 | The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") |  |
THE COUNTRY-BOY'S LETTER.
You needn't tell me of the frolic and glee
Down there, in the holiday days;
With the rattle and rush, and the snow and the slush,
Of the big city's crowded ways;
The people all frown if you holla in town;
You never dare show them your joy,
Nor whistle or shout, if in-doors or out;
And that's rather hard on a boy.
Down there, in the holiday days;
With the rattle and rush, and the snow and the slush,
Of the big city's crowded ways;
The people all frown if you holla in town;
You never dare show them your joy,
Nor whistle or shout, if in-doors or out;
And that's rather hard on a boy.
But here, in the morn, when John sounds the horn,
I look at my snares and my traps;
And they're always complete, for I'm not to be beat
In such things by the neighboring chaps.
I can yell as I go over hard-crusted snow
Where the doodridges grow by the rocks,
To see if each noose be tightened or loose,
Or if bunny be caught in a box.
I look at my snares and my traps;
And they're always complete, for I'm not to be beat
In such things by the neighboring chaps.
254
Where the doodridges grow by the rocks,
To see if each noose be tightened or loose,
Or if bunny be caught in a box.
When Betty avers that great trouble is hers,
With the oven not fit for the bread,
The axe then I ply, and the great chips they fly,
At the wood-pile under the shed.
As the dry billets in I bring with a grin,
If Betty complain of the rout,
I say: “What would you for the oven-wood do
If you hadn't a young man about?”
With the oven not fit for the bread,
The axe then I ply, and the great chips they fly,
At the wood-pile under the shed.
As the dry billets in I bring with a grin,
If Betty complain of the rout,
I say: “What would you for the oven-wood do
If you hadn't a young man about?”
While grandfather there in his straight-backed chair,
O'er yesterday's newspaper pores,
Or sinks in a nap, I get mittens and cap,
And go on a lark out of doors.
With my sled off I dash and then like a flash
I coast from the slope of the hill,
Or strap on my skates with their newly-ground plates,
At the pond by the old grey mill.
O'er yesterday's newspaper pores,
Or sinks in a nap, I get mittens and cap,
And go on a lark out of doors.
With my sled off I dash and then like a flash
I coast from the slope of the hill,
Or strap on my skates with their newly-ground plates,
At the pond by the old grey mill.
To the post-office then with one of our men
I ride in the two-horse sleigh;
And John never complains that I handle the reins,
But lets me drive all the way.
But Dobbin and Ball, they don't like it at all,
For I won't stand fooling, you see:
On John they play tricks, but afraid of my licks,
They never cut capers with me.
I ride in the two-horse sleigh;
And John never complains that I handle the reins,
But lets me drive all the way.
But Dobbin and Ball, they don't like it at all,
For I won't stand fooling, you see:
On John they play tricks, but afraid of my licks,
They never cut capers with me.
255
For the rest of the day I just take my own way,
And always have fun at a pinch;
I've a man built of snow in the hollow below,
And high—he's six feet if an inch.
And mother, why she's making something for me—
A ball, stuffed with rubber and yarn;
And when Perkin's Bill he comes over the hill,
Don't we have such high times in the barn?
And always have fun at a pinch;
I've a man built of snow in the hollow below,
And high—he's six feet if an inch.
And mother, why she's making something for me—
A ball, stuffed with rubber and yarn;
And when Perkin's Bill he comes over the hill,
Don't we have such high times in the barn?
The shell-barks I've got, you should see what a lot,
And with apples the bins are all full;
There are bushels of pears in the drawers by the stairs;
And father has sold the old bull.
Last summer, you know, the bull frightened you so,
And you ran and crawled under the fence;
'Twas only a cow, not the bull, anyhow—
I thought city boys had more sense.
And with apples the bins are all full;
There are bushels of pears in the drawers by the stairs;
And father has sold the old bull.
Last summer, you know, the bull frightened you so,
And you ran and crawled under the fence;
'Twas only a cow, not the bull, anyhow—
I thought city boys had more sense.
You write of your fun, and you think we have none,
But you'd better believe we have some
At this time of the year; so join me out here—
Coax your mother, and she'll let you come.
Bring skates and some twine—I've used all of mine—
And some snares I'll soon fix up for you;
We'll skate and we'll trap, and coast, too, old chap;
But don't bring a sled—I have two.
But you'd better believe we have some
At this time of the year; so join me out here—
Coax your mother, and she'll let you come.
Bring skates and some twine—I've used all of mine—
And some snares I'll soon fix up for you;
We'll skate and we'll trap, and coast, too, old chap;
But don't bring a sled—I have two.
| The select poems of Dr. Thomas Dunn English (exclusive of the "Battle lyrics") | |