Outhouse

The old outhouse,
Is tumbled and gone.
And the little, ole pathway,
Is grown up in lawn.

Long years ago,
With no time to waste.
We went that way stepping,
In such a great haste.

And sat our full time,
As we hummed up a tune.
So quietly watching,
The rise of the moon.

And listened to melodies,
That were softly pinned.
In sweet little stanzas,
That came from the wind.

Those were past days,
That memory doesn't lack.
When snow built a drift-way,
That covered the track.


E.P. 1908 - 1989