THE SCARECROW
He doesn't wander up and down
And hoarsely call all day,
"O' clo'! O' clo'!" This old-clothes man
Has not a word to say.
He stands so stiff among the corn,
His one stiff arm stuck out,
And points a musket at the crows
That circle all about.
He doesn't tramp the dusty streets,
Nor travel, ankle-deep,
Through mush and slush, but quiet stands
Where baby corn-cobs sleep.
He's such a funny old-clothes man!
I wonder if it's hard
To stand amid the growing corn
All summer long on guard.