by E.B. White
9781888683844 l $20.00
417 pages; 5 1/2" by 8 1/4"
from "Malabar Farm by Louis Bromfield"
a poem by E.B. White
Malabar Farm is the farm for me,
It's got what it takes to a large degree:
Beauty, alfalfa, constant movement,
And a terrible rash of soil improvement.
Far from orthodox in its tillage,
Populous as many a village,
Stuff being planted and stuff being written,
Fields growing lush that were once unfitten,
Bromfield land, whether low or high land,
Has more going on than Coney Island.
When Bromfield went to Pleasant Valley,
The soil was hard as a bowling alley;
He sprinkled lime and he seeded clover,
And when it came up he turned it over.
From far and wide folks came to view
The things that a writing man will do.
The more he fertilized the fields
The more impressive were his yields,
And every time a field grew fitter
Bromfield would add another critter,
The critter would add more manure, despite 'im,
And so it went-ad infinitum.
It proves that a novelist on his toes
Can make a valley bloom like a rose.