When the chores were done and his cattle fed
and the old horse munched his oats,
He took his flute to his racked old porch and
chirped his wavering notes.
And far and wide on the evening breeze from
the old house on the hill,
Went trinkling off the thin, long strains, like
the cry of the whip-poor-will.
And the women paused with the supper things
and harkened at the door,