A meadow brown; across the yonder edge <br />A zigzag fence is ambling; here a wedge <br />Of underbush has cleft its course in twain, <br />Till where beyond it staggers up again; <br />The long, grey rails stretch in a broken line <br />Their ragged length of rough, split forest pine, <br />And in their zigzag tottering have reeled <br />In drunken efforts to enclose the field, <br />Which carries on its breast, September born, <br />A patch of rustling, yellow, Indian corn. <br />Beyond its shrivelled tassels, perched upon <br />The topmost rail, sits Joe, the settler's son, <br />A little semi-savage boy of nine. <br />Now dozing in the warmth of Nature's wine, <br />His face the sun has tampered with, and wrought, <br />By heated kisses, mischief, and has brought <br />Some vagrant freckles, while from here and there <br />A few wild locks of vagabond brown hair <br />Escape the old straw hat the sun looks through, <br />And blinks to meet his Irish eyes of blue. <br />Barefooted, innocent of coat or vest, <br />His grey checked shirt unbuttoned at his chest, <br />Both hardy hands within their usual nest-- <br />His breeches pockets--so, he waits to rest <br />His little fingers, somewhat tired and worn, <br />That all day long were husking Indian corn. <br />His drowsy lids snap at some trivial sound, <br />With lazy yawns he slips towards the ground, <br />Then with an idle whistle lifts his load <br />And shambles home along the country road <br />That stretches on, fringed out with stumps and weeds, <br />And finally unto the backwoods leads, <br />Where forests wait with giant trunk and bough <br />The axe of pioneer, the settler's plough.<br /><br />Emily Pauline Johnson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-etching/
