Passing Of The Back-House
When memory keeps me company and moves to smiles or tears,
A weather-beaten object looms through the mist of years,
Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more,
And hurrying feet a path had made, straight to its swinging door.
Its architecture was a type of simple classic art,
But in the tragedy of life it played a leading part.
And oh, the passing traveler drove slow, and heaved a sigh
To see the modest hired girl slip out with glances shy.
We had our posy garden that the women loved so well,
I loved it too but better still I loved the stronger smell
That filled the evening breezes so full of homely cheer,
And told the night-o'ertaken tramp that human life was near.
On lazy August afternoons, it made a little bower
Delightful, where my grandsire sat and whiled away an hour.
For there the summer mornings its very cares entwined,
And berry bushes reddened in the steaming soil behind.
All day fat spiders spun their webs to catch the buzzing flies,
That flitted to and from the house where Ma was baking pies.
And once a swarm of hornets bold, had built a palace there,
And stung my unsuspecting Aunt - I must not tell you where
Then father took a flaming pole - that was a happy day
He nearly burned the building up, but the hornets left to stay.
When summer bloom began to fade and winter to carouse,
We banked the little building with a heap of hemlock boughs.
But when the crust was on the snow and the sullen skies were gray
In sooth, the building was no place where one could wish to stay.
We did our duties promptly, there one purpose swayed the mind,
We tarried not, nor lingered long on what we left behind,
The torture of that icy seat would make a Spartan sob,
For needs must scrape the gooseflesh with a lacerating cob,
That from a frost-encrusted nail was suspended by a string-
For Father was a frugal man and wasted not a thing.
When Grandpa had to "go out back" and make his morning call,
We'd bundle up the dear old man with a muffler and a shawl,
I knew the hole on which he sat, 'twas padded all around,
And once I dared to sit there - 'twas all too wide I found,
My loins were all too little and I jack-knifed there to stay,
They had to come and get me out or I'd have passed away.
Then Father said ambition was a thing that boys should shun,
And I just use the children's hole 'til childhood days were done.
And still I marvel at the craft that cut those holes so true,
The baby hole, and the slender hole that fitted Sister Sue.
That dear old country landmark; I've tramped around a bit,
And in the lap of luxury my lot has been to sit-
But 'ere I die I'll eat the fruit of trees I robbed of yore
Then seek the shanty where my name is carved upon the door,
I ween the old familiar smell will soothe my faded soul,
I'm now a man, but none the less I'll try the children's hole.
"James Whitcomb Riley"
Another great poem "No Vermonter's In Heaven"
And another poem"The Calf Path"
Another short story about a dog"Taking Care Of Business"