Say, did sun e’er brightly shine
As when, with his rod and line
Tramps the barefoot lad a-fishing, and the water clear and fine?
Sweet the murmur of the trees,
And what glory now he sees
In the chatter of the wild birds and the buzz of bumble-bees!
Hear the green woods cry and call,
Through the Summer to the Fall,
“We are waiting, waiting, waiting, with a welcome for you all!”
Hear the lads take up the cry,
With an echo, shrill and high:
“We are coming, coming, coming, for vacation time is nigh!”
How the skies are blue and fair,
How the clover scents the air
With a witchery of fragrance that is delicate and rare!
How the blossoms bud and blow,
And the great waves flood and flow
In the ocean of boy happiness, like billows, to and fro!
Ah, my heart goes back and sighs
When the piping calls and cries
From the hearts of merry youngsters like a song of triumph rise!
And I would that rune and rhyme
Might be splendid and sublime
In my heart to tell the story of a boy’s vacation time!
A BOY’S CHOICE
I’D ruther take a w’ippin’ ’an a scoldin’ any day,
’Cuz a w’ippin’ makes you tingle, but you go right out an’ play,
An’ after w’ile you’re over it an’ ’en at dinner, w’y,
Your mother’s awful sorry an’ she brings a piece of pie
An’ says she hates to do it, ’cuz it hurts her ’ist as bad
As it does anybody w’en she w’ips her little lad.
An’ ’en at night she kisses you an’ puts you into bed
An’ tucks the covers in an’ says you’re Mamma’s Turly-head,
An’ my! she’s ’ist so lovely! An’ she sits beside of you
’Ist ’cuz she feels so sorry over w’at she had to do.
An’ ’en she leaves the candle burn an’ says for you to call
If you want anything from her, an’ you ain’t scairt at all!
But w’en you get a scoldin’ she don’t never bring you pie,
Becuz you’ll surely break her heart; an’ ’en she starts to cry;
An’ my! you feel so sorry, an’ you wisht she wouldn’t, ’cuz
It shows you how you’ve grieved her an’ how turble bad you wuz.
An’ all day long she never smiles; an’ w’en you go to bed
She never leaves the candle burn or calls you Turly-head.
An’ sometimes you see big, w’ite things a-lookin’ at your bed,
’At makes you scairt an’ pull the covers up above your head,
An’ ’en you s’pose how would you feel if Mamma wuz to die,
An’ biumby you feel so bad ’at you ’ist start to cry.
So w’en she looks at you so hurt an’ talks to you ’at way—
I’d ruther take a w’ippin’ ’an a scoldin’ any day!