HARVEST DAYS.

Over the cornfield fell the sunlight, And turned all the stubble to gold, And 'neath the pale cloud-shades of evening Deep crimson and purple unrolled. The gleaners were busily gleaning The yellow corn scattered around; The waggons, all heavily laden, Were tracing with furrows the ground. The farmer stood lazily viewing The harvesting in of his wheat, His daughters were standing beside him, His faithful dog lay at his feet. There came by a shy little gleaner, Flaxen-headed, with eyes bright and blue, And the farmer smiled down, "Little maiden, Come here—here's a gleaning for you."

He pulled from the waggon an armful Of corn; and the gleaner's eyes gleamed: She dimpled, she flushed, and she curtsied, Such a great golden treasure it seemed. "Ay, sowing, and reaping, and harvest," The farmer soft spake as she passed, And he thought of earth's sowing and reaping, And the harvest that must come at last.