AUTUMN AT THE ORCHARD

The sumac's flaming scarlet on the edges o’ the lake,

An’ the pear trees are invitin’ everyone t’ come an’ shake.

Now the gorgeous tints of autumn are appearin’ everywhere

Till it seems that you can almost see the Master Painter there.

There's a solemn sort o’ stillness that's pervadin’ every thing,

Save the farewell songs to summer that the feathered tenors sing,

An’ you quite forget the city where disgruntled folks are kickin’

Off yonder with the Pelletiers, when spies are ripe for pickin’.

The Holsteins are a-posin’ in a clearin’ near a wood,

Very dignified an’ stately, just as though they understood

That they're lending to life's pictures just the touch the Master needs,

An’ they're preachin’ more refinement than a lot o’ printed creeds.

The orchard's fairly groanin’ with the gifts o’ God to man,

Just as though they meant to shame us who have doubted once His plan.

Oh, there's somethin’ most inspirin’ to a soul in need o’ prickin’

Off yonder with the Pelletiers when spies are ripe fer pickin’.