How blue and hazy the hills looked; how cool the breeze blew up from the river; how like a silver lake the old pickerel pond sweltered under the summer sun over beyond the pasture and broomcorn, and how merry was the music of the birds and bees!
"A Little Book of Profitable Tales"
Eugene Field
Now we come to acres upon acres of the sugar-cane, looking at a distance like fields of overgrown broomcorn.
"To Cuba and Back"
Richard Henry Dana