HIS PROFITABLE CROP.

HIS PROFITABLE CROP.
582.5

Oh, I care not a dern though the crope may all burn
In the withering heat of the sun;
I’m not giving a whoop, though the kid-ney beans droop,
As for weeks and for weeks they have done.
Though it seems that a torch has been carried to scorch
Where we sowed down for timothy hay, it all bare, it is little I
And has left care, For the boarders will all of them pay.
Though the tasseling corn looks a trific forlorn,
And there isn’t much luck with the wheat;
Though the ear and the stalk are as dry
as French chalk, And the oats is prostrated with heat;
Though there’s never a drop more of rain on a crop,
Though tomatoes and cabbages grill,
I’m not down in the mouth while the wind’s in the south-
I can smile very happily still.
For there’s lots of canned stuff and there’s bacon enough,
And the pump helps me out with the milk;
And I’ve hammocks and swings and all that sort of things,
And the swimming is finer than silk.
Though the weather is dry and a farmer am I,
And rain’s what we’re needing, no doubt-
Still it might have been wuss, and I don’t care a cuss,
While the fool summer boarders hold out.
-Chicago News.