We know it's breakfast time, and go Out past the yellow stacks of straw, Across the creek that used to flow, But won't flow now until a thaw.
Behind the trees the sky is pink, The snow drifts by in fat white flakes, My gran'dad says: "Well, Bob, I think There comes a smell of buckwheat cakes."
A BOY'S TRIALS.
When I was but a little lad One thing I could not bear, It was to stand at mother's knee And have her comb my hair.
They didn't keep boys' hair as short As it's kept now-a-days, And mine was always tangled up In twenty different ways.
I'd twist my mouth and grit my teeth, And say it wasn't fair— It was a trial, and no mistake, When mother combed my hair.
She'd brush and brush each stubborn curl That grew upon my pate, And with her scissors nip and clip To make the edges straight.
Then smooth it down until it shone, While I would grin and bear, And feel a martyr through and through, When mother combed my hair.