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Henry Van Dyke - Ars AgricolarisHenry Van Dyke - Ars Agricolaris
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An Ode for the “Farmer`s Dinner,” University Club, New York, January 23, 1913 All hail, ye famous Farmers! Ye vegetable-charmers, Who know the art of making barren earth Smile with prolific mirth And bring forth twins or triplets at a birth! Ye scientific fertilizers of the soil, And horny-handed sons of toil! To-night from all your arduous cares released, With manly brows no longer sweat-impearled, Ye hold your annual feast, And like the Concord farmers long ago, Ye meet above the “Bridge” below, And draw the cork heard round the world! What memories are yours! What tales Of triumph have your tongues rehearsed, Telling how ye have won your first Potatoes from the stubborn mead, (Almost as many as ye sowed for seed!) And how the luscious cabbages and kails Have bloomed before you in their bed At seven dollars a head! And how your onions took a prize For bringing tears into the eyes Of a hard-hearted cook! And how ye slew The Dragon Cut-worm at a stroke!       And how ye broke, Routed, and put to flight the horrid crew Of vile potato-bugs and Hessian flies!     And how ye did not quail Before th` invading armies of San José Scale,     But met them bravely with your little pail     Of poison, which ye put upon each tail O` the dreadful beasts and made their courage fail!       And how ye did acquit yourselves like men       In fields of agricultural strife, and then,       Like generous warriors, sat you down at ease       And gently to your gardener said, “Let us have Pease!” But were there Pease? Ah, no, dear Farmers, no! The course of Nature is not ordered so.     For when we want a vegetable most,         She holds it back;         And when we boast     To our week-endly friends     Of what we`ll give them on our farm, alack, Those things the old dam, Nature, never sends. O Pease in bottles, Sparrow-grass in jars, How often have ye saved from scars Of shame, and deep embarrassment, The disingenuous farmer-gent,     To whom some wondering guest has cried,     “How do you raise such Pease and Sparrow-grass?”     Whereat the farmer-gent has not denied     The compliment, but smiling has replied,     “To raise such things you must have lots of glass.” From wiles like these, true Farmers, hold aloof; Accept no praise unless you have the proof. If niggard Nature should withhold the green And sugary Pea, welcome the humble Bean. Even the easy Radish, and the Beet, If grown by your own toil are extra sweet. Let malefactors of great wealth and banker-felons Rejoice in foreign artichokes, imported melons; But you, my Farmers, at your frugal board Spread forth the fare your Sabine Farms afford. Say to Mæcenas, when he is your guest, “No peaches! try this turnip, `tis my best.” Thus shall ye learn from labors in the field What honesty a farmer`s life may yield, And like G. Washington in early youth, Though cherries fail, produce a crop of truth. But think me not too strict, O followers of the plough; Some place for fiction in your lives I would allow. In January when the world is drear, And bills come in, and no results appear,     And snow-storms veil the skies,     And ice the streamlet clogs, Then may you warm your heart with pleasant lies And revel in the seedsmen`s catalogues! What visions and what dreams are these       Of cauliflower obese,— Of giant celery, taller than a mast,—       Of strawberries Like red pincushions, round and vast,—     Of succulent and spicy gumbo,—     Of cantaloupes, as big as Jumbo,—     Of high-strung beans without the strings,— And of a host of other wild, romantic things!     Why, then, should Doctor Starr declare That modern habits mental force impair?     And why should H. Marquand complain That jokes as good as his will never come again?     And why should Bridges wear a gloomy mien About the lack of fiction for his Magazine?     The seedsman`s catalogue is all we need         To stir our dull imaginations           To new creations,         And lead us, by the hand         Of Hope, into a fairy-land. So dream, my friendly Farmers, as you will; And let your fancy all your garners fill With wondrous crops; but always recollect That Nature gives us less than we expect. Scorn not the city where you earn the wealth That, spent upon your farms, renews your health; And tell your wife, whene`er the bills have shocked her, “A country-place is cheaper than a doctor.” May roses bloom for you, and may you find Your richest harvest in a tranquil mind.
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