ORCHARD RHYME.

Digger (Invercargill RSA), Issue 11, 28 May 1920, Page 13

ORCHARD RHYME.

Come, wander with me in the orchard, love, where t-he eolours of autumn Like leaping iiames in the cherry-trees, and the pear-boughs, high and low, Are g'oiden-brown in the mellow rays of the fast-declining sun, While the mudlark echoes my t-houghts of fou with his racket-ing "you're the one !" Observe, dea.r Emma, the swelling globes that garnish the guava-bush, And — there's the cow»- at the nectarines! To blazes with you, you — whcosh ! The quince is covered with saffron fruit. ^ln the green of the passion vine, Half-hidden, tho purple harvest hangs — this morning I counted nine. Black Hamburg grapes (or they should be black, t-hough they're usually greeny-grey) Are draped, you see, on the woodshed, Ern, in a really a-ttractive Way ; And a carpet of wind-blown leaves is yellow and crimson beneath our feet. . . One moroent, Emma. I've got t-o hop op these blighted shellbacks, sweet. See the London pippin, now lemon-pale, down there by the water-tap. What's that on your gloves? Wby, birdlime, dear, that I smear on the starling-trap. Eaeh. pippin will weigh a pound or so, and some of them more, maybe ; And the jargonelle — aw, look at the wretches, swarming right up the tree ! Excuse me, dear, for a moment, while l run for my poison-pump ; I've got 'to keep these da-er-readful pearslirgs on the jump. Note the Rome Beauty, drooping there with its burden of gorgeous red. Emma, look out— oh, dra — it! You're walking all over t-he strawberry bed, And the- — wowf ! Oh, bust my blistering luck — er, Em, pup-pardon, please, Excuse me, love if I sit awhile and fondle my aching knees. i hope — ha, ha! you will overlook, oh, gr r-r, t'll he blithered and blest ! Both knees bang through the tomatoframe ! Da-dash the counfounded pest. Emma, you're what- Not going, m'dear? Why, I've got a surprise for you. 1 wanted to show you the lily-pond love, and the dear little ducklings, too. And you ought to visit the beehive, Ern. Why should you hurry away? The horible temper I seem to havel And the terrible things I say? I oujglit really to be asliamed of — why, why, dash it all, Em, I am ! Emma! She's gone — she's bally well gone! .... Well, let 'er be gone. Now, Damn! Frank Henty in the "Sydney Bulletin."