The Passing of the Old Backhouse
When memory keeps me company and moves to smiles or tears,
A weather-beaten object looms up thru the mist of years.
Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more,
And hurrying feet a path had made, straight to its swinging door.
Its architecture was a type of simple classic art,
But in the tragedy of life it played a leading part.
And oft the weary 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, I loved the stronger smell,
That filled the evening breezes, so full of homey cheer,
And told the night o'taken tramp that human life was near.
On lazy August afternoons, it made a cozy bower,
Delightful, where my Grandsire sat and whiled away an hour.
For there the summer morning, its very cares entrined,
And berry bushes reddened in the streaming soil behind.
All day fat spiders spun their webs to catch the buzzing flies,
That flitted to and from the house, where Ma was baking pies.
And once a swarm of hornets bold, had built a palace there,
And stung my unsuspecting aunt, - I must not tell you where.
Then father took a flaming pole - that was a happy day,
They nearly burn't the building down, but the hornets left to stay.
When summer blooms began to fade and winter to carouse,
We banked the little building, with a heap of hemlock boughs.
But when the crust was on the snow and sullen skies were gray,
In sooth the building was no place, where one would wish to stay.
We did our duties promptly, their one purpose swayed the mind,
We tarried not, nor lingered long on what we left behind.
The torture of the icy seat could make a spartan sob,
For needs must scrape the gooseflesh with a lacerating cob.
That from a frost encrusted nail was suspended from a string,
My father was a frugal man and wasted not a thing.
When Grandpa had to "go out back" to make his morning call,
We'd bundle 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 - 'twas all to wide, I found.
My loins were all too little, and I jack-knifed there to stay,
They had to come and get me out, or I'd a-passed away.
Then father said ambition was a thing that boys should shun,
And I must use the children's hole 'till childhood days were done.
But still I marvel at the craft that cut those holes so true,
The baby hole, and the slender hole that fitted sister Sue.
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 I robbed of yore,
Then seek the shanty where my name is carved upon the door.
I ween the old familiar smell will soothe my faded soul,
I'm now a man, but none the less, I'll try the children's hole.
UNPUBLISHED, AUTHOR UNKNOWN