FODDER-TIME

From Songs of Toil: translated by John Eliot Bowen. The five following selections from Songs of Toil' are reprinted by permission of the Frederick A. Stokes Company.

H

ow sweet the manger smells! The cows all listen With outstretched necks, and with impatient lowing: They greet the clover, their content now showingAnd how they lick their noses till they glisten!

The velvet-coated beauties do not languish

Beneath the morning's golden light that's breaking,
The unexhausted spring of life awaking,
Their golden eyes of velvet full of anguish.

They patiently endure their pains. Bestowing
Their sympathy, the other cows are ruing
Their unproductive udders, and renewing
At milking-time their labor and their lowing.

And now I must deceive the darling bossy,-
With hand in milk must make it suck my finger.
Its tender lips cling close like joys that linger,
And feel so warm with dripping white and flossy.

This very hand my people with devotion

Do kiss, which paints and plays and writes, moreover,-
I would it had done naught but pile the clover
To feed the kine that know no base emotion!

B

THE SOWER

ENEATH the mild sun vanish the vapor's last wet traces,

And for the autumn sowing the mellow soil lies steeping: The stubble fires have faded, and ended is the reaping; The piercing plow has leveled the rough resisting places.

The solitary sower along the brown field paces,

Two steps and then a handful, a rhythmic motion keeping; The eager sparrows follow, now pecking and now peeping. He sows; but all the increase accomplished by God's grace is.

And whether frost be fatal or drought be devastating,

The blades rise green and slender for springtime winds to

flutter,

As time of golden harvest the coming fall awaiting.

None see the silent yearnings the sower's lips half utter, The carking care he suffers, distressing thoughts creating.

With steady hand he paces afield without a mutter.

D

THE BOATMAN'S SONG

OWN-STREAM 'tis all by moonlight,
Up-stream at blazing noon;
Down-stream upon. the ripples,

Up-stream through sandy dune.

Down-stream, the helm held loosely,
A pipe between the lips;
Up-stream, like beast one straineth
And galls the breast and hips.

What boots it that I seem like
The river's king to-day.
If to-morrow like a beggar,
Despised, I tug away?

My pleasuring leaves no furrow
Upon the water-plain;

The marks of struggling footsteps.
Long in the sand remain.

IT

THE COUNTRY LETTER-CARRIER

T THAWS. On field and roadway the packing drifts have faded; The service-berry drips, and the slush is deep and stale; The clouds hang low and leaden; the evening glow is pale; The paths gleam like a brooklet, whose bed is all unshaded.

Along the highway trudges a messenger; unaided,

He limps and halts and shivers; his bag holds little mail A single wretched letter all crumpled, old, and frail He must push on; the village he nears now, lame and jaded. He knocks. A timid woman admits him: "Till now, never

Had I a letter! Heavens! My boy! Quick, give it here!

He's coming! Now we're happy!" Her aged muscles quiver:
"God sent you here. Be seated and warm yourself; come near:

A share of my possessions are yours to keep forever."
The postman limps no longer, warmed by the woman's cheer.

THE STONE-CUTTER

E HAMMER, hammer, hammer on and on,

WR Day out, day in, throughout the year,

In blazing heat and tempests drear;
God's house we slowly heavenward rear
We'll never see it done!

We hammer, hammer, hammer, might and main.
The sun torments, the rain-drops prick,

Our eyes grow blind with dust so thick;

Our name in dust, too, fadeth quick-
No glory and no gain!

We hammer, hammer, hammer ever on.
O blessed God on Heaven's throne,
Dost thou take a care of every stone
And leave the toiling poor alone,

Whom no one looks upon?

THE POST

WIFT, Swift as the wind drives the great Russian Czar,

But we of Roumania are swifter by far:

Eight horses we harness for every-day speed,

But I've driven a team of a dozen at need.

Then over the bridges we hurry along,

Through village and hamlet, with shouting and song,

With a hip-hip-hurrah! swiftly onwards we go!

The birds fly above and our horses below.

When the sun burns at noon and the dust whirls on high,
Like the leaves of the forest grown withered and dry,

We hasten along, never slacking the rein.

The wild mountain riders come down to the plain:
Their hair and their cloaks flutter free in the wind;
The sheep and the buffaloes gallop behind;

And hip-hip hurrah! boys, with horse and with man,
Like the tempest we pass - let him follow who can.

When winter is here, and the storm spirit's abroad,
Swift glideth the sledge o'er the snow-covered road;
Great drifts hide the inn and the sign-post from sight,-
'Tis an ocean of snow lying waveless and white;
The wolves' and the ravens' wild greetings we hear,
As we pass the ravine, and the precipice drear,
With a hip-hip-hurrah! From the road though we stray
No matter, the horses will find out the way.

The rain falls in torrents; the stream, grown a flood,
Has shattered the bridge on our passage that stood.
The waters have risen are rising yet more
'Tis foolhardy daring to swim to the shore.
Ten pieces of gold, and I'll venture my neck:
The carriage is floating-the box-seat's the deck;
But hip-hip-hurrah! boys, so loud are our cheers
That the water flows back, for our shouting it fears.

A jest to the lad and a kiss to the lass,

We throw, while they linger, to watch as we pass;
His laugh still resounds, and her cheek is still red,
When already our bells jingle far on ahead.

Right well does our team know their silvery chime,

And we scarce slacken speed as the mountain we climb.
Then hip-hip-hurrah! boys,- nay! slowly, beware,
For steep's the descent: we must make it with care.

At midnight, the streets of the town to the tread
Of our horses resound: all the sky's glowing red;
For crowds gather round us with torches of light,
And pine-boughs all blazing, to stare at the sight.
A crack of the whip, and a cheer and a song,
Through a circle of fire we clatter along;
And hip-hip-hurrah! through the glow and the glare,
Through flowers and folk, e'er a halt we declare.

Even if I were dead, I could never lie still:
I should hasten afield over valley and hill.
I'd take the light reins and the whip in my hand,
And scarce in the saddle I'd fly through the land.

No dull, droning chant and procession for me,
I'd turn in my coffin such doings to see;
And hip-hip-hurrah! from the bier and its gloom.
I'd leap to the saddle and drive to my tomb.

D

DIMBOVITZA

IMBOVITZA! Magic river,

Silver-shining, memory-haunted;
He who drinks thy crystal waters
Ne'er can quit thy shores enchanted.

Dimbovitza! all too deeply

Drank I of thy flowing river;

For my love, my inmost being,

There meseems have sunk forever.

Dimbovitza! Dimbovitza!

All my soul hast thou in keeping,
Since beneath thy banks of verdure
Lies my dearest treasure sleeping.

I

LONGING

LONG to feel thy little arm's embrace,

Thy little silver-sounding voice to hear;

I long for thy warm kisses on my face,
And for thy birdlike carol, blithe and clear.

I long for every childish, loving word;
And for thy little footsteps, fairy light,
That hither, thither moved, and ever stirred
My heart with them to gladness infinite.

And for thy hair I long-that halo blest
Hanging in golden glory round thy brow.
My child, can aught such longing lull to rest?
Nay, heaven's bliss alone can end it now.