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A poem by Edgar A. Guest

Autumn At The Orchard

Title:     Autumn At The Orchard
Author: Edgar A. Guest [More Titles by Guest]

The sumac's flaming scarlet on the edges o' the
An' the pear trees are invitin' everyone t' come
an' shake.
Now the gorgeous tints of autumn are appearin'
Till it seems that you can almost see the Master
Painter there.
There's a solemn sort o' stillness that's pervadin'
every thing,
Save the farewell songs to summer that the
feathered tenors sing,
An' you quite forget the city where disgruntled
folks are kickin'
Off yonder with the Pelletiers, when spies are
ripe for pickin'.

The Holsteins are a-posin' in a clearin' near a
Very dignified an' stately, just as though they
That they're lending to life's pictures just the
touch the Master needs,
An' they're preachin' more refinement than a lot
o' printed creeds.
The orchard's fairly groanin' with the gifts o'
God to man,
Just as though they meant to shame us who
have doubted once His plan.
Oh, there's somethin' most inspirin' to a soul in
need o' prickin'
Off yonder with the Pelletiers when spies are
ripe fer pickin'.

The frisky little Shetlands now are growin'
shaggy coats
An' acquirin' silken mufflers of their own to
guard their throats;
An' a Russian wolf-hound puppy left its mother
An' a tinge o' sorrow touched us as we saw it
go away.
For the sight was full o' meanin', an' we knew,
when it had gone,
'Twas a symbol of the partin's that the years are
bringin' on.
Oh, a feller must be better--to his faith he can't
help stickin'
Off yonder with the Pelletiers when spies are ripe
fer pickin'.

The year is almost over, now at dusk the valleys
With the misty mantle chillin', that is hangin'
very low.
An' each mornin' sees the maples just a little
redder turned
Than they were the night we left 'em, an' the
elms are browner burned.
An' a feller can't help feelin', an' I don't care
who it is,
That the mind that works such wonders has a
greater power than his.
Oh, I know that I'll remember till life's last few
sparks are flickin'
The lessons out at Pelletiers when spies were ripe
for pickin'.

[The end]
Edgar A. Guest's poem: Autumn At The Orchard