At “Sun Flower Rock,” in joy we stand to gaze;
The distant orchard, flowering, show so fair: 
Surely my dear, abandoned farming pays,
How heavenly the early morning air!

Now only see! those horrid hens are scratching! 
They tear the Mountain Fringe so lately set! 
Some kind of mischief they are always hatching,
Why did I ever try a hen to pet?

Here’s “Mary’s Circle,” and the birches slender,
And Columbine which grows the rocks between,
Red blossoms showing in a regal splendour! 
We must be happy in this peaceful scene.

The puppies chew the woodbine and destroy
The dainty branches sprouting on the wall! 
How can the little wretches so annoy? 
There’s Solomon Alphonzo—­worst of all!

Now we will go to breakfast—­milk and cream,
Eggs from the farm, surely it is a treat! 
How horrid city markets really seem
When one can have fresh things like these to eat!

What?  Nickodee has taken all the hash? 
And smashed the dish which lies upon the floor! 
I thought just now I heard a sudden crash! 
And it was he who slammed the kitchen door!

By “Scare Crow Road” we take our winding way,
Tiger and Jerry in the pasture feed. 
See, Mary,—­what a splendid crop of hay! 
Now, don’t you feel that this is joy indeed?

The incubator chickens all are dead! 
Max fights with Shep, he scorns to follow me! 
Some fresh disaster momently I dread;
Is that a skunk approaching?—­try to see!

Come Snip and Snap and give us song and dance! 
We’ll have a fire and read the choicest books,
While the black horses waiting, paw and prance! 
And see how calm and sweet all nature looks.

So goes the day; the peaceful landscape smiles;
At times the live stock seems to take a rest. 
But fills our hearts with worry other whiles! 
We think each separate creature is possessed!

MARY W. BABCOCK.

[Illustration:  PADDLING IN CHICKEN BROOK]

THE OLD WOMAN

The little old woman, who wove and who spun,
Who sewed and who baked, did she have any fun?

In housewifely arts with her neighbour she’d vie,
Her triumph a turkey, her pleasure a pie!

          She milked and she churned, and the chickens she fed,
          She made tallow dips, and she moulded the bread.

          No club day annoyed her, no program perplext,
          No themes for discussion her calm slumber vexed.

          By birth D.A.R. or Colonial Dame,
          She sought for no record to blazon her fame—­

          No Swamies she knew, she cherished no fad,
          Of healing by science, no knowledge she had.

          She anointed with goose grease, she gave castor oil,
          Strong sons and fair daughters rewarded her toil.

          She studied child nature direct from the child,
          And she spared not the rod, though her manner was mild.