Its architecture was a type of simple classic art,
But in the tragedy of years it played a leading part;
And oft the passing traveler drove slow and heaved a sigh,
To see the modest hired girl step 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 homely cheer;
And told the night-o'ertaken tramp that human life was near.

On lazy August afternoons, it made a little bower,
Delightful where my grandsire sat and whiled away an hour.
For there the summer mornings its every cares entwined,
And berry bushes reddened in the steaming soil behind.

All day fat spiders spun their webs to catch the buzzing flies,
That flitted to and from the house where Ma was making pies;
And once a swarm of hornets bold 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--
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 a heap of hemlock boughs.

But when the crust was on the snow and the sullen skies were gray,
In sooth the building was no place where one would wish to stay,
We did our duties promptly, there one purpose swayed the mind,
We tarried not, nor lingered long on what we left behind.

The torture of that icy seat would make a Spartan sob;
For needs must scrape the goose flesh with a lacerating cob
That from a frost-encrusted nail was suspended by a string--
My father was a frugal man who wasted not a thing.

When grandpa had to go out back and make his morning call,
We'd bundle up the dear old man with a muffler and a shawl.
I know the seat on which he sat--'twas padded all around,
And once I dared to sit there--'twas all too wide, I found.

My loins were all too little and I jack-knifed there to stay.
They had to come and get me or I'd have passed away.
Then father said ambition was a thing that boys should shun.
And I just used the children's hole till childhood days were done

And still I marvel at the craft that cut those holes so true.
The baby hole--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 the trees I robbed of yore;
Then seek the shanty where my name is carved upon the door.
I ween that old familiar smell will soothe my faded soul,
I'm now a man, but none the less I'll try the children's hole.