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Shant T. Boy

Last evening, I climbed to the brow of a hill,
That stood near the site of an old lumber
I sat on a rock and meditated awhile,
Of the days when we played on the old saw-
          dust pile.

I thought of the days in the sweet olden
When going barefooted was considered no
When as urchins devoid of sorrow or guile,
We played on the crest of the old sawdust

How we wrestled and romped, threw dust
          in the air
Into each others' faces and into the air,
Overflowing with mirth, with a grin and a
We plunged each others' heads in the old
          sawdust pile.


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The Hodag and Other Tales of the Logging Camps, Written by Lake Shore Kearney
(Madison, WI: Democrat Printing Press, 1928) Original Text and Illustrations Public Domain License.
Copyright © 2006-2014 Thrill Land.