. Country life reader . course, that 350 COUNTRY LIFE READER the clover draws most of its food and moisture from adifferent part of the soil from the timothy. A mixed cropof clover and timothy is, for this reason, not so hard onthe soil as a crop of pure timothy, which draws all its foodfrom the surface of the soil and at the same time exhauststhe supply of nitrogen. A SONG OF CLOVER I wonder what the clover friend of bobolinks,Lover of daisies slim and white,Waltzer with buttercups at night;Keeper of inn for travelHng bees,Serving to them wine dregs and lees,Left by the royal
. Country life reader . course, that 350 COUNTRY LIFE READER the clover draws most of its food and moisture from adifferent part of the soil from the timothy. A mixed cropof clover and timothy is, for this reason, not so hard onthe soil as a crop of pure timothy, which draws all its foodfrom the surface of the soil and at the same time exhauststhe supply of nitrogen. A SONG OF CLOVER I wonder what the clover friend of bobolinks,Lover of daisies slim and white,Waltzer with buttercups at night;Keeper of inn for travelHng bees,Serving to them wine dregs and lees,Left by the royal humming-birds,Who sip and pay with fine-spun words;Comrade of winds, beloved of sun,Kissed by the dewdrops, one by one;Sweet by the roadsides, sweet by rills,Sweet in the meadows, sweet on hills,Sweet in its white, sweet in its red—Oh, half its sweetness cannot be said;Sweet in its every living , perhaps, at last, in death !Oh, who knows what the clover thinks ?No one, unless the bobolinks ! Saxe Half its sweetness cannot be said. PAYING MY WAY (David Grayson is a well-to-do farmer who has left his farm fora few weeks to journey through the country on foot, to see howother farmers hve and what they live for. He has taken foodenough with him to last him only a few days and, after going hungryfor a day, he is forced at last to try to secure his supper and anights lodging at one of the farmhouses along the way.) Presently I saw from the road a farmer and his sonplanting potatoes in a sloping field. There was no houseat all in view. At the bars stood a light wagon half filledwith bags of seed-potatoes, and the horse which had drawnit stood quietly, not far off, tied to the fence. The manand the boy, each with a basket on his arm, were at thefarther end of the field, dropping potatoes. I stood quietlywatching them. They stepped quickly and kept their eyeson the furrows—good workers. I liked the looks of liked, also, the straight, clean furrows; I Hke
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