On the Tree Top

by Clara Doty Bates

[JOHN S. CROW. ]

				Allalone in the field Stands John S. Crow; And a curious sight is he, With his head of tow, And a hat pulled low On a face that you never see.
KIN-FOLKS OF JOHN S. CROW.
			His clothes are ragged And horrid and old, The worst that ever were worn; They’re covered with mold, And in each fold A terrible rent is torn.
		They once were new And spick and span, As nice as clothes could be; For though John hardly can Be called a man, They were made for men you see.
	That old blue coat, With a double breast And a brass button here and there, Was grandfather’s best, And matches the vest— The one Uncle Phil used to wear.
The trousers are short; They belonged to Bob Before he had got his growth; But John’s no snob, And, unlike Bob, Cuts his legs to the length of his cloth.

The boots are a mystery:

How and where

John got such a shabby lot,

Such a shocking pair,

I do declare

Though he may know, I do not.

But the hat that he wears

Is the worst of all;