But nobody writes of the quaint delights

Of the sunny days and the merry nights

Or tells us the things that we yearn to know—

That art passed out with the long ago,

And lost are the simple tales;

Yet we all would happier be, I think,

If we'd spend more time with our pen and ink.

[Pg 16]

[Pg 16]

GOD MADE THIS DAY FOR ME

Jes' the sort o' weather and jes' the sort o' sky

Which seem to suit my fancy, with the white clouds driftin' by

On a sea o' smooth blue water. Oh, I ain't an egotist,

With an "I" in all my thinkin', but I'm willin' to insist

That the Lord that made us humans an' the birds in every tree

Knows my special sort o' weather an' He made this day fer me.

This is jes' my style o' weather—sunshine floodin' all the place,

An' the breezes from the eastward blowin' gently on my face.

An' the woods chock-full o' singin' till you'd think birds never had

A single care to fret 'em or a grief to make 'em sad.

 Prev. P 13/85 next