From the Omaha Daily Bee, July 10, 1915. By David.
When the farmer from his window views his fields that lie below
And sees the earth in great brown spots beneath the melting snow,
And perhaps a flock of geese a-flying north against the sky;
Then he knows that Spring is coming with its duties, by and by.
And he thinks of all the plowing, and the planting, and the chores,
That Spring brings to the farmer, and he saunters out of doors
Where the sun is shining cheerful, and the south wind croons about,
Sort o’ calling and a-coaxing to the green things to come out—
And they’re sure to be a-listening, and will soon come pushing through—
For though springtime brings its duties, it brings its beauties, too.
Then he feels a sort ‘o hankering for the sorrel team and plow
And to feel the sweat of labor pearling out upon his brow,
And to hear the crow a-cawing in the woods, so shrill and loud
And to see new life a-teeming in every furrow plowed,
And a-looking in the future he can see the waving corn
And the oats and wheat a-bowing in the breezes of the morn
With their tops a-hanging heavy with the dewdrops of the night,
All sparkling in the sunlight with a sort of heavenly light.
Then he forgets his gnarled hands all hardened with the toil,
Forgets his boots warped yellow from contact with the soil,
And remembers but the healthy tan upon his cheek and brow,
Remembers that his once cramped soul is free, untrammeled, now,
And he’s glad he is a farmer, with the whole world at his hands
A-living close to nature with the things he understands.