When my auto brushes—a load of hay!
Chauffeur curses, I scarcely hear,
For things I loved as a boy seem near:
Scent of meadows at early morn,
Miles of waving fields of corn,
Lowing cattle and colts at play—
Far have I drifted another way!
Hark, the bell as it calls the noon!
Boys at their chores, hear them whistle a tune!
Barn doors creaking on rusty locks,