The Stake and Rider Fence

I love to let my fancy go wandering where it will, To the happy days of boyhood, to the meadow and the hill; To the brooks and quiet places, to the woods that seemed immense, But they always linger fondly at the stake-and-rider fence. Here, cicadas sing their loudest, and the crickets draw the bow, And the 'hoppers and the locusts join the chorus, soft and low; And you hear the bees a humming like a fiddle with one string, While the air just seems to vibrate with a soothing kind of ring. There the squirrel scolds and chatters as he runs along the rail, And you hear the rain-crow calling, and the whistle of the quail; And the catbird, and the blue jay, scold with vigor most intense, As they build among the branches by the stake-and-rider fence. There grew the tasseled milkweed with its bursting silken pods, And the stately, waving branches of the yellow goldenrod; The mullein stalk and asters, with teasels growing dense, God's garden, in the angle of the stake-and-rider fence. It was homely, but I loved it, and I wouldn't trade, would you? For all the hothouse beauties that a florist ever knew. Yes, I'd give up earthly honors, and count it recompense, Just to wander through the meadow by the stake-and-rider fence.