282     THE WI~dO'MTN FARMEtk.



              Nrnd Muller.

           BY J. G. WUITTIER.

Maud Muller, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow, sweet with bay.
Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.
Singing, she wrought. and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.
But, when she glatlbd to the far-off town,
White from its hillslope looking down,
The sweet song died, and a vague uwrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast-
A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.
The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.
He drew his bridle in the shade
Of the apple trees to greet the maid,
And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.
She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up
And jUed for him her small tin cup.
And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.
" Thanks! " said the Judge, " a sweeter draught
From a fairer hand was never quafed.'
He spoke of the gram and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;
Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether
The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.
And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;
And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.
At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.
Maud Muller looked and sighed: " Ah, me!
That I the Judge's bride might be!
"Ho would dress me up in silks so fine,
And praise and toast me at his wine.
'KMy father should wear a broadcloth coat;
My brother should sail a painted boat.
"1 I'd dress my mother so grand and gay,
And the baby should have a new toy each day.
"1 And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor,
And all should bless me who left our door."
The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill,
And he saw Mand Muller standing still.
" A form more fair, a face more sweet,
Ne'er bath it been msy lot to meet.
" And her modest answer and graceful air
Show her wise and good as she is fair.
'- Would she were mine, and I to-day,
Like her, a harvester of hay:
"1 No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs,
Nor we ary lawyers with endless tongues,
" But low of cattle and song of birds,
And health and quiet and loving words."
But he thought of his sisters proud and cold,
And his mother vain of her rank and gold.
So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Mand wes left In the feld alone.



But the lawyers smiled that afternoon.
When he hummed in court an old love tune;
And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover  U.
Ile wedded a wife of riehet dower,
Who lived for fashion, as he for power.
Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go:
And sweet Maud Muller's haael eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.
Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
Hie longed for the wayside well inetead;
And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms,
To dream of meadows and clover blooms.
And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain:
"Ah, that I were free againI
" Free as when I rode that day,
Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay.'
She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.
But care, and sorrow, and childbirth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.
And oft, when the summer san shone hot,
On the new mown hay in the meadow let,



    And she heard the little spring brook fall
    Over the roadside, through the wall,
    In the shade of the apple tree again
    She saw a rider draw his rein;
    And, gazing down with timid grace,
    She felt his pleased eyes read her face.
    Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
    Stretched away into stately balls;
    The weary wheel to a spinet turned,
    The tallow candle an astral burned,
    Ani for him who sat by the chimney lug,
    Dozing and grumbling o'er pipe and mug,
    A manly form at her side she saw,
    And joy was duty and love was law.
    Then she took up her burden of lie again,
    Saying only, ' It might have been;'
    Alas for maiden, alas for Judge,
    For rich repiner and household drudge-!
    God pits them both! and pity us all
    Who vainly the dreams of youth recall.
    For of all sad words of tongue or pen,
    The saddest are these: " It might have been ! '
    Ab, well! for us all somne sweet hope lies,
    Deeply buried from human eyes;
    And, in the hereafter, angels may
    Roll the stone from its grave away!

                               *~~~~~
  Now's the Time to Kill the Bushes on your
                     Farms.
  It has been our own experience-and we be-
lieve the testimony of others corroborates that
experience-that the best season of the year
for killing bushes, brambles, &c., by cutting
down to the ground, is this present month (Au-
gust).   Their growth seems to be at just the
right stage to render decapitation fatal.
  So, sharpen up your bush-hooks, or bush-



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