James Whitcomb Riley

That Other Maud Muller

Maud Muller worked at making hay,
And cleared her forty cents a day.
 
Her clothes were coarse, but her health was fine,
And so she worked in the sweet sunshine
 
Singing as glad as a bird in May
'Barbara Allen’ the livelong day.
 
She often glanced at the far-off town,
And wondered if eggs were up or down.
 
And the sweet song died of a strange disease,
Leaving a phantom taste of cheese,
 
And an appetite and a nameless ache
For soda-water and ginger cake.
 
The judge rode slowly into view—
Stopped his horse in the shade and threw
 
His fine-cut out, while the blushing Maud
Marveled much at the kind he ‘chawed.’
 
‘He was dry as a fish,’ he said with a wink,
'And kind o’ thought that a good square drink
 
Would brace him up.' So the cup was filled
With the crystal wine that old spring spilled;
 
And she gave it him with a sun-browned hand.
‘Thanks,’ said the judge in accents bland;
 
'A thousand thanks! for a sweeter draught,
From a fairer hand’—but there he laughed.
 
And the sweet girl stood in the sun that day,
And raked the judge instead of the hay.
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