Clare Gartland
June 16, 1938

The first of July?
Why to-day's the day
They'll start to hay
In Rileyville.

You've never heard of it, you say?
It's a splinter of fairyland tucked away
In Pennsylvania mountains gay.

There's a quilt of grass on every least incline,
And morning's dew sparkles with a
Special sort of shine.

The limp lake waters lick and lop
Like a languid lad with a lollypop,
In summer time they mirror trees,
In winter they are first to freeze.

The woodchucks are lazy and fat and slow,
But they know where the choicest gardens grow.
They have a weirdly sure animal sense
Which seems to see flags by the holes in the fence.

The wind chases patterns though the hay
And cowbells tinkle out the day.

The briars, like blades, with berries large
Are dauntless in tolling nature's charge.

The kittens find the straw in the barn
More playful than city cousins find the yarn.

The tired moon smiles as she climbs the sky,
Can Rileyville be nicer viewed from high?