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XXXIX
The Hayloft
Through all the pleasant meadow-side
The grass grew
shoulder-high,
Till the shining scythes went far and wide
And cut it down
to dry.
Those green and sweetly smelling crops
They led the waggons home;
And they piled them here in mountain tops
For mountaineers
to roam.
Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,
Mount Eagle and
Mount High;--
The mice that in these mountains dwell,
No happier are
than I!
Oh, what a joy to clamber there,
Oh, what a place
for play,
With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,
The happy hills
of hay!
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