The Brownies' Good Work

One time, while Brownies passed around An honest farmer's piece of ground, They paused to view the garden fair And fields of grain that needed care. "My friends," said one who often spoke About the ways of human folk,

"Now here's a case in point, I claim, Where neighbors scarce deserve the name: This farmer on his back is laid With broken ribs and shoulder-blade, Received, I hear, some weeks ago; While at the village here below, He checked a running team, to save Some children from an early grave. Now overripe his harvest stands In waiting for the reaper's hands; The piece of wheat we lately passed Is shelling out at every blast.

Those pumpkins in that corner plot Begin to show the signs of rot; The mold has fastened on their skin, The ripest ones are caving in, And soon the pig in yonder sty With scornful grunt would pass them by. His Early Rose potatoes there Are much in need of light and air; The turnip withers where it lies, The beet and carrot want to rise. 'Oh, pull us up!' they seem to cry To every one that passes by; 'The frost will finish our repose, The grubs are working at our toes;

Unless you come and save us soon, We'll not be worth a picayune!' The corn is breaking from the stalk, The hens around the hill can walk, And with their ever ready bill May pick the kernels at their will. His neighbors are a sordid crowd, Who've such a shameful waste allowed So wrapped in self some men can be, Beyond their purse they seldom see; 'T is left for us to play the friend And here a helping hand extend. But as the wakeful chanticleer Is crowing in the stable near, Too little of the present night Is left to set the matter right.

"To-morrow eve, at that dark hour When birds grow still in leafy bower And bats forsake the ruined pile To exercise their wings awhile, In yonder shady grove we'll meet, With all our active force complete, Prepared to give this farmer aid With basket, barrel, hook, and spade.