 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
OVERCROPPING THE BRAIN.
“How do you manage?” I asked of a neighbor
Who is fast growing rich by the raising of “truck”;
“What is your secret?” He answered—“Hard labor;
But mainly profusion of compost and muck.
Ground in good heart, you must plough a deep furrow,
Harrow it smoothly; let culture be thorough;
And scatter rich food for the plants in their day:
Fatten and stir it—the soil will repay.”
Who is fast growing rich by the raising of “truck”;
“What is your secret?” He answered—“Hard labor;
But mainly profusion of compost and muck.
504
Harrow it smoothly; let culture be thorough;
And scatter rich food for the plants in their day:
Fatten and stir it—the soil will repay.”
“Very good doctrine,” I said, “and worth heeding;
But can't you succeed with less muck thrown around?”
“Certainly not; 'twere a spendthrift proceeding—
All out, nothing in—you'd make barren the ground.”
“Should you overcrop some?”—“Why, to do so were shallow;
But you cure it by letting that portion lie fallow.
Let the land have a rest, for with truth you may say
That cropping is work, and that resting is play.”
But can't you succeed with less muck thrown around?”
“Certainly not; 'twere a spendthrift proceeding—
All out, nothing in—you'd make barren the ground.”
“Should you overcrop some?”—“Why, to do so were shallow;
But you cure it by letting that portion lie fallow.
Let the land have a rest, for with truth you may say
That cropping is work, and that resting is play.”
“From the very same spot in your garden you rifle
Each year the same crop if your muck-heaps sustain?”
“By no means: the product would shrink to a trifle,
Or be too inferior fair prices to gain.
For a crop that will pay—all experience will show it—
The place must be changed every year where you grow it,
Or the land will get sterile, and cease to return
The reward that the gardener's labor should earn.”
Each year the same crop if your muck-heaps sustain?”
“By no means: the product would shrink to a trifle,
Or be too inferior fair prices to gain.
For a crop that will pay—all experience will show it—
The place must be changed every year where you grow it,
Or the land will get sterile, and cease to return
The reward that the gardener's labor should earn.”
“That smart boy of yours who one time was so ruddy,
I see he is growing quite pallid of late—
Is he sick?”—“No, I think not—kept hard at his study—
There's a heap stored away in that little one's pate.
He's only fourteen and I'm told by his teacher,
He'll make ere he dies a great lawyer or preacher—
Not forced, like his father, to tug and to toil,
His bread he will win without tilling the soil.”
I see he is growing quite pallid of late—
Is he sick?”—“No, I think not—kept hard at his study—
There's a heap stored away in that little one's pate.
He's only fourteen and I'm told by his teacher,
He'll make ere he dies a great lawyer or preacher—
Not forced, like his father, to tug and to toil,
His bread he will win without tilling the soil.”
505
“Reads and writes, I suppose?” “Reads and writes! I should think so;
Could do so at eight. Why, through Euclid he's gone,
Trigonometry, mental phil—what makes you wink so,
And why is your upper lip crookedly drawn?
I tell you that's so.” “I don't doubt it, good neighbor;
He's been mucked, ploughed and harrowed with plenty of labor;
But pray don't it strike you, the very same plan
For the culture of earth suits the culture of man?
Could do so at eight. Why, through Euclid he's gone,
Trigonometry, mental phil—what makes you wink so,
And why is your upper lip crookedly drawn?
I tell you that's so.” “I don't doubt it, good neighbor;
He's been mucked, ploughed and harrowed with plenty of labor;
But pray don't it strike you, the very same plan
For the culture of earth suits the culture of man?
“That boy wants a change in the corp you are growing
In the very same spot in his brain every day;
You keep in his mind plough and harrow a-going—
All waking-hours study—no moment for play.
The soil wearing out by unvaried production.
What follows is taught by the simplest induction:
Too much head on his shoulders for body and limb—
Don't you think, my good friend, that you overcrop him?”
In the very same spot in his brain every day;
You keep in his mind plough and harrow a-going—
All waking-hours study—no moment for play.
The soil wearing out by unvaried production.
What follows is taught by the simplest induction:
Too much head on his shoulders for body and limb—
Don't you think, my good friend, that you overcrop him?”
My neighbor turned red—he was sorely offended—
Too much freedom I took with the pride of the school;
Our once-friendly intercourse suddenly ended—
For months he has deemed me a meddlesome fool;
But now that a funeral creeps through the village,
I think I may talk about high mental tillage—
Death gathers his crop now the summer is done,
And garners, with others, my neighbor's young son.
Too much freedom I took with the pride of the school;
Our once-friendly intercourse suddenly ended—
For months he has deemed me a meddlesome fool;
But now that a funeral creeps through the village,
I think I may talk about high mental tillage—
Death gathers his crop now the summer is done,
And garners, with others, my neighbor's young son.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |