Behind the Cart

O, many, many years ago,

     Before the city’s charm

Spread over hill and golden vale,

     And called me from the farm.

I used to go, a barefoot boy,

     With light and gladsome heart,

Out in the hayfield with the men

     And rake behind the cart.

‘Twas but a humble, simple task,

     Scorned by the most of men;

And I would wish that I could load

     Or do the pitching then.

But father said, and father knew,

     ‘Twas an important part;

“The hay is just as good my son,

           That lies behind the cart.”

And so I raked and heaped it up

     Out in the summer’s sun,

Proud of the little I had raked

     When my day’s work was done.

I saw a well-cleaned field behind,

     In which I’d played a part;

A well-filled barn ahead, helped by

     The rakings from the cart.

In later life I plainly saw

     The lessons of the hay;

It is the scatterings we save

     That help us on the way.

Out in the wider fields of life

     Scorn not the humbler part;

But see the field is gathered clean,

     And rake behind the cart.

July 14, ‘09