Sun like a furnace hung up overhead,
Burnin' and blazin' and blisterin' red;
Sky like an ocean, so blue and so deep,
One little cloud-ship becalmed and asleep;
Breezes all gone and the leaves hangin' still,
Shimmer of heat on the medder and hill,—Labor
and laziness callin' to me:
"Hoe or the fishin'-pole—which'll it be?"

There's the old cornfield out there in the sun,
Showin' so plain that there's work ter be done;
There's the mean weeds with their tops all a-sprout,
Seemin' ter stump me ter come clean 'em out;
But, there's the river, so clear and so cool,
There's the white lilies afloat on the pool,
Scentin' the shade 'neath the old maple tree—
"Hoe or the fishin'-pole—which'll it be?"

Dusty and dry droops the corn in the heat,
Down by the river a robin sings sweet,
Gray squirrels chatter as if they might say:
"Who's the chump talkin' of workin' to-day?"
Robin's song tells how the pickerel wait
Under the lily-pads, hungry for bait;
I ought ter make for that cornfield, I know:
But, "Where's the fishin'-pole? Hang the old hoe!"