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THAT OTHER MAUD MULLER
Maud Muller worked at making hay,
And cleared her forty cents a day. Her clothes were coarse, but her health was fine,
And so she worked in the sweet sunshine Singing as glad as a bird in May
"Barbara Allen" the livelong day. She often glanced at the far-off town,
And wondered if eggs were up or down. And the sweet song died of a strange disease,
Leaving a phantom taste of cheese, And an appetite and a nameless ache
For soda-water and ginger cake. The judge rode slowly into view--
Stopped his horse in the shade and threw His fine-cut out, while the blushing Maud
Marveled much at the kind he "chawed." "He was dry as a fish," he said with a wink,
"And kind o` thought that a good square drink Would brace him up." So the cup was filled
With the crystal wine that old spring spilled; And she gave it him with a sun-browned hand.
"Thanks," said the judge in accents bland; "A thousand thanks! for a sweeter draught,
From a fairer hand"--but there he laughed. And the sweet girl stood in the sun that day,
And raked the judge instead of the hay.
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