When I was just a little boy and sent to cut the wood,
I played myself a frontier scout, six feet in buckskin stood;
I played the red men swarmed about and all the timbers laid
Must be quick hewed and fashioned for an old frontier stockade;
Quick fell my axe with flashing blade, for all about I heard
The war-whoop of the warriors who in the thicket stirred.
And when I told them of my play, with lusty strokes and cry,
The neighbor boys fell to and wrought my woodpile brimming high.
When I was just a little boy and sent to scrub the walk
With hose and broom, I used to play it was the good ship Hawk
Or Hornet, Spider or Whatnot, afire far out at sea,
Nor help at hand where’er I looked, to windward or to lee;
And how I fought the tongues of flame that swept by stern and bow!
The clouds of smoke that rolled above—I almost see them now!
And when I told them of my play, with many a lusty shout,
The neighbor boys plied hose and broom to put the fire out.
And when I had to shovel snow I led’ some hardy band
Of undismayed discoverers, in far-off Arctic land;
With stores and goods and blubber, too, all buried deep below
The mark that I had left beneath some good six feet of snow;
And almost famished, there I dug, full knowing I should find
At last the goodly stores of stuff that we had left behind.
And when I told them of my play, with many a lusty shout,
The neighbor boys plied willing spades and helped me dig them out.
LITTLE GIRL WITH THE CURLS
LITTLE girl with the curls, and the passionless eyes,
With your heart that is pure as the cool springs that rise
In the green of the hills, and with cheeks that are fair
And unsoiled of the world as the snowflake in air,
With your dreams that are sweet and that always come true,
Little girl with the curls, here’s a blessing for you.
Little girl with the curls and with grace that is sweet
From the toss of your head to your fast-flying feet,
With the light in your eyes that is brimming with truth
And the straightforward gaze that’s the glory of youth,
With your smiles that are glad and your days that are fair,
Here’s a blessing as rich as the gold of your hair.
Little girl with the curls and the kisses as light
As the butterfly’s kiss of the flower in its flight,
With your heart all atune to the beauties you see,
With the song of your days sweet as music can be,
With your peace like the pardon of heaven unfurls,
Here’s a blessing for you, little girl with the curls.
And Oh, be the days of thy trial as far
From the deeps of the sea as the snowy peaks are!
And Oh, be thy heart in its singing atune,
Thy skies be but blue with the splendors of June.
So bless thee and keep thee and spare thee—with pearls
Be thy days strung through life, little girl with the curls.
MY WONDERFUL DAD
MY Daddy, he lived in a wonderful house, and he played with such wonderful boys;
They were neighbors of his; and the attic they had was a storehouse of wonderful toys;
He slept every night in a wonderful bed, with a tick that his grandmother made
From the feathers of geese that she picked all herself, and so soft he was almost afraid
He would sink out of sight when he got into bed; he could look from his window right out
And see where the vines used to bring him sweet flowers just by crawling along up the spout;
And he could look over and see where the woods and the squirrels and birds used to be.
He must have had wonderful times where he lived from the way that he tells them to me!