The Old White Tent
And the blaze flickers up from the grate,
Sweet mirrors of joys, in the haze, appear
When I swung with a youthful gait;
And I see, as the pipe seems to carry me back
To the scenes of the dear old days,
The touches of Life, that have been "green spots",
As I sit, and fondly gaze.
There are school days there in the long ago
There are flowers of early spring,
There are pictures rare of the orchard fair
There are song birds on the wing
There are picnics out in the grand, grand woods
Where the feast was spread in the shade
There are barefoot days, of the early Mays
When far from home we strayed.
There's a picture, dearer perhaps than all,
Of a tent where the campfire burned,
Where we sat by the glow of the crackling blaze
As the hour of midnight turned.
Oh the thrills that came, with the snapping twig
Or the rustle of leaves close by!
Or the hoot of the owl from the old oak tree
That bade us in haste to fly!
Sweet joys of the great, out doors are mine
And my heart still bursts to song
Of the sweet hours spent in the old white tent,
Though I'm now in a city's throng.
Yes, mirrored again as I sit in my chair,
Are the faces that seem to wait
As I light my pipe when the evening comes
And the blaze flickers up from the grate
(Spring Hill, Kansas: New Era Publishing Co. 1939)