noon
When fields of corn are shimmering in the sun , we know exactly how it would seem to run through those dusty aisles , swept by that silken drapery , and counselled in whispers from the plumy tops so far above our heads . The ground-sparrow 's nest is not strange to us ; no , nor the partridge 's hidden treasure within the wood . We can make pudding-bags of live-forever , dolls ' bonnets , `` trimmed up to the nines , '' out of the velvet mullein leaf , and from the ox-eyed daisies , round , cap-begirt faces , smiling as the sun . All the homely secrets of rural life are ours : the taste of pie , cinnamon-flavored , from the dinner-pails at noon ; the smell of `` pears a-b ` ilin ' , '' at that happiest hour when , in the early dusk , we tumble into the kitchen , to find the table set and the stove redolent of warmth and savor . `` What you got for supper ? '' we cry , -- question to be paralleled in the summer days by `` What 'd you have for dinner ? '' as , famished little bears , we rush to the dairy-wheel , to feed ravenously on the cold , delicious fragments of the meal eaten without us .