They drive home the cows from the pasture,
Up through the long shady lane,
Where the quail whistles loud in the wheat-fields,
That are yellow with ripening grain.
They find, in the thick waving grasses,
Where the scarlet-lipped strawberry grows.
They gather the earliest snowdrops,
And the first crimson buds of the rose.
They toss the new hay in the meadow,
They gather the elder-bloom white,
They find where the dusky grapes purple
In the soft-tinted October light.
They know where the apples hang ripest,
And are sweeter than Italy's wines;
They know where the fruit hangs the thickest
On the long, thorny blackberry vines.
They gather the delicate sea-weeds,
And build tiny castles of sand;
They pick up the beautiful sea shells--
Fairy barks that have drifted to land.
They wave from the tall, rocking tree-tops,
Where the oriole's hammock-nest swings,
And at night time are folded in slumber
By a song that a fond mother sings.
Those who toil bravely are strongest;
The humble and poor become great;
And so from these brown-handed children
Shall grow mighty rulers of state.
The pen of the author and statesman,--
The noble and wise of the land,--
The sword, and the chisel, and palette,
Shall be held in the little brown hand.
_Mary H. Krout._