ABSTRACT
When we were farm-boys, years ago, I dare not tell how many,
When, strange to say, the fairest day Was often dark and rainy;
No work, no school, no weeds to pull, No picking up potatoes,
No copy-page to fill with blots, With little o's or great O's;
But jokes and stories in the barn Made quiet fun and frolic;
Draughts, fox-and-geese, and games like these, Quite simple and bucolic;
Naught else to do, but just to braid A lash, or sing and whittle,
Or go, perhaps, and set our traps, If it "held up" a little;
On one of those fine days, for which We boys were always wishing,
Too wet to sow, or plant, or hoe, Just right to go a fishing,—
I found, not what I went to seek, In the old farmhouse gable,—
Nor line, nor hook, but just a book That lay there on the table,
Beside my sister's candlestick (The wick burned to the socket);
A handy book to take to bed, Or carry in one's pocket.
