by James Whitcomb Riley
WASN’T it pleasant, O brother mine,
In those old days of the lost sunshine
Of youth—when the Saturday’s chores were through,
And the “Sunday’s wood” in the kitchen, too,
And we went visiting, “me and you,”
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s?
It all comes back so clear to-day!
Though I am as bald as you are grey—
Out by the barn-lot, and down the lane,
We patter along in the dust again,
As light as the tips of the drops of the rain,
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!
We cross the pasture, and through the wood
Where the old grey snag of the poplar stood,
Where the hammering “red-heads” hopped awry,
And the buzzard “raised” in the “clearing” sky,
And lolled and circled, as we went by
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!
And then in the dust of the road again;
And the teams we met, and the countrymen;
And the long highway, with sunshine spread
As thick as butter on country bread,
Our cares behind, and our hearts ahead,
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!
Why, I see her now in the open door,
Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o’er
The clapboard roof!—and her face—ah, me!
Wasn’t it good for a boy to see—
And wasn’t it good for a boy to be
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!
And oh, my brother, so far away,
This is to tell you she waits to-day
To welcome us:—Aunt Mary fell
Asleep this morning, whispering, “Tell
The boys to come!” And all is well
Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!
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