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American Literature – Children Books – American Poetry – Henry Van Dyke – Poems by Henry Van Dyke
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Ars Agricolaris
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 earthSmile with prolific mirthAnd 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 talesOf triumph have your tongues rehearsed,Telling how ye have won your firstPotatoes from the stubborn mead,(Almost as many as ye sowed for seed!)And how the luscious cabbages and kailsHave bloomed before you in their bedAt seven dollars a head!And how your onions took a prizeFor bringing tears into the eyesOf a hard-hearted cook! And how ye slewThe Dragon Cut-worm at a stroke! And how ye broke,Routed, and put to flight the horrid crewOf vile potato-bugs and Hessian flies!
And how ye did not quailBefore th’ invading armies of San José Scale, But met them bravely with your little pail Of poison, which ye put upon each tailO’ 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 scarsOf 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 greenAnd 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-felonsRejoice in foreign artichokes, imported melons;But you, my Farmers, at your frugal boardSpread 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 fieldWhat 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 liesAnd revel in the seedsmen’s catalogues!What visions and what dreams are these Of cauliflower obese,—Of giant celery, taller than a mast,— Of strawberriesLike 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 declareThat modern habits mental force impair? And why should H. Marquand complainThat jokes as good as his will never come again? And why should Bridges wear a gloomy mienAbout 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 fillWith wondrous crops; but always recollectThat Nature gives us less than we expect.Scorn not the city where you earn the wealthThat, 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 findYour richest harvest in a tranquil mind.
< < < A Ballad of Santa Claus
Angler’s Fireside Song > > >
American Literature – Children Books – American Poetry – Henry Van Dyke – Poems by Henry Van Dyke
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