Identifier: boylifeonprairie00ingarl (find matches)
Title: Boy life on the prairie
Year: 1899 (1890s)
Authors: Garland, Hamlin, 1860-1940 American Popular Literature Collection
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Publisher: New York London : Macmillan
Contributing Library: Northern Illinois University
Digitizing Sponsor: CARLI: Consortium of Academic and Research Libraries in Illinois

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he Prairie being Saturday they were delayed by a game of base-ball in Taylor City. It was late Saturday night whenthey drew up in Mr. Jenningss yard, and to show thatthey were thoroughly hardened campers they slept inthe wagon another night — at least three of them did.Milton shamelessly sneaked away to his bed, and theydid not miss him until morning. They upbraided him in severe terms, but he onlylaughed. When Mr. Jennings invited them all tobreakfast, nobody refused. Land o Goshen, said Mrs. Jennings, you eat asif you were starved. What did you live on ? Fish, replied Bert. Sour bread, said treacherous Milton. Well, no wonder you look gaunt as weasels. Oh, but it was fun, wasnt it, boys ? cried Lincoln. You bet it was. Lets go again next year. All right, said Milton ; raise your weapons andswear to be true to the poet. They all lifted their knives in solemn consent, whileMrs. Jennings laughed till the tears came to her eyes. But they never did. Of such stuff are the plans ofyouth.
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COLOR IN THE WHEAT Like liquid gold the wheat-field lies, A marvel of yellow and green,That ripples and runs, that floats and flies, With the subtle shadows, the change, the sheenThat plays in the golden hair of a girl.A cloud flies there —A ripple of amber — a flareOf light follows after. A swirlIn the hollows like the twinkling feet Of a fairy waltzer; the colors run To the westward sun.Through the deeps of the ripening wheat. I hear the reapers far-off hum. So faint and far it seems the droneOf bee or beetle, seems to comeFrom far-off, fragrant, fruity zone,A land of plenty, whereToward the sun, as hasting there.The colors runBefore the winds feetIn the wheat. 271 272 Boy Life on the Prairie The wild hawk swoops To his prey in the deeps;The sunflower droops To the lazy wave; the wind sleeps;Then, moving in dazzling links and loops, A marvel of shadow and shine,A glory of olive and amber and wine, Runs the color in the wheat.

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