  SAY, did you ever go to a place Where nobody lived you cared about, An’ jest go wanderin’ up an’ down, Into all the great big stores, an’ out. An’ meetin’ sich heaps, an’ heaps of folks, That pass you by with never a nod, Till you got to feelin’ through an’ through Jest right down lonesome, an, ’most outlawed. An’ you tell yourself if someone said “Will you have this place?” You’d say, No thanks! I wouldn’t live here for all the world, Give me the fields, an’ the brooks an’ banks. Why the stuff that grows in your lots here Can’t touch one side of our country stuff, You have things tended to, right up fine, But nature is sweet, though maybe rough. An’ your blossoms aren’t half so nice, Nor your creepin’ vines, nor growin’ grass, Why! ’cause ours swim in the sun all day, An’ yours stretch their necks to see him pass. So you try somehow to pass the time, A-wanderin’ up, and a-wanderin’ down, So sick of yourself, but sicker still Of the folks you meet, in that old town. Such dressy folks that don’t care a snap, Not knowin’ you from Adam’s off ox, An’ by an’ by you lift up your eyes, An’ see such a clump of hollyhocks, A-holdin’ their own in some grand place, With their shiny leaves spread in the sun, Noddin’ so friendly, seemin’ to say “Come in old neighbor, an’ share the fun!” There’s no flower nicer it seems to me, There’s nothin’ prettier grows nor blows, Though some folks call them old-fashioned things, A-thinkin’ them homely I suppose. But you come across them some fine day When you’re so homesick you can’t get air Enough for your lungs down through your throat, Because of the lump that’s stoppin’ there. An’ say, I would’nt wonder a bit In you felt a mist come in your eyes At sight of the bright familiar things,— The nicest flowers under the skies. For they set me thinkin’ of a house, That stands by itself among the trees, With a big wide porch, an’ stragglin’ walk Bordered by jest such flowers as these, Till you hear the old familiar sounds, The chirpin’, the buzzin’ soft an’ low, An’ sniff the breath that comes with the wind From the ripe, red clover down below. Till a big warm feelin’ swamps your heart, You’re not so lonesome, there on their stalks Are friends a-plenty, smilin’ at you, The pretty old-fashioned hollyhocks. Folks write of pansy, rose, and fern, But if I was a poet an’ could rhyme, I wouldn’t bother with common things, I’d write of hollyhocks, every time. [Decorative image unavailable.] |
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