Читать книгу Cross Roads - Margaret E. Sangster - Страница 13

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When th.' sunshine's golden-yeller

Like th' curls upon his head,

Then he wakes—th' lil' feller—

An' he jumps up, outen bed;

An' he scrambles fer his knickers

Flung, perhaps, upon th' floor,

An' he takes his hat (my old 'un),

An' he races through th' door—

An' I hear his voice, a-singin',

In his odd, ole-fashioned way,

'Cause he's glad—th' lil' feller—

In th' mornin' o' the day.

Kinder makes me feel, well, lazy,

So I hurry up, outside,

Where th' mountains smile down, friendly—

And th' earth looks sorter wide;

An' I hear his voice a-callin',

Sayin', "Daddy, come an' see!"

An' I find him makin' gardens

Where a rock pile uster be—

An' I shout, "How goes it, sonny?"

An' my heart feels light an' gay,

Fer he's singin'—lil' feller—

In th' mornin' o' th' day.

Lil' feller, an' his gardens!

It don't matter much ter him,

If th' hoein's hard an' tedgious,

An' th' crop he grows is slim;

Fer he loves ter be a-workin',

An' he loves ter see things start

Outer nothin'. … There's a garden

In th' rock-bed o' my heart

That he's planted, just by singin'

In his odd, ole-fashioned way—

'Cause he's glad, MY LIL' FELLER,

In th' mornin' o' th' day!