min',
With fireflies fer candles alight.

And the noise of the frogs and the crickets
And the birds and the breeze are ter me
Lots better than high-toned supraners,
Although they don't get to "high C";
And the church, with its grand painted skylight,
Seems cramped and forbiddin' and grim
'Side of my old front porch in the twilight
When God's choir sings its "Evenin' Hymn."

* * * * *

THE MEADOW ROAD

Just a simple little picture of a sunny country road
Leading down beside the ocean's pebbly shore,
Where a pair of patient oxen slowly drag their heavy load,
And a barefoot urchin trudges on before:
Yet I'm dreaming o'er it, smiling, and my thoughts are far away
'Mid the glorious summer sunshine long ago,
And once more a happy, careless boy, in memory I stray
Down a little country road I used to know.

I hear the voice of "Father" as he drives the lumbering steers,
And the pigeons coo and flutter on the shed,
While all the simple, homelike sounds come whispering to my ears,
And the cloudless sky of June is overhead;
And again the yoke is creaking as the oxen swing and sway,
The old cart rattles loudly as it jars,
Then we pass beneath the elm trees where the robin's song is gay,
And go out beyond the garden through the bars;

Down the lane, behind the orchard where the wild rose blushes sweet,
Through the pasture, past the spring beside the brook
Where the clover blossoms press their dewy kisses on my feet
And the honeysuckle scents each shady nook;
By the meadow and the bushes, where the blackbirds build their nests,
Up the hill, beneath the shadow of the pine,
Till the breath of Ocean meets us, dancing o'er his sparkling crests,
And our faces feel the tingling of the brine.

And my heart leaps gayly upward, like the foam upon the sea,
As I watch the breakers tumbling with a roar,
And the ships that dot the azure seem to wave a hail to me,
And to beckon to a wondrous, far-off shore.

* * * * *

Just a simple little picture, yet its charm is o'er me still,
And again my boyish spirit seems to glow,
And once more a barefoot urchin am I wandering at will
Down that little country road I used to know.

* * * * *

[Illustration]

THE BULLFROG SERENADE

When the toil of day is over
And the dew is on the clover,
And the night-hawk whirls in circles overhead;
When the