---

Edgar Guest - Autumn At The Orchard
Work rating: Low

The sumac`s flaming scarlet on the edges o` the lake, 
An` the pear trees are invitin` everyone t` come an` shake.
 Now the gorgeous tints of autumn are appearin` everywhere 
Till it seems that you can almost see the Master Painter there. 
There`s a solemn sort o` stillness that`s pervadin` every thing, 
Save the farewell songs to summer that the feathered tenors sing, 
An` you quite forget the city where disgruntled folks are kickin` 
Off yonder with the Pelletiers, when spies are ripe fer pickin`.
The Holsteins are a-posin` in a clearin` near a wood, 
Very dignified an` stately, just as though they understood 
That they`re lending to life`s pictures just the touch the Master needs, 
An` they`re preachin` more refinement than a lot o` printed creeds. 
The orchard`s fairly groanin` with the gifts o` God to man, 
Just as though they meant to shame us who have doubted once 
His plan. Oh, there`s somethin` most inspirin` to a soul in need o` prickin` 
Off yonder with the Pelletiers when spies are ripe fer pickin`.

The frisky little Shetlands now are growin` shaggy coats 
An` acquirin` silken mufflers of their own to guard their throats; 
An` a Russian wolf-hound puppy left its mother yesterday,
 An` a tinge o` sorrow touched us as we saw it go away. 
For the sight was full o` meanin`, an` we knew, when it had gone, 
`Twas a symbol of the partin`s that the years are bringin` on. 
Oh, a feller must be better — to his faith he can`t help stickin` 
Off yonder with the Pelletiers when spies are ripe fer pickin`.

The year is almost over, now at dusk the valleys glow 
With the misty mantle chillin`, that is hangin` very low. 
An` each mornin` sees the maples just a little redder turned 
Than they were the night we left `em, an` the elms are browner burned.
An` a feller can`t help feelin`, an` I don`t care who it is, 
That the mind that works such wonders has a greater power than his. 
Oh, I know that I`ll remember till life`s last few sparks are flickin` 
The lessons out at Pelletiers when spies were ripe for pickin`.
Source
The script ran 0.001 seconds.