Wisconsin in Story and Song. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ and the cool shadow each time that she turned at the fence.

      This same contrast is expressed by Hamlin Garland in two poems presented here. The first, "Ploughing," sets forth the irksome toll to which the undeveloped boy was subjected. The second, "Ladrone," portrays the joy which the youth in the country acquires from association with the animals of the farm. These poems and all the following selections are taken from "Boy Life on the Prairie," and are here published by permission of the Macmillan Company.

PLOWING

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      A lonely task it is to plough!

       All day the black and clinging soil

       Rolls like a ribbon from the mould-board's

       Glistening curve. All day the horses toil

       Battling with the flies—and strain

       Their creaking collars. All day

       The crickets jeer from wind-blown shocks of grain.

      October brings the frosty dawn,

       The still, warm noon, the cold, clear night,

       When torpid insects make no sound,

       And wild-fowl in their southward flight

       Go by in hosts—and still the boy

       And tired team gnaw round by round,

       At weather-beaten stubble, band by band,

       Until at last, to their great joy,

       The winter's snow seals up the unploughed land.

LADRONE

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      And, "What of Ladrone"—do you ask?

       Oh! friend. I am sad at the name.

       My splendid fleet roan!—The task

       You require is a hard one at best.

       Swift as the spectral coyote, as tame

       To my voice as a sweetheart, an eye

       Like a pool in the woodland asleep,

       Brown, clear, and calm, with color down deep,

       Where his brave, proud soul seemed to lie—

      Ladrone! There's a spell in the word.

       The city walls fade on my eye—the roar

       Of its traffic grows dim

       As the sound of the wind in a dream.

       My spirit takes wing like a bird.

       Once more I'm asleep on the plain,

       The summer wind sings in my hair;

       Once again I hear the wild crane

       Crying out of the steaming air;

       White clouds are adrift on the breeze,

       The flowers nod under my feet,

       And under my thighs, 'twixt my knees,

       Again as of old I can feel

       The roll of Ladrone's firm muscles, the reel

       Of his chest—see the thrust of fore-limb

       And hear the dull trample of heel.

      We thunder behind the mad herd.

       My singing whip swirls like a snake.

       Hurrah! We swoop on like a bird.

       With my pony's proud record at stake—

       For the shaggy, swift leader has stride

       Like the last of a long kingly line;

       Her eyes flash fire through her hair;

       She tosses her head in disdain;

       Her mane streams wide on the air—

       She leads the swift herd of the plain

       As a wolf-leader leads his gaunt pack,

       On the slot of the desperate deer—

       Their exultant eyes savagely shine.

      But down on her broad shining back

       Stings my lash like a rill of red flame—

       Huzzah, my wild beauty! Your best;

       Will you teach my Ladrone a new pace?

       Will you break his proud heart in a shame

       By spurning the dust in his face?

       The herd falls behind and is lost,

       As we race neck and neck, stride and stride.

       Again the long lash hisses hot

       Along the gray mare's glassy hide—

       Aha, she is lost! she does not respond.

       Now I lean to the ear of my roan

       And shout—letting fall the light rein.

       Like a hound from the leash, my Ladrone

       Swoops ahead.

       We're alone on the plain!

      Ah! how the thought at wild living comes back!

       Alone on the wide, solemn prairie

       I ride with my rifle in hand,

       My eyes on the watch for the wary

       And beautiful antelope band.

       Or sleeping at night in the grasses, I hear

       Ladrone grazing near in the gloom.

       His listening head on the sky

       I see etched complete to the ear.

       From the river below comes the boom

       Of the bittern, the thrill and the cry

       Of frogs in the pool, and the shrill cricket's chime,

       Making ceaseless and marvelous rhyme.

       But what of СКАЧАТЬ