A neighbor of mine in the village
Likes to tell how one spring When she was a girl on the farm, she did
A childlike thing.
One day she asked her father
To give her a garden plot To plant and tend and reap herself,
And he said, "Why not?"
In casting about for a corner
He thought of an idle bit Of walled-off ground where a shop had stood,
And he said, " Just it."
And he said, " That ought to make you
An ideal one-girl farm, And give you a chance to put some strength
On your slim-jim arm."
It was not enough of a garden,
Her father said, to plough; So she had to work it all by hand,
But she don't mind now.
She wheeled the dung in the wheelbarrow
Along a stretch of road; > But she always ran away and left
Her not-nice load,
And hid from anyone passing.
And then she begged the seed. She says she thinks she planted one
Of all things but weed.
A hill each of potatoes,
Radishes, lettuce, peas, Tomatoes, beets, beans, pumpkins, corn,
And even fruit trees.
And yes, she has long mistrusted
That a cider apple tree In bearing there to-day is hers,
Or at least may be.
Her crop was a miscellany When all was said and done,
A little bit of everything, A great deal of none.
Now when she sees in the village
How village things go, Just when it seems to come in right,
She says, " / know!
It's as when I was a farmer-"
Oh, never by way of advice!
And she never sins by telling the tale To the same person twice.