PITCHING HAY IN VERMONT by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY

THERE'S opposites, go where you will,
All through create creation,
Some folks are keen on standing still
And others on rotation;
There's clouds and rocks and black and white,
There's ape and lovely swan,
And haying time has pitching off
To cancel pitching on.

Each worker hates with all his spleen
The other avocation,
For man can use his brother mean
In either situation;
The pitcher-on he gets 'em up
So fast to loader John,
That John would like to murder Hank,
The hand a-pitching on.

It fills the soul of John with slang,
It spoils his calculation
On length and breath and overhang
And tumble destination;
He can't load 'round and 'round, of course,
His "axis point" is gone,
And he's ashamed to say, "Hold up,"
To Hank a-pitching on.

The only thing for John, By Darn!
To do and not be yeller,
Is jest to get inside the barn
And rush the other feller:
When Hank gets anchored in the mow,
Say, that's the time for John
To show there's points in pitching off,
As well as pitching on.

If you could then see Hanky's brow
You'd note 'twas rather leaky;
If you could read his heart you'd vow
He'd joined the Bolsheviki;
If you could test the Hankian wind
You'd find 'twas nearly gone—
It's eye for eye and tooth for tooth,
This pitching off and on.

For Hanky swims and dives in hay,
It's hay his tonsils swaller;
It's "hay" his stifled voice would say
If he should ever holler;
He's buried in a night of hay
And only hopes for dawn,
To get his pardner back outdoors
And start a-pitching on.

The farmer feels no great dismay,
He sounds no note of sorrow,
He hopes they'll keep it up all day
And race again tomorrow;
In fact, he's jest a bit inclined
To bait both Hank and John,
For he's the kitty in this game
Of pitching off and on.

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