He started to play hide and seek, and first he had to blind And then he ran with all his might to see who he could find, And Tommy Watkins beat him in from there behind a tree, Till Grandpa had to give it up and say, “All’s out’s in free!” And then he sat down on a stump and said he’s tired to death. He had to hold his sides a while till he could catch his breath. He said he’d like to shake a tree and make some apples fall, But he’s too tired, and we boys here are hardly tired at all!
He only ran in under once when we were in the swing, And then he had to rest because he’s tired as everything; And once he showed us how to climb a great, tall tree, but when He only got a few feet up he slid right down again. He said he used to climb a tree, oh, very, very tall And sit across a branch way up and never tire at all, But now he’s out of practice, and his legs won’t stay around The trunk, and he feels safer when he stays down on the ground!
And sometimes when he goes back home and holds us by the hand, All wringing wet and out of breath, our Ma says “Goodness, Land! I think you are the youngest boy of all the boys in sight.” But Grandpa rubs his legs and arms and limps and says “Not quite!” And sometimes in the parlor, why, he says he was so strong When he was just a boy they used to take him right along To lift the heavy things and do the hardest work, you know, But now us boys ’ll tire him out in just an hour or so!
I used to know a little lad, A youngster of thirteen, Who wasn’t very good or bad, But somewhere in between. He had such freckles on his nose As your nose seems to bear; Indeed, I’d almost think that those Were some he used to wear.
He used to have an old straw hat All frazzled at the brim, Indeed, I’d almost think that that Came down to you from him. And he had such a dog as now Barks joyfully along With you--it makes me wonder how It could have lived so long.
And in his heart he held such song As fell upon my ear, And echoed through the shadows long When you came whistling near; So when at twilight, dawn or noon This overture you bring, It seems to be the very tune This other lad would sing.
And he had pockets bulged with things By which he set much store, With knives and marbles, tops and strings And half a hundred more; I see your pockets emptied now, Your things cast up with care, Until they seem to be, somehow, His treasures you have there.