An Apple Song

T

he Autumn sunshine falls so warm,
So warm in the orchard green,
A golden tent is the apple-tree;
And under the leafy screen
Sits Rex, in the curve of a mossy bough,
As high as he can go,
Dropping the apples red and brown
To his Cousin Prue below.

Sweet Prue, knee-deep in the cool green grass,
Spreads wide her pinafore,
The ripe fruit falls in a golden rain,
By two, by three, by four;
With watchful eye and ready hand
She lets no apple fall—
As fast as Rex can throw them down
She catches one and all.

The blackbird on the topmost bough
Is singing loud and clear,
The children shouting at their task
It does him good to hear.
He watches them with his bead-black eyes,
And blither still he sings;
But clearer than dear blackbird's note
The children's laughter rings.