The poetical works of Edwin Oscar Gale . s mean, Jo, that no matter how far I wander from home and away from her sight To do as shed have me, the square thing, and right. Then, Jo, youll excuse me, if now it seems queer. A rough chap like me declines whisky and beer. That buttermilk, straight should produce the effect, I know by your looks that you think you detect. I aint homesick, Jo, but I come mighty near The farm as I sit and drink buttermilk here. I see the old cows. Sukie, Brindle and Jane, With White Face and Starbright and my Beauty as plain As when barefoot I drove them away to the l
The poetical works of Edwin Oscar Gale . s mean, Jo, that no matter how far I wander from home and away from her sight To do as shed have me, the square thing, and right. Then, Jo, youll excuse me, if now it seems queer. A rough chap like me declines whisky and beer. That buttermilk, straight should produce the effect, I know by your looks that you think you detect. I aint homesick, Jo, but I come mighty near The farm as I sit and drink buttermilk here. I see the old cows. Sukie, Brindle and Jane, With White Face and Starbright and my Beauty as plain As when barefoot I drove them away to the lot. And filled the log trough when the weather was hot. The rickety pump was with strap-iron bound. Untidy and bashful it hid in the ground. The old handle wabbled, it wheezed and it squeaked, From top to the bottom in every joint leaked. The roughly hewn trough had grown rotten and thui, Leaked more water out than I thought had run in, A black puddle making in which the cows stood. The swarms of flies fighting as well as they could. 94. rt —I n = CO O (U o u — CJ •5 ^ :/2 • — Each tossing her head, slowly chewing her tail in the air, and her feet in the mud. A hard maple gave by the bars a good shade; The Lord I thought had it for that purpose made. The bark was worn smooth as if rubbed with a file, By cows, themselves scratching, like friends of Argyle, And butterflies, yellow and restless, would come As village boys meet at the tap of a drum, I used to believe it was more than a dream. The cows from them stole all the gold for their cream. I see the tall churn, I can hear the faint splash, As, weary and counting, I lifted the dash And watched for the coming of one golden flake, That promise of rest for the small arms that ache. I see my dear mother^ with sweet, winning work always paying with kisses and kisses, believe me, are on my cheeks brave, noble words I will never well I remember that morning in May,When with h
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