_By James B. Weaver_
Hard paved streets and hurrying feet,
Where it's oft but a nod when old friends meet,
Rattle of cart and shriek of horn,
Laughing Youth and Age forlorn,
Bound for the office I speed away,
When my auto brushes--a load of hay!
Chauffeur curses, I scarcely hear,
For things I loved as a boy seem near:
Scent of meadows at early morn,
Miles of waving fields of corn,
Lowing cattle and colts at play--
Far have I drifted another way!
Hark, the bell as it calls the noon!
Boys at their chores, hear them whistle a tune!
Barn doors creaking on rusty locks,
Rattle of corn in the old feed-box,
Answering nicker at toss of hay--
Old sweet sounds of a far-off day.
There, my driver stops with a jerk;
Then far aloft to the scene of my work;
But all day long midst the city's roar
My heart is the heart of a boy once more,
My feet in old-time fields astray,
Lured--by the scent from a load of hay!