The Anxious Farmer
It was awful long ago
That I put those seeds around;
And I guess I ought to know
When I stuck ’em in the ground.
’Cause I noted down the day
In a little diary book,—
It’s gotten losted somewhere and
I don’t know where to look.
But I’m certain anyhow
They’ve been planted most a week
And it must be time by now
For their little sprouts to peek.
They’ve been watered every day
With a very speshul care,
And once or twice I’ve dug ’em up to
see if they were there.
I fixed the dirt in humps
Just the way they said I should;
And I crumbled all the lumps
Just as finely as I could.
And I found a nangle-worm
A-poking up his head,—
He maybe feeds on seeds and such,
and so I squushed him dead.
A seed’s so very small,
And dirt all looks the same;—
How can they know at all
The way they ought to aim?
And so I’m waiting round
In case of any need;
A farmer ought to do his best for
every single seed!
Burges Johnson