The Little Country Store

                                 I.

Speak lightly if you’re so inclined about the country store,

     The little way-back country store upon the village street,

Where neighbors gather nightly, say a dozen to a score,

To settle all the questions of the county as they meet.

A stove adorns the center where the “sitters” circle round

Perched idly on the nail kegs all upholstered with a plank;

And here you will hear wisdom that is logical and sound,

     And here you’ll find the essence of the true New England Yank.

                                 II.

The little stove is modest, it is small and dark and low,

The shelves are close and dusty packed with goods that smell of age;

The windows they are grimy with the dust of long ago,

And goods are stacked regardless like a picture puzzle page.

The counters long and cluttered, are a sight to greet the eye,

With paper bags and wrappings and a hundred things or more;

And barrels, crates and boxes, with the calicoes piled high,

     Make up the disarrangement of the little country store.

                                 III.

The grocer is the prophet, and he is the referee,

     He stands behind the counter with a smile that’s on to stay;

He is the fount of wisdom, when the “sitters” don’t agree,

And settles all the questions in his diplomatic way.

He never hurts their feelings, and he always sees fair play,

     He has an eye to business, also on the cracker can;

He knows the ones to credit, and he knows the ones who pay,

     A wise and able counsellor this country grocer man.

                                 IV.

The back room is the catch-all with its stock of grain and feed,

     Its mass of pork, molasses, salted fish and hams in view;

Its window glass and putty, and its last year’s garden seed,

     Its kerosene and farming tools no longer bright and new.

The cellar, with it grimy walls, and cobwebs overhead,

     Would better not be brought to view, but left to mold away;

It is too foul and gloomy with its veg’tables long dead,

     Its creaky stairs and timbers yearly going to decay.

                                 V.

There’s nothing much of interest in the little country store

     Unless it be disorder which is noted everywhere;

It’s what drops in of evenings that brings it to the fore,

     The wisdom that is fostered, and the questions settled there.

The sages of the village fill their places every night,

     The circle round the glowing stove just steers the nation’s course;

Each orator flays crookedness and graft with all his might,

     And praises up his candidate until he waxes hoarse.

                                 VI.

Ah! Look adown the list of names upon the honor scroll,

     Read o’er the grand historic page that tells of deeds and men;

Of soldiers, sailors, church and state, a never ending roll,

     Of scientists and diplomats, and lords of speech and pen.

Speak lightly if you’re so inclined about the country sage,

     The little country grocery perchance you know of yore;

But countless names upon the list that thunders down the age,

     Are names of those who honored once the little country store.

Dec. 28, 1912