Passing of the Old Backhouse

When memory keeps me company
and moves to smiles or tears
A weather beaten objectm looms up
through the mist of the years

And hurrying feet a path had made
Straight to the swinging door
The architect was simple classic art
But in the tragedy of life it played a leading part

And oft the passing traveler, drove slow
and heaved a sigh, to see the modest hired
girl slip out with glances shy.

We had our posey garden that the women loved so well
I loved it too, but better still, loved the stronger smell
that filled the evening breezes, so full of homely cheer
and told the night O'er taken tramp, that human life was near

On lazy August afternoons, it made a little bower
Delightful... Where my grandsire, Whiled away the hour
Well there the summer morning, it's very cares entwined
and berry bushes reddened in the steamin' soil behind.

All day the fat spiders spun their webs to catch the buzzin'flies, that flitted to and from the house
Where Ma was bakin' pies.

And once a swarm of hornets bold built a palace there
And stung 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 heaps of hemlock boughs
But when the crust was on the snow and the sullen skies were gray. In sooth the building was no place to stay

We did out duties promptly there but one purpose swayed the mind, We tarried not, nor lingered long on what we left behind. The torture of that icy seat could make a Spartan sob
For needs must scrape the goose flesh with a lacerating cob.

That from frost encrusted nail was suspended on a string
My father being a frugel man, wasted not a thing
My grandpa had to go out back and make his morning call
he bundled up the dear old man with a muffler and a shawl.

I know the hole on which he sat...twas padded all around
and once I dared to sit there, it was too wide, I found.
The loins were all to little and I jackknifed there to say
They had to come and get me out or I'd of passed away.

Then father said ambition was a thing that boys should shun
and I must use the children's hole until child hood days were done. But still I marvel at th craft that cut those holes so true. The baby hole, the slender hole tht fitted sister too.

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 robbed of yore
Then seek the shanty where my name is carved upon the door
I ween, the old familiar smell will sooth my faded soul
I'm now a man, but none the less, I'll try the children's hole.