The Biggest Durn Fools
On The Crick
Each year as the month of October comes on
With a chill in the air just at night,
We roll up the tent and we hike for the woods
For a lark where the camp fire is bright.
For the spirit of camping just pulls at our hearts,
And wins every time at the trick,
Tho' the neighbors may say as they see us go by,
"They're the biggest durn fools on the crick."
For we roll up the logs right in front of the tent,
And we carry in straw for the beds,
And we make a hall tree from a sapling close by,
And hang on the togs from our heads;
Then we rake out the ashes and roll the spuds in
And cover them over with embers,
And the supper we have when the coffee is made,
Once tasted, one always remembers.
Oh! the stories we tell when the supper is o'er,
Oh! the noises so strange all around us,
When the hooty owl hoots as he circles about,
As if screaming because he had found us.
The blazing at times as the camp fire recedes,
The dying so slow of the embers___
The one who has tasted the joy of camp life,
Forever and ever remembers!
What a sweet, happy change from the humdrum
of work,
So care-free with camp fire a glowing;
No thought of tomorrow___just living today___
What happens, not caring or knowing.
Then pulling up stakes for the drive to our homes,
In the morning with hearts beating quick,
Not caring if others who ne'er camped, may say,
"They're the biggest durn fools on the crick."
__Ed Blair.
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