THE FARMER S WIFE.
Queenly dahlias to the turkey Bow in their own royal way.
Wreath and bough, of autumn crimson, Gleam on wall and mirror quaint,
And about the picture cherished Of the vanished household saint.
Ah ! with all respect to Pilgrims, Comes the question once again :
Must we keep Thanksgiving always Through November s sullen reign ?
��THE FARMER S WIFE.
WHEN there echoes the roll-call of honor Amid the white ranks of the blest, And over the heads bowed in answer The crown of well-doing shall rest,
I seem to see, brightest among them, The farmer s wife faithful and true,
Her worn, weary hands folded idly, Her wearisome duties all through.
The farmer is out in God s sunshine ;
Fellow-workman with him is his God ; Sun and seed, frost and plough, work together,
And daisies smile up from the sod ;
�� �
