The Passing of the Backhouse

- by James Whitecomb Riley



When memory keeps me company and moves to smiles and tears,
A weather-beaten object looms through the mist of years.
Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more,
And hurrying feet a path had made, straight to its swinging door.
Its architecture was a type of simple classic art,
But in the tragedy of life it played a leading part.
And oft the passing traveler drove slow, and heaved a sigh,
To see the modest hired girl slip out with glances shy.

We had our posey garden the women loved so well,
I loved it too, but better still I loved the stronger smell
That filled the evening breezes so full of homely cheer,
And told the night-o'ertaken tramp that human life was near.
On lazy August afternoons, it made a little bower,
Delightful, when my grandsire sat and whiled away an hour.
For there the summer mornings its very cares entwined,
And berry bushes reddened in the steaming soil behind.

All day fat spiders spun their webs to catch the buzzing flies
That flitted to and from the house, when Ma was baking pies.
And once a swarm of hornets bold had built a place there
And stung my unsuspecting Aunt - I must not tell you where.
Then father took a flaming pole - that was a happy day -
He nearly burned the building up, but the hornets left to stay.
When summer bloom began to fade and winter to arouse,
We banked the little building with a heap of hemlock boughs.

But when the crust was on the snow and the sullen skies were grey,
We did our duties promptly, there one purpose swayed the mind.
We tarried not, nor lingered long on what we left behind.
The torture of theat icy seat would make a spartan sob,
For needs must scrape the flesh with a lacerating cob,
What from a frost encrusted nail, was suspended by a string -
My father was a frugal man and wasted not a thing.

When Grandpa had to "go out back" and make his morning call,
We'd bundle up the dear old man with muffler and a shawl.
I knew the hole on which he sat - t'was padded all around
And once I dared to sit there - t'was all too big I found.
My loins were all too little and I jack-knifed there to stay.
They had to come and get me out, or I'd have passed away.
Then father said ambition was a thing that boys should shun
And I just had the childrens' hole till childhood days were done.

And still I marvel at the craft that cut those holes so true,
The baby hole, the slender hole that fitted sister Sue.
That dear old country landmark, I tramped around a bit,
And in the lap of luxury my lot has been to sit.
But 'ere I die I'll eat the fruit of tears I sobbed of yore,
Then seek the shanty where my name is carved upon the door.
I ween the old familiar smell will soothe my jaded soul,
I'm now a man, but none-the-less, I'll try the childrens' hole.


This poem has been hanging in my Mum and Dads' bathroom for longer than I can remember...