by Michael H. James
Off in the meddows where lies a hay stack,
Comes a rugged old man to his weathered shack.
Wears a black sock on one foot, gray on the other,
Bares a milk pail in one hand, stool in tother.
“Well blow me down”, he mutters away,
Me keow hain’t give but a quart today,
Takes out his knife and cuts some plug.
Gets a glass of beer from an antique jug.
Calls to his wife, “Hay, Nelly dear”.
“You git to making a bach of beer.
Now off we leave on a rocky road.
In front of us jumps a spotted toad.
It’s getting smooth, we hit the tar.
In back of us lies the country far.
We’ve passed an elm, and now we part.
Real New Hampshire’s behind, but still in our heart.
Mrs. James, wife of Alexander James, noted Dublin artist, won the Baker prize for individual acting at Durham in 1932. Her son, Michael, is age eleven.