Sky like an ocean, so blue and so deep,
One little cloud-ship becalmed and asleep;
Breezes all gone and the leaves hangin' still,
Shimmer of heat on the medder and hill,--Labor
and laziness callin' to me:
"Hoe or the fishin'-pole--which'll it be?"

There's the old cornfield out there in the sun,
Showin' so plain that there's work ter be done;
There's the mean weeds with their tops all a-sprout,
Seemin' ter stump me ter come clean 'em out;
But, there's the river, so clear and so cool,
There's the white lilies afloat on the pool,
Scentin' the shade 'neath the old maple tree--
"Hoe or the fishin'-pole--which'll it be?"

Dusty and dry droops the corn in the heat,
Down by the river a robin sings sweet,
Gray squirrels chatter as if they might say:
"Who's the chump talkin' of _workin_' to-day?"
Robin's song tells how the pickerel wait
Under the lily-pads, hungry for bait;
I ought ter make for that cornfield, I know:
But, "Where's the fishin'-pole? Hang the old hoe!"

* * * * *

"SEPTEMBER MORNIN'S"

Oh, the cool September mornin's! now they're with us once agin,
With the grasses wet and shinin', and the air so clear and thin,
When the cheery face of Natur' seems ter want ter let yer know
That she's done with lazy summer and is brimmin' full of "go";
When yer hear the cattle callin' and the hens a-singin' out,
And the pigeons happy cooin' as they flutter 'round about,
And there's snap and fire and sparkle in the way a feller feels,
Till he fairly wants ter holler and ter jump and crack his heels.

There's a ringin', singin' gladness in the tunes the blackbirds pipe
When they're tellin' from the pear-tree that the Bartletts's nigh ter ripe;
There's a kind of jolly fatness where the Baldwin apples shine,
And the juicy Concord clusters are a-purplin' on the vine;
And the cornstalks, turnin' yaller and a-crinklin' up their leaves,
Look as if they kind er hankered ter be bundled inter sheaves;
And there's beamin', streamin' brightness jest a-gildin' all the place,
And yer somehow seem ter feel it in yer heart and in yer face.

Now the crowd of cranb'r'y pickers, every mornin' as they pass,
Makes a feller think of turkey, with the usual kind of sass,
Till a roguish face a-smilin' 'neath a bunnit or a hat,
Makes him stop and think of somethin' that's a good deal sweeter 'n that;
And the lightsome girlish figger trippin', skippin' down the lane,
Kills his mem'ry full of sunshine, but it's