The golden-rod is yellow;
The corn is turning brown;
The trees in apple orchards
With fruit are bending down.
The gentian's bluest fringes
Are curling in the sun;
In dusty pods the milkweed
Its hidden silk has spun.
The sedges flaunt their harvest
In every meadow nook;
And asters by the brookside
Make asters in the brook.
From dewy lanes at morning
The grapes' sweet odors rise;
At noon the roads all flutter
With yellow butterflies.
By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer's best of weather,
And autumn's best of cheer.
_Helen Hunt Jackson._
[Footnote: Copyright, Little, Brown & Co., Publishers.]
[Illustration:]
* * * * *
sedges, coarse grasses which grow in marshy places.
Tell what the following expressions mean: dewy lanes; best of cheer;
sedges flaunt their harvest.
How do "Asters by the brookside make asters in the brook"?
Give in your own words the tokens of September mentioned in the poem.
Can you name any others?
Memorize the poem. What do you know of the author?
* * * * *
_19_
tat'ter
wreathed
Ken tuck' y
de scend'ed
re cess'
home' stead
en rap' tured
Penn syl va' ni a
"MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME."
"My Old Kentucky Home" was written by Stephen Collins Foster, a resident
of Pittsburg, Pa., while he and his sister were on a visit to his
relative, Judge John Rowan, a short distance east of Bardstown, Ky. One
beautiful morning while the slaves were at work in the cornfield and the
sun was shining with a mighty splendor on the waving grass, first giving
it a light red, then changing it to a golden hue, there were seated upon
a bench in front of the Rowan homestead two young people, a brother and
a sister.
High up in the top of a tree was a mocking bird warbling its sweet
notes. Over in a hidden recess of a small brush, the thrush's mellow
song could be heard. A number of small negro children were playing not
far away. When Foster had finished the first verse of the song his
sister took it from his hand and sang in a sweet, mellow voice:
The sun shines bright on the old Kentucky home;
'Tis summer, the darkies are gay;
The corn top's ripe and the meadows in the bloom,
While the birds make music all the day.
The young folks roll on the little cabin floor,
All merry, all happy, all bright;
By'n by hard times comes a-knockin' at the door--
Then, my old Kentucky home, good night.
On her finishing the first verse the mocking bird descended to a lower
branch. The feathery songster drew his head to one side and appeared to
be completely enraptured at the wonderful voice of the young singer.
When the last note died away upon the air, her fond brother sang in deep
bass voice:
Weep no more, my lady; oh, weep no more to-day,
Well sing one song for the old Kentucky home,
For our old Kentucky home far away.
A few more days for to tote the weary load,
No matter, 'twill never be light;
A few more days till we totter on the road--
Then, my old Kentucky home, good night.
The negroes had laid down their hoes and rakes; the little tots had
placed themselves behind the large, sheltering trees, while the old
black women were peeping around the corner of the house. The faithful
old house dog never took his eyes off the young singers. Everything was
still; not even the stirring of the leaves seemed to break the wonderful
silence.
Again the brother and sister took hold of the remaining notes, and sang
in sweet accents:
They hunt no more for the 'possum and the coon
On the meadow, the hill and the shore;
They sing no more by the glimmer of the moon,
On the bench by the old cabin door.
The day goes by like a shadow o'er the heart,
With sorrow where all was delight:
The time has come when the darkies have to part--
Then, my old Kentucky home, good night.
The head must bow and the back will have to bend
Wherever the darkies may go;
A few more days and the trouble all will end
In the fields where the sugar cane grow.
Then weep no more, my lady; oh, weep no more to-day,
We'll sing one song for the old Kentucky home,
For our old Kentucky home far away.
As the song was finished tears flowed down the old people's cheeks; the
children crept from their hiding place behind the trees, their faces
wreathed in smiles. The mocking bird and the thrush sought their home in
the thicket, while the old house dog still lay basking in the sun.
_Mrs. T.A. Sherrard_