wife makes a frightened ado,
As she looks for her nest where the horses went through.
The day grows hot, and the daisies wither;
The funny horse-tedder drives hither and thither,
And scatters and tosses the grain as it goes,
Like a monstrous grasshopper, stubbing his toes.
Then the rake comes on where the tedder has been,
And rakes up and drops out its lines of green;
And the field so fair in the early morn,
When the noontime comes, is all shaven and shorn.
So the wilting grass, and the fading clover,
They all day long pitch over and over;
And men with their forks, as the sun goes down,
Pile the little round heaps, like an Esquimaux town.
While the daylight fades in the golden west,
Let us lie on the odorous hay and rest;
Our couch is as soft as a velvet throne,
And sweet as a breeze from the spice-isles blown.
To-morrow the carts for the hay will come,
And the willing old oxen will carry it home;
And the children shall ride to the barn away,
On the very tip-top of the load of hay.

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