The
good old days were best of all,
The days of long ago,
When
we walked through the woods to school
Two full grown miles or so.
How
oft we lingered on the way,
Alive with childish glee,
And
with our flying sticks and stone
Whacked chestnuts from the tree.
And
then on Saturdays the trips
With baskets, bags and pails
To
hillsides where the ledges were,
To deeper woods and vales;
The
big and spreading chestnut trees
Where nuts came rattling down.
O,
who would swap a scene like this
For pleasures in a town?
Alas!
No more I shake the trees
To bring my chestnuts down;
No
more I walk the country ways,
For I must live in town.
To
get my store of chestnuts now
I have to sit and think
And
dig them from my massive brow
By means of pen and ink.
Sept.
29, ‘09
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