A Back Yard Hunter

I can’t go hunting in the woods,

     I wouldn’t if I could;

And so I do the best I can,

     As any hunter should.

I am a back-yard hunter now,

     Large game does not abound;

But still I bag a goodly bit

     From tree and vine and ground.

I spy the bluebird on the wing,

     I hear the robin’s call;

Bob White he greats me every morn

     From on the garden wall.

And neighbor wren sings me hi song

     While guarding well his mate;

And brother whippoorwill at dusk

     Usurps the garden gate.

I bag fine fruit from off the trees,

     And berries from the vine;

And all the fragrant flowers there

     And butterflies are mine.

I lay rich trophies at the feet

     Of her, so sweet and kind;

I am a back yard hunter now,

     And Oh, what joy I find!

April 10, 1917