<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416777" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Child-World</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">A Child-World, yet a wondrous world no less,<br>To those who knew its boundless happiness.<br>A simple old frame house--eight rooms in all--<br>Set just one side the center of a small<br>But very hopeful Indiana town,--<br>The upper-story looking squarely down<br>Upon the main street, and the main highway<br>From East to West,--historic in its day,<br>Known as The National Road--old-timers, all<br>Who linger yet, will happily recall<br>It as the scheme and handiwork, as well<br>As property, of 'Uncle Sam,' and tell<br>Of its importance, 'long and long afore<br>Railroads wuz ever _dreamp_' of!'--Furthermore,<br>The reminiscent first Inhabitants<br>Will make that old road blossom with romance<br>Of snowy caravans, in long parade<br>Of covered vehicles, of every grade<br>From ox-cart of most primitive design,<br>To Conestoga wagons, with their fine<br>Deep-chested six-horse teams, in heavy gear,<br>High names and chiming bells--to childish ear<br>And eye entrancing as the glittering train<br>Of some sun-smitten pageant of old Spain.<br>And, in like spirit, haply they will tell<br>You of the roadside forests, and the yell<br>Of 'wolfs' and 'painters,' in the long night-ride,<br>And 'screechin' catamounts' on every side.--<br>Of stagecoach-days, highwaymen, and strange crimes,<br>And yet unriddled mysteries of the times<br>Called 'Good Old.' 'And why 'Good Old'?' once a rare<br>Old chronicler was asked, who brushed the hair<br>Out of his twinkling eyes and said,--'Well John,<br>They're 'good old times' because they're dead and gone!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The old home site was portioned into three<br>Distinctive lots. The front one--natively<br>Facing to southward, broad and gaudy-fine<br>With lilac, dahlia, rose, and flowering vine--<br>The dwelling stood in; and behind that, and<br>Upon the alley north and south, left hand,<br>The old wood-house,--half, trimly stacked with wood,<br>And half, a work-shop, where a workbench stood<br>Steadfastly through all seasons.--Over it,<br>Along the wall, hung compass, brace-and-bit,<br>And square, and drawing-knife, and smoothing-plane--<br>And little jack-plane, too--the children's vain<br>Possession by pretense--in fancy they<br>Manipulating it in endless play,<br>Turning out countless curls and loops of bright,<br>Fine satin shavings--Rapture infinite!<br>Shelved quilting-frames; the toolchest; the old box<br>Of refuse nails and screws; a rough gun-stock's<br>Outline in 'curly maple'; and a pair<br>Of clamps and old krout-cutter hanging there.<br>Some 'patterns,' in thin wood, of shield and scroll,<br>Hung higher, with a neat 'cane-fishing-pole'<br>And careful tackle--all securely out<br>Of reach of children, rummaging about.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Beside the wood-house, with broad branches free<br>Yet close above the roof, an apple-tree<br>Known as 'The Prince's Harvest'--Magic phrase!<br>That was _a boy's own tree_, in many ways!--<br>Its girth and height meet both for the caress<br>Of his bare legs and his ambitiousness:<br>And then its apples, humoring his whim,<br>Seemed just to fairly _hurry_ ripe for him--<br>Even in June, impetuous as he,<br>They dropped to meet him, halfway up the tree.<br>And O their bruised sweet faces where they fell!--<br>And ho! the lips that feigned to 'kiss them _well_'!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'The Old Sweet-Apple-Tree,' a stalwart, stood<br>In fairly sympathetic neighborhood<br>Of this wild princeling with his early gold<br>To toss about so lavishly nor hold<br>In bounteous hoard to overbrim at once<br>All Nature's lap when came the Autumn months.<br>Under the spacious shade of this the eyes<br>Of swinging children saw swift-changing skies<br>Of blue and green, with sunshine shot between,<br>And 'when the old cat died' they saw but green.<br>And, then, there was a cherry-tree.--We all<br>And severally will yet recall<br>From our lost youth, in gentlest memory,<br>The blessed fact--There was a cherry-tree.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows<br>Cool even now the fevered sight that knows<br>No more its airy visions of pure joy--<br>As when you were a boy.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There was a cherry-tree. The Bluejay set<br>His blue against its white--O blue as jet<br>He seemed there then!--But _now_--Whoever knew<br>He was so pale a blue!</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There was a cherry-tree--Our child-eyes saw<br>The miracle:--Its pure white snows did thaw<br>Into a crimson fruitage, far too sweet<br>But for a boy to eat.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy!--<br>There was a bloom of snow--There was a boy--<br>There was a Bluejay of the realest blue--<br>And fruit for both of you.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Then the old garden, with the apple-trees<br>Grouped 'round the margin, and 'a stand of bees'<br>By the 'white-winter-pearmain'; and a row<br>Of currant-bushes; and a quince or so.<br>The old grape-arbor in the center, by<br>The pathway to the stable, with the sty<br>Behind it, and _upon_ it, cootering flocks<br>Of pigeons, and the cutest 'martin-box'!--<br>Made like a sure-enough house--with roof, and doors<br>And windows in it, and veranda-floors<br>And balusters all 'round it--yes, and at<br>Each end a chimney--painted red at that<br>And penciled white, to look like little bricks;<br>And, to cap all the builder's cunning tricks,<br>Two tiny little lightning-rods were run<br>Straight up their sides, and twinkled in the sun.<br>Who built it? Nay, no answer but a smile.--<br>It _may_ be you can guess who, afterwhile.<br>Home in his stall, 'Old Sorrel' munched his hay<br>And oats and corn, and switched the flies away,<br>In a repose of patience good to see,<br>And earnest of the gentlest pedigree.<br>With half pathetic eye sometimes he gazed<br>Upon the gambols of a colt that grazed<br>Around the edges of the lot outside,<br>And kicked at nothing suddenly, and tried<br>To act grown-up and graceful and high-bred,<br>But dropped, _k'whop!_ and scraped the buggy-shed,<br>Leaving a tuft of woolly, foxy hair<br>Under the sharp-end of a gate-hinge there.<br>Then, all ignobly scrambling to his feet<br>And whinneying a whinney like a bleat,<br>He would pursue himself around the lot<br>And--do the whole thing over, like as not!...<br>Ah! what a life of constant fear and dread<br>And flop and squawk and flight the chickens led!<br>Above the fences, either side, were seen<br>The neighbor-houses, set in plots of green<br>Dooryards and greener gardens, tree and wall<br>Alike whitewashed, and order in it all:<br>The scythe hooked in the tree-fork; and the spade<br>And hoe and rake and shovel all, when laid<br>Aside, were in their places, ready for<br>The hand of either the possessor or<br>Of any neighbor, welcome to the loan<br>Of any tool he might not chance to own.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=James+Whitcomb+Riley">James Whitcomb Riley</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=416777" data-title="The Child-World de James Whitcomb Riley" data-description="A Child-World, yet a wondrous world no less, To those who knew its boundless happiness. A simple old frame house--eight rooms in all-- Set just one side the center of a small But very hopeful Indiana town,-- The upper-story looking squarely down U..."></div> </div> </div>

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