 | The poetical works of Lucy Larcom |  |
THE COUNTRY BOY.
“I pity the poor little country boy,
Away on his lonely farm!
The holidays bring him no elegant toy;
He has no money, there is no shop;
Even Christmas morning his work does n't stop:
He has cows to milk, he has wood to chop,
And to carry in on his arm.”
Away on his lonely farm!
The holidays bring him no elegant toy;
He has no money, there is no shop;
Even Christmas morning his work does n't stop:
He has cows to milk, he has wood to chop,
And to carry in on his arm.”
Did you hear that, Fred, as you came through the gate,
With your milk-pail full to the brim?
No envy hid under your curly brown pate;
You were watching a star in the morning sky,
And a star seemed shining out of your eye;
Your thoughts were glad, you could n't tell why,
But they were not of toys, or of him.
With your milk-pail full to the brim?
No envy hid under your curly brown pate;
You were watching a star in the morning sky,
And a star seemed shining out of your eye;
Your thoughts were glad, you could n't tell why,
But they were not of toys, or of him.
Yet the city boy said what he kindly meant,
Walking on by his mother's side,
With his eyes on the toy-shop windows bent,
Wishing for all that his eyes could see;
Longing and looking and teasing went he,
Nor dreamed that a single pleasure could be
Afar in your woodlands wide.
Walking on by his mother's side,
With his eyes on the toy-shop windows bent,
Wishing for all that his eyes could see;
Longing and looking and teasing went he,
Nor dreamed that a single pleasure could be
Afar in your woodlands wide.
You ate your breakfast that morning, Fred,
As a country boy should eat;
Then you jumped with your father upon the sled,
And were off to the hills for a load of wood;
Quiet and patient the oxen stood,
And the snowy world looked cheerful and good,
While you stamped, to warm your feet.
As a country boy should eat;
Then you jumped with your father upon the sled,
And were off to the hills for a load of wood;
Quiet and patient the oxen stood,
And the snowy world looked cheerful and good,
While you stamped, to warm your feet.
168
Then your father told you to take a run,
And you started away up the hill;
You were all alone, but it was such fun!
The larch and the pine-tree seemed racing past
Instead of yourself, you went so fast;
But, rosy and out of breath, at last
You stood in the sunshine still.
And you started away up the hill;
You were all alone, but it was such fun!
The larch and the pine-tree seemed racing past
Instead of yourself, you went so fast;
But, rosy and out of breath, at last
You stood in the sunshine still.
And all of a sudden there came the thought,
While a brown leaf toward you whirled,
And a chickadee sang, as if they brought
Something they meant on purpose for you,
As if the trees to delight you grew,
As if the sky for your sake was blue,—
“It is such a beautiful world!”
While a brown leaf toward you whirled,
And a chickadee sang, as if they brought
Something they meant on purpose for you,
As if the trees to delight you grew,
As if the sky for your sake was blue,—
“It is such a beautiful world!”
The graceful way that the spruce-trees had
Of holding their soft, white load,
You saw and admired; and your heart was glad,
As you laid on the trunk of a beech your hand,
And beheld the wonderful mountains stand
In a chain of crystal, clear and grand,
At the end of the widening road.
Of holding their soft, white load,
You saw and admired; and your heart was glad,
As you laid on the trunk of a beech your hand,
And beheld the wonderful mountains stand
In a chain of crystal, clear and grand,
At the end of the widening road.
Oh, Fred! without knowing, you held a gift
That a mine of gold could not buy;
Something the soul of a man to lift
From the tiresome earth, and to make him see
How beautiful common things can be;
How heaven may be glimpsed through a wayside tree;
The gift of an artist's eye!
That a mine of gold could not buy;
Something the soul of a man to lift
From the tiresome earth, and to make him see
How beautiful common things can be;
How heaven may be glimpsed through a wayside tree;
The gift of an artist's eye!
What need had you of money, my boy,
Or the presents money can bring,
When every breath was a breath of joy?
You owned the whole world, with its hills and trees,
The sun, and the clouds, and the bracing breeze,
And your hands to work with; having these,
You were richer than any king.
Or the presents money can bring,
When every breath was a breath of joy?
You owned the whole world, with its hills and trees,
The sun, and the clouds, and the bracing breeze,
And your hands to work with; having these,
You were richer than any king.
When the dusk drew on, by the warm hearth-fire,
You needed nobody's pity;
But you said, as the soft flames mounted higher,
And the eye and cheek of your mother grew bright,
While she smiled and talked in the lovely light,—
A picture of pictures, to your sight,—
“I am sorry for boys in the city!”
You needed nobody's pity;
But you said, as the soft flames mounted higher,
And the eye and cheek of your mother grew bright,
While she smiled and talked in the lovely light,—
A picture of pictures, to your sight,—
“I am sorry for boys in the city!”
| The poetical works of Lucy Larcom | |