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WHEN THE Cows COME HOME

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With klingle, klangle, klingle,
'Way down the dusty dingle,

The cows are coming home.
Now sweet and clear, and faint and low,
The airy tinklings come and go,
Like chimings from some far-off tower,
Or patterings of an April shower

That makes the daisies grow.
Ko-kling, ko-klang, koklinglelingle,
'Way down the dark’ning dingle

The cows come slowly home;
And old-time friends and twilight plays,
And starry nights, and sunny days,
Come trooping up the misty ways,

When the cows come home.

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With jingle, jangle, jingle,
Soft tones that sweetly mingle,

The cows are coming home.
Malvine, and Pearl, and Florimel,
De Kamp, Redrose, and Gretchen Schell,
Queen Bess, and Sylph, and Spangled Sue —
Across the fields I hear her loo-00,

And clang her silver bell.

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Go-ling, go-lang, golinglelingle,
With faint far sounds that mingle,

The cows come slowly home;
And mother songs of long-gone years,
And baby joys, and childish tears,
And youthful hopes, and youthful fears,

When the cows come home.

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3
With ringle, rangle, ringle,
By twos and threes and single,

The cows are coming home;
Through violet air we see the town,
And the summer sun a-slipping down;
The maple in the hazel glade
Throws down the path a longer shade,

And the hills are growing brown.
To-ring, to-rang, toringlelingle,
By threes and fours and single,

The cows come slowly home;
The same sweet sound of wordless psalm,
The same sweet June-day rest and calm ;
The same sweet scent of bud and balm,

When the cows come home.

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4
With a tinkle, tankle, tinkle,
Through fern and periwinkle,
The cows are coming home;

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A-loitering in the checkered stream,
Where the sun's rays glance and gleam,
Starine, Peachbloom, and Phoebe Phyllis
Stand knee-deep in the creamy lilies,

In a drowsy dream.
To-link, to-lank, tolinklelinkle,
O’er banks with buttercups a-twinkle,

The cows come slowly home;
And up through Memory's deep ravine
Come the brook's old song and its old-time sheen,
And the crescent of the silver queen,

When the cows come home.

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With a klingle, klangle, klingle,
With a loo-oo, and moo-oo, and jingle,

The cows are coming home;
And over there on Merlin Hill,
Hear the plaintive cry of the whip-poor-will ;
The dewdrops lie on the tangled vines,
And over the poplars Venus shines,

And over the silent mill.
Ko-ling, ko-lang, kolinglelingle,
With ting-a-ling and jingle,

The cows come slowly home.
Let down the bars; let in the train
Of long-gone songs, and flowers, and rain ;
For dear old times come back again

When the cows come home.

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QUESTIONS AND SUGGESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION 1. What sounds and sights is praise. Why is the sound

the poet trying to get us to of the cowbells a “word

hear and see in this poem? less psalm”? (Stanza 3.) 2. What other bells do the cow What does it suggest that

bells sound like? (Stanza should make us feel grate1.)

ful for favors ? 3. Can you really hear the bells 6. Can you see the “sheen"

and see the cows in your or shimmer of the water in mind as you read? Try the brook? (Stanza 4.) now.

What is the “ crescent of 4. Tell what memories came the silver queen "?

back to the poet in the 7. Explain the last four lines last four lines of each of of each stanza of the poem. the first four stanzas, tak Give special attention to

ing them in their order. the last four lines of the 5. A “psalm " is a song of last stanza.

How gently rock yon poplars high
Against the reach of primrose sky
With heaven's pale candles stored.

JEAN INGELOW

Now came still evening on; and twilight gray
Had in her sober livery all things clad:
Silence accompanied; for beast and bird,
They to their grassy couch, these to their nests,
Were slunk, all but the wakeful nightingale.

JOHN MILTON

DILLY BAL

JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS

Joel Chandler Harris was an American story-writer whose books of negro folklore are full of interest and entertainment. These stories, however, did not originate with the man who first wrote them. No one knows who first told these odd stories. Story-teller after story-teller, adding here a little and there a little, made these stories better and better. In the cabins of the cotton field and the canebrake, old and young alike listened with rolling eyes and open mouth to the wonderful way of hare and fox, and bear, buzzard, and terrapin. But for years no one thought of writing out these wonderful stories.

One day Mr. Harris wrote down some of the stories which the negroes had told him when he was a little boy on the plantation. People begged for others, and Mr. Harris made book after book, so that there are now several books of the “ Uncle Remus ”stories.

These stories opened up a new and very rich literary field. They are written just as we may think the old Southern negro, Uncle Remus, told them to a little boy. How many other boys and girls have enjoyed these wonderful stories !

Mr. Harris occupies the field of negro folk stories almost alone; but he has done much fine work outside of it in short stories of Southern life. “Gabriel Tolliver,” the novel from which this selection is taken, is a perfect picture of the brighter side of life in the South in the period following the Civil War.

Mr. Harris was born in Georgia, in 1848, and died in 1908. His cozy home was in the beautiful city of Atlanta, Georgia. When asked why he called his home “The Sign of the Wren's Nest,”

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