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A weather-beaten object looms through the mist of years, Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more, And hurrying feet a path had made, straight to its swinging door. Its architecture was a type of simple classic art. But in the tragedy of life it played a leading part. And oft the passing traveler drove slow, and heaved a sigh, |
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I loved it, too, but better still I loved the stronger smell That filled the evening breezes so full of homely cheer, And told the night-o'ertaken tramp that human life was near, On lazy August afternoons, it made a little bower Delightful, where my grandsire sat and whiled away an hour. For there the summer mornings, its very cares entwined, |
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That flitted to and from the house, where Ma was baking pies, And once a swarm of hornets bold had built a palace there, And stung my unsuspecting Aunt--I must not tell you where. Then father took a flaming pole--that was a happy day-- He nearly burned the building up, but the hornets left to stay. When summer bloom began to fade and winter to carouse, |
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In sooth the building was no place where one could wish to stay. We did our duties promptly, there one purpose swayed the mind; We tarried not, nor lingered long on what we left behind. The torture of the icy seat would make a Spartan sob, For needs must scrape the flesh with a lacerating cob, That from a frost-encrusted nail, was suspended by a string-- |
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We'd bundle up the dear old man with a muffler and a shawl. I knew the hole on which he sat--'twas padded all around, And once I dared to sit there--'twas all too wide I found, My loins were all too little, and I jack-knifed there to stay, They had to come and get me out, or I'd have passed away, Then father said ambition was a thing that boys should shun, |
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The baby hole, and the slender hole that fitted Sister Sue, That dear old country landmark; I tramped around a bit, And in the lap of luxury my lot has been to sit, But ere I die I'll eat the fruit of trees I robbed of yore, Then seek the shanty where my name is carved upon the door. I ween the old familiar smell will sooth my jaded soul, |
You haven't time to shovel, so you waller through the
snow,
and you don't need a thermometer, to tell it's four below.
You make a quick deposit and grab a page or two,
of last years mail house catalogue or even corncobs will
do.
Then to the house and fireside you beat a quick retreat,
when the snow is on the outhouse and the frost is on
the seat.
Author Unknown
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