That other Maud Muller by James Whitcomb Riley

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.