The Farmer
The farmer is a man of wit,
There's a simply no denying it!
He leads a life of pampered ease,
And is as happy as you please.
At 9 o'clock he's ready for
His morning rolls and cafe noir;
And when the gourmet thus is fed,
His valet helps him out of bed.
From 10 to 1 he reads the news,
The market tips and trade reviews;
To corn and wheat his heed he gives,
For 'tis by these the farmer lives.
So having figured for the day
Which way the markets he will play,
His batch of daily bread is made
By dealing on the Board of Trade.
His daily labor being through,
The farmer takes his lunch at 2;
Then donning riding-garb, he'll call
His favorite motor from the stall.
He rides about to view his farm,
And feel the restful country's charm.
His wife, with paints and sketching pad
And all the trinkets of her fad,
Her easel sets beneath the tree,
And paints the view from 2 to 3;
At 6 o'clock they dine in state___
The farming life is simply great!
The products of the earth and air
Are on the table groaning there.
Sweet milk is always at their hand,
Bought by the case all neatly canned.
The trolley line that rattles down,
It brings them butter fresh from town,
And eggs and luscious chicken fries,
The best the city's mart supplies;
Green truck and fruit all crisp and nice,
Just taken from cold storage ice;
And juicy, luscious ham, O my!
The best the packers can supply.
No wonder life upon the farm
Has always held so rare a charm!
The cry of "Rube!" which town folks shout,
Is only envy, inside out.
___C. L. Edson
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