Classic Poem

He snuggles his fingers
In the blacker loam
The lean months are done with,
The fat to come.

— — His eyes are set
— — On a brushwood-fire
— — But his heart is soaring
— — Higher and higher.

Though he stands ragged
An old scarecrow,
This is the way
His swift thoughts go,

" Butter beans fo' Clara
Sugar corn fo' Grace
An' fo' de little feller
Runnin' space.

" Radishes and lettuce
Eggplants and beets
Turnips fo' de winter
An' candied sweets.

— — " Homespun tobacco
— — Apples in de bin
— — Fo' smokin' an' fo' cider
— — When de folks draps in. "

He thinks with the winter
His troubles are gone;
Ten acres unplanted
To raise dreams on.

— — The lean months are done with,
— — The fat to come.
— — His hopes, winter wanderers,
— — Hasten home.

" Butterbeans fo' Clara
Sugar corn fo' Grace
An' fo' de little feller
Runnin' space. . . . "