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I am old, so old I can write a letter;
My birthday lessons are done;

The lambs play always-they know no better;
They are only one times one.

O moon! in the night I have seen you sailing, And shining so round and low;

You are bright-ah! bright; but your light is failing;

You are nothing now but a bow.

O velvet bee! you're a dusty fellow-
You've powdered your legs with gold;
O brave marshmary-buds, rich and yellow,
Give me your honey to hold!

O columbine! open your folded wrapper,
Where two twin turtle-doves dwell;
O cuckoo-pint! toll me the purple clapper
That hangs in your clear green bell!

And show me your nest with the young ones in it:

I will not steal them away;

I am old; you may trust me, linnet, linnet; I'm seven times one to-day.

whistling cream'er y stead? ly routine whip'-poor-will

ǎp'pè tīte

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When summer comes, the boy on the farm is busy from early dawn till late at night. Long before a city boy dreams of rising the farm boy is whistling and working.

At early dawn the cows are milked and the boy drives them down the long lane to the green pasture-field. Then comes breakfast, and how he does eat! The trip with the cows gave him a keen appetite. Breakfast over, the lad hurries to the barn to feed the chickens and the ducks, to carry corn to the pigs, and

to help harness the horses. Then away he goes to the fields, perhaps to work in the growing corn, to rake the new-mown hay, or to reap the ripened grain. Every hour now is precious. The crops must be gathered, the ground prepared for autumn seeding, and the milk taken to the creamery.

He works steadily away until evening. Then the cows must be driven home, the horses cared for, the pigs and sheep fed, the eggs gathered, the barn closed for the night, and a score of other duties done. At last, he sits down with his parents on the porch, or in the yard under a tree, talks over the events of the day, and plans for the morrow.

The whip-poor-will is now calling, and the tired boy says good night, goes to bed and sleeps soundly.

His life is rich in toil. He eats well, sleeps well, works well, grows strong, and feels happy.

On rainy days he may slip down to the river and spend the day fishing, or he may pass the time reading a newspaper or a book.

When winter comes, how different is his daily routine! The morning hours are full of

work. He goes to the barn with a lantern; does his work before daylight; and spends his day in school, or out on the road with bells and sleigh, flying over the fleecy snow on his way to market.

And then the long winter evenings! Ah, who can tell the joy of an evening in a farm house! There's the open hearth ruddy with warmth and welcome. Now the farmer boy is king! All the riches of the year are his. As he stretches before the fire, he calls to himself the choicest apples and sweetest cider of the autumn. The chestnuts, roasting in the fire, seem glad they grew just to spend one happy evening with the old farm fire.

Now the cheerful laugh tells of happy hearts and mocks the storm that rages all night long. There are stories told, lessons studied; games played, plans made, and hearts cheered.

It may seem lonely to some boys to be on the farm, but remember that the farm makes sturdy, happy men, and remember, too, that no boy ever left the farm who did not in the long years afterward long for the dear old spot of his childhood.

LXV. THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET.

How dear to my heart are the scenes of my childhood,

When fond recollection presents them to view!

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,

And every loved spot that my infancy knew!

The wide-spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it;

The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;

The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh

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The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket that hung in the well.

That moss-covered vessel I hailed as a treas

ure;

For often at noon, when returned from the

field,

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