Eighth Grade

Rudely carved was the porch, with seats beneath;
and a footpath
Led through an orchard wide, and disappeared in
the meadow.
Under the sycamore tree were hives overhung by
a pent-house,
Such as the traveler sees in regions remote by the
roadside,
Built o'er a box for the poor, or the blessed image
of Mary.
Farther down, on the slope of the hill, was the well
with its moss-grown
Bucket, fastened with iron, and near it a trough
for the horses.
Shielding the house from storms, on the north,
were the barns and the farm-yard;
There stood the broad-wheeled wains and the an
tique ploughs and the harrows;
There were the folds for the sheep; and there, in
his feathered seraglio,
Strutted the lordly turkey, and crowed the cock,
with the selfsame
Voice that in ages of old had startled the penitent
Peter.
Bursting with hay were the barns, themselves a
village. In each one
Far o'er the gable projected a roof of thatch; and
a staircase,
Under the sheltering eaves, led up to the odorous
cornloft.
There too the dove-cot stood, with its meek and in
nocent inmates
Murmuring ever of love; while above in the variant
breezes
Numberless noisy weathercocks tattled and sang of
mutation.

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