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The dark-brown tassels fluttering in the breeze;

The bell is sounding and the children pass,

Frog-leaping, skipping, shouting, laughing shrill,

Down the red road, over the pasture-grass,

Up to the school-house crumbling on the hill.

The older folk are at their peaceful toil,

Some pulling up the weeds, some plucking corn,

And others breaking up the sun-baked soil.

Float, faintly-scented breeze, at early morn

Over the earth where mortals sow and reap—

Beneath its breast my mother lies asleep.