Autumn at the Orchard
The sumac’s flaming scarlet on the edges o’ the lake,
An’ the pear trees are invitin’ everyone t’ come an’ shake.
Now the gorgeous tints of autumn are appearin’ everywhere
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 fer pickin’.
The Holsteins are a-posin’ in a clearin’ near a wood,
Very dignified an’ stately, just as though they understood
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 yesterday,
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 glow
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’.
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