"Roasting Corn" Poem

By Mrs. Clara Doty Bates.

A faint blue cloud of smoke

Creeps up the golden air:

It must be the wandering gypsy folk

Have lighted a fire there.

No doubt they have covered vans,

And ponies shaggy and lean,

Which they will tether with dusky hands

Along the wayside green.

And the bells on their bridles hung

Will tinkle idly sweet,

With the chatter of children, rude of tongue

And bare of feet --

While, with grimy tents spread out,

Their elders lazily

Wait for the steam of the kettle-spout

To burn the time for tea.

Though surely I can get

But whiffs of the camp-fire smoke,

And though I know they are vagrants, yet

I will visit these gypsy folk.

Well, now! and is this Jack?

This Gold-locks? and this Ted?

With clothes and fingers a smutty black

And cheeks a burning red--

So hungry and forlorn,

In grandpa's ample house,

That you must pilfer an ear of corn

And nibble it like a mouse?

Will I have some? The smell

Is of itself a treat.

I'll trust the boys and girls to tell

When things are good to eat!

(All poetry on this blog is in the public domain folks.)