"The Passing of the Backhouse"

That of the famous jokester Will Rogers

Course, yes--but in its country way sort of grudgingly cute, too. Sort of. I didn't grow up anywhere near a privy, so I can't say what's in this goofy doggerel is in any way nostalgic. The poem--if it can be called such--came to me in an ancient unmarked envelope and shouldn't really be reprinted. 

That being said, I had to smile when I read it, and that's why I'm passing it along. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

When memory keeps me company and moves to smiles or tears, 
a weather-beaten object looms through the mist of years.
Behind the house and barn it stood, a good half-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 that 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, where my grandsire sat to while away an hour,
For there the summer morning 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 fro from the house, where Ma was baking pies.
And once a swarm of hornets bold, had build a palace 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 carouse
We banked the little building with a heap of hemlock boughs.

But when the crust was on the snow and sullen skies were gray,
in sootoh the building was no place where one could wish to stay.
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 that icy seat would make a Spartan sob,
for needs must scrape the goose-flesh with a lacerating cob--
that from a frost-encrusted nail was suspended by a string
For 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--'twas padded all around;
and once I dared to sit there--'twas all too wide I found.
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 need the children's hole 'till childhood days were done.

And still I marvel at the craft that cut those holes so true,
the baby hole, and the slender hold 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 trees robbed 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 nonetheless, I'll try the children's hole.