The Abilene reflector. [volume] (Abilene, Kan.) 1883-1888, 1885-07-16
THE OLD MOWER.
IRecently read before the Ruggles Street
Bostonl Young Mems Union.l

IRecently read before the Ruggles Street
(Boston) Young Mems Union.l
In the days of my youth remember
An old mower sang me this rune:
@The aftermath of the September
Is not the sweet clover of june.
And he said: ~WhateVer thy station
Whatever thy hands may employ
Be true to thy best inspiration,
'Tis thy Angel of Blessings, my boy.
Then swift rung his scythe. that old farmers S,
And fast fell the grass to the rune:
<''The aftermath of the September
Is not the sweet clover of June.
The osprey's green wings drifted o,er me,
On the sun-tides, while glinting below,
The bob -o-links toppled before me,
And the wind blew the daisies like snow.
All nature seemed filed with elatiOn,
And the old farmer whistled for joy:
'''Ts the fruit of lifes young inspiration
That fills life with gladneSs, my boy.
And Slis scythe all embedded with flowers,
He piled up the grass TO the rune:
"'The aftermath of the September
Is not the sweet clover of June"
The gray walls with roses were glowing,
The blue lilies breathing below;
Afar were the meadow brooks flowing
BY the mill, in the high noon aglow.
And he said. while the herOns wheeled over,
And screamed i'm the sun in their joy,
~Thc is all fragrant with clover,
Twas clover planted, my boy"
And on paced the red-shirted farmer
And on fell the grass TO the rune:
Inc aftermath OF the september
Is not the sweet clover of June
-''Tis the spring-time that glows with en-
deavor.
And gives to young purpose it's power:
The sun of the autumn Will never
Bring forth the ripe fruit from the flower.
Though the aftermath springs from the
The clover comes not from the fern;
Give thy hand to thy best inspiration,
1hy spring time will never return!"
And on swept the scythc of the farmer,
And on fell the grass to the rune:
The aftermath of the September
is not the sweet clover of June"
One day, when September was burning
met the old farmer again,
The thin swathes of the aftermath turning
Where once the thick clover had lain.
And gone were roses and lilies,
One lone robin sung in the tree:
1T is clover that comes from the clover,
But the first cut was double, you see"
And he riled his scythc. that old farmer,
And cut the thin grass to the rune:
The aftermath of the September
Is not the sweet clover of June
~'Ah, youth is no season for leisure.
Too wide its horizons expand:
in thy purpose and struggle find pleasure
That is worthy the brain and the hand.
And hold as the wiles of the tempter
Whatever that purpose debarS;
The lamps OF the red billiard palace
Are not the white ghts of the stars"
And rung his old Ecythe TO the rifle,
And cut the thin grass to the rune:
''Ihe aftermath of the September
Is not the sweet clover of June"
The years of my youth are all ended,
The old man sleeps under the fern.
But OF the long days of my childhood
ANY the rune of the bayfield, return.
lis the seed of the spring that has promise,
The choicest seed, bOuntcouSly SOwn
And the breath of the Spring-time will never
Come back TO the fields that are mown.
And over and over, and over
My years bring the thought of the rune:
That no aftermath sweet of the clover
Is like the sweet clover of June.
-Hezelidh ButterIUOrth.