When memory keeps me company and moves
to smiles or tears,
A weather-beaten object looms throughout
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 for 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,
To see the modest hired girl slip out
with glances shy.
We had our posey garden that the women
loved so well,
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'er taken 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,
And berry bushes reddened in the
steaming soil behind.
All day fat spiders spun their webs to
catch the buzzing flies
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 down, but
the hornets left to stay.
When summer bloom began to fade and
winter to carouse,
We banked the little building with a
heap of hemlock boughs.
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And when the crust was on the snow and
the sullen skies were gray,
In truth the building was no place where
one should wish to stay,
We did our duties promptly; there one
purpose swayed our mind,
We tarried not nor lingered long on what
was left behind.
The torture of that icy seat would make
a Spartan sob,
For needs must scrape the gooseflesh
with a lacerating cob
That from a frost-encrusted nail was
suspended by a string—
My father was a frugal man and wasted
not a thing.
When grandpa had to ‘go out back’ and
make his morning call,
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 far
too wide I found.
My loins were all too little, and I
jack-knifed there to stay,
They had to come and pry me out or I'd
have passed away.
Then father said ambition was a thing
that boys should shun,
And I must use the children's hole till
childhood days are done.
And still I marvel at the craft that cut
those holes so true;
The baby hole, and the slender hole that
fitted Sister Sue.
The dear old country landmark; I've
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've robbed of yore,
Then see the shanty where my name is
carved upon the door,
I ween the old familiar smell will
soothe my jaded soul,
I’m now a man, but none the less, I'll
try the children's hole.
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