At Pelletier’s
We’ve been out to Pelletier’s
Brushing off the stain of years,
Quitting all the moods of men
And been boys and girls again.
We have romped through orchards blazing,
Petted ponies gently grazing,
Hidden in the hayloft’s spaces,
And the queerest sort of places
That are lost (and it’s a pity!)
To the youngsters in the city.
And the hired men have let us
Drive their teams, and stopped to get us
Apples from the trees, and lingered
While a cow’s cool nose we fingered;
And they told us all about her
And her grandpa who was stouter.
We’ve been out to Pelletier’s
Watching horses raise their ears,
And their joyous whinnies hearing
When the man with oats was nearing.
We’ve been climbing trees an’ fences
Never minding consequences.
And we helped the man to curry
The fat ponies’ sides so furry.
And we saw a squirrel taking
Walnuts to the nest he’s making,
Storing them for winter, when he
Can’t get out to hunt for any.
And we watched the turkeys, growing
Big and fat and never knowing
That the reason they were living
Is to die for our Thanksgiving.
We’ve been out to Pelletier’s,
Brushing off the stain of years.
We were kids set free from shamming
And the city’s awful cramming,
And the clamor and the bustle
And the fearful rush and hustle—
Out of doors with room to race in
And broad acres soft to chase in.
We just stretched our souls and let them
Drop the petty cares that fret them,
Left our narrow thoughts behind us,
Loosed the selfish traits that bind us
And were wholesomer and plainer
Simpler, kinder folks and saner,
And at night said: 'It’s a pity
Mortals ever built a city.’
Other works by Edgar Albert Guest...
