. Out-door reveries. es 53 A blaze as of summer lightning— A crash as of riven rock—Two specks that tell of a double Plunge down from the towering flock. Two ripples are seen on the waterWhen smoke with air has blended, While crouching I wait for another, And dreams, for the day, have ended. 54 Outdoor Reveries WOOING OF THB GROUSE. Wum, wum, woo, through sunsets glow,Comes oer the meadow, faint and low,As voice from out the long ago,The scenes of youth renewing. Again when mornings deepening blushSets meadow, marsh and field aflush,There breaks upon the restful hush,The prairie roosters wooin
. Out-door reveries. es 53 A blaze as of summer lightning— A crash as of riven rock—Two specks that tell of a double Plunge down from the towering flock. Two ripples are seen on the waterWhen smoke with air has blended, While crouching I wait for another, And dreams, for the day, have ended. 54 Outdoor Reveries WOOING OF THB GROUSE. Wum, wum, woo, through sunsets glow,Comes oer the meadow, faint and low,As voice from out the long ago,The scenes of youth renewing. Again when mornings deepening blushSets meadow, marsh and field aflush,There breaks upon the restful hush,The prairie roosters wooing. Wum, wum, woo, how years have flownSince first I heard that muffled tone;The first wild voice in childhood known;Those long gone days renewing. Now near and clear, now faint and far, As muffled drum beats tremlous jar, The closing notes, ere evenings bar, The prairie roosters wooing. Wum, wum, woo, in lessning strainStill rumbles oer the western plain;Almost a requiems sad refrain,Those bovish dreams 56 Outdoor Reveries As though a prayer above the dead,By echoes from the past were said,Ere recollections all are fled,Of prairie roosters wooing. Wum, wum, woo, tis sorrows song,Complaining of a kindreds wrong,In sadning voice for oh so long!Yet blithesome scenes renewing. Then stay that couchant hand of greedUntil from wantons waste quite freed,Again is heard across the mead,The prairie roosters wooing. Outdoor Reveries 57 IN THE STUBBLB LONG AGO. Oh! how well do I remember A morning long agone,When I hied me to the stubble, In the first faint flush of dawn,With scarce five feet of gunner, And five feet two of gun;Twas that hallowed army musket That went out in sixty-one,And was laid aside at Shiloh For a comrades hand to save,Who returned it a memento, Of an unmarked southern grave. I tiptoed down the stubble edge, By a cornfields tasseled wall,Along the margin furrow, Where golden blossoms fall. A straggling growth of fox-tail, That had dodged the plowmans she
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