The Shaking Of The Pear-Tree

OF all days I remember, In summers passed away, Was "the shaking of the pear-tree," In grandma's orchard gay.

A large old-fashioned orchard, With long grass under foot, And blackberry-brambles crawling In many a tangled shoot.

From cherry time, till damsons Dropped from the branches sere, That wonderful old orchard Was full of fruit all year;

We pick'd it up in baskets, Or pluck'd it from the wall; But the shaking of the pear-tree Was the grandest treat of all.

Long, long the days we counted Until that day drew nigh; Then, how we watched the sun set, And criticised the sky!

If rain--"'Twill clear at midnight;" If dawn broke chill and gray, "O many a cloudy morning Turns out a lovely day."

So off we started gaily, Heedless of jolt or jar; Through town and lane, and hamlet, In old Llewellyn's car.

He's dead and gone--Llewellyn, These twenty years, I doubt: If I put him in this poem, He'll never find it out,

The patient, kind Llewellyn-- Whose broad face smiled all o'er, As he lifted out us children At grandma's very door.

And there stood Grandma's Betty, With cheeks like apples red; And Dash, the spaniel, waddled Out of his cosy bed.

With silky ears down dropping, And coat of chestnut pale; He was so fat and lazy He scarce could wag his tail.

Poor Dash is dead, and buried Under the lilac-tree; And Betty's old,--as, children, We all may one day be.

I hope no child will vex us, As we vexed Betty then, With winding up the draw-well, Or hunting the old hen.

And teasing, teasing, teasing, Till afternoon wore round, And shaken pears came tumbling In showers upon the ground.

O how we jumped and shouted! O how we plunged amid The long grass, where the treasures, Dropped down and deftly hid;

Long, slender-shaped, red-russet, Or yellow just like gold; Ah! never pears have tasted Like those sweet pears of old!

We ate--I'd best not mention How many: paused to fill Big basket after basket; Working with right good-will;

Then hunted round the orchard For half-ripe plums--in vain; So, back unto the pear-tree, To eat, and eat again.

I'm not on my confession, And therefore need not say How tired, and cross, and sleepy, Some were ere close of day;

For pleasure has its ending, And eke its troubles too; Which you'll find out, my children, As well as we could do.

But yet this very minute, I seem to see it all-- The pear-tree's empty branches The gray of evening-fall;

The children's homeward silence, The furnace fires that glowed, Each mile or so, out streaming Across the lonely road;

And high, high set in heaven, One large bright, beauteous star, That shone between the curtains Of old Llewellyn's car.