THE FALLOW FIELD. Miscellaneous.

Waikato Times, Volume XXI, Issue 1729, 4 August 1883, Page 6

THE FALLOW FIELD.

Miscellaneous .

The sun comes up and the sun goes down : ' The night mist shroudeth the sleeping to,wn ; But if it be dark or if it be day, If the tempests beat or the breezes play, Still here on this upland slope I lie £ Looking up to the changeful sky. Naught am I but a fallQW field ; Never a crop my acres yield. • Over the wall at my right hand Stately and green the corn blades stand, And I hear at my, left the flying feet Of the winds that rustle the bepdhigf wheat, Often while yet the, mom is red I list for our master^ eager tread. ' Ho smiles attKe young corn's towering height, > He knows the w>eat'isa f gQodly sight, - ( 'But he glances not at 1 the fallow field ' ! ' ' Whose idle acres no wealth may yield.

Sometimesllheshd.af'pf the harytjstera v The sleepiflgfpulse.oi my being stirs, And as one in" a dream I seem to feel j£he sweeping- and the rush of the swinging AT. steel, $ Or I catch the sound of the gay refrain As they heap their wains with the golden • grain. Yet, Omy ray neighbours, be not too proud, Though on every tongue your praise is loud, Our mother Nature is kind to me, And I am beloved by bird and bee, And never a child that passes by But turns upon me a grateful eye. Over my head the skies are blue ; I have my share of the rain and dew ; I bask like you in the summer sun When the long bright days pass, one by one, And calm as yours is the sweet repose Wrapped in the*warmth of the winter snows. JFor litlle our loving mother cares Whioh the corn or the daisy bears. Which is rich with the ripening wheat, Which with the violet's breath' is sweet, Which is the red with the clover bloom, Or which for the wild sweet-fern makes room. Useless under the summer sky Tear after year men say I lie. Littlathey know'what strength of mine I give to the trailing blackberry vine ; Little they know how the wild grape grows, Or how my life-blood flushes the rose. Little they think of the cups I fill For the mosses creeping under the hill ; Little they think of the feast I spread For the wild wee creatures that must be fed : Squirrel and butterfly, bird and bee, And the creeping things that no eye may see. Lord of the harvest, Thou dost know How the summers and winters go. Never a ship sails east or weßt Laden with treasures at thy behest, Yet my being thrills to the voice of God, When I give my gold to the golden-rod.

— Julia Y. B, Dorr, in Harper's.