MIDSUMMER

Sun like a furnace hung up overhead,

Burnin’ and blazin’ and blisterin’ red;

Sky like an ocean, so blue and so deep,

One little cloud-ship becalmed and asleep;

Breezes all gone and the leaves hangin’ still,

Shimmer of heat on the medder and hill,— Labor and laziness callin’ to me:

“Hoe or the fishin’ - pole — which'll it be?”

There's the old cornfield out there in the sun,

Showin’ so plain that there's work ter be done;

There's the mean weeds with their tops all a-sprout,

Seemin’ ter stump me ter come clean‘ em out;

But, there's the river, so clear and so cool,

There's the white lilies afloat on the pool,

Scentin’ the shade‘ neath the old maple tree —

“Hoe or the fishin’ - pole — which'll it be?”

Dusty and dry droops the corn in the heat,

Down by the river a robin sings sweet,

Gray squirrels chatter as if they might say:

“Who's the chump talkin’ of workin’ to-day?”

Robin's song tells how the pickerel wait

Under the lily-pads, hungry for bait;

I ought ter make for that cornfield, I know:

But, “Where's the fishin’ - pole? Hang the old hoe!”