THE BAREFOOT BOY
By JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
Blessings on you, little fellow,
Barefoot boy, with cheek of tan!
With your turned-up pantaloons
And your merry, whistled tunes;
With your lip, made redder still
By the strawberries on the hill;
With the sunshine on your face,
Peeking through your torn-brim’s jaunty grace;
From my heart I wish you joy,—
I was once a barefoot boy!
Prince you are,—the grown-up man
Only calls himself republican.
Let the million-dollared ride!
Barefoot, trudging at his side,
You possess more than he can buy
In what the ear and eye can spy,—
Outward sunshine, inward joy:
Blessings on you, barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood’s painless play,
Sleep that wakes to laughing day,
Health that mocks the doctor’s rules,
Knowledge never learned from schools—
Of the wild bee’s morning chase,
Of the wild-flower’s time and place,
Flight of fowl and habit true
Of the tenants of the wood;
How the tortoise bears his shell,
How the woodchuck digs his cell,
How the ground-mole sinks his well;
How the robin feeds her young,
How the oriole’s nest is hung;
Where the whitest lilies blow,
Where the freshest berries grow,
Where the ground-nut trails its vine,
Where the wood-grape’s clusters shine;
Of the black wasp’s cunning way,
Mason of his walls of clay,
And the architectural plans
Of gray hornet artisans!
For, eschewing books and tasks,
Nature answers all he asks;
Hand in hand with her he walks,
Face to face with her he talks,
Part and parcel of her joy,—
Blessings on the barefoot boy!
Oh for boyhood’s time of June,
Crowding years into one brief moon,
When all things I heard or saw
Waited for me, their master, all in awe.
I was rich in flowers and trees,
Humming-birds and honey-bees;
For my sport the squirrel played,
The snouted mole his spade displayed;
For my taste the blackberry cone
Purpled over hedge and stone;
Laughed the brook for my delight
Through the day and through the night,
Whispering by the garden wall,
Talking with me from fall to fall;
Mine the sand-rimmed pickerel pond,
Mine the walnut slopes beyond,
Mine, on bending orchard trees,
Apples like the Hesperides!
Still as my horizon grew,
Larger grew my riches too;
All the world I saw or knew
Seemed a curious Chinese toy,
Fashioned for a barefoot boy!
Oh for festal dainties spread,
Like my simple bowl of bread and milk;
Pewter spoon and wooden bowl,
On the doorstep, gray and old!
Over me, like a regal tent,
Cloudy-ribbed, the sunset bent,
Purple-curtained, fringed with gold,
Looped in many a wind-swung fold;
While for music came the play
Of the pied frogs’ orchestra;
And, to light the noisy choir,
Lit the fly his little lamp of fire.
I was monarch: pomp and joy
Waited on the barefoot boy!
Cheerily, then, my little man,
Live and laugh, as boyhood can!
Though the flinty slopes be hard,
Though new-mown fields be stubbled and scarred,
Each morning will lead you through
Fresh baptisms of the dew;
Each evening, from your feet
Shall the cool wind kiss away the heat:
All too soon these feet must hide
In the prison-cells of pride,
Lose the freedom of the sod,
Like a colt that’s shod for work be trod,
Made to tread the mills of toil,
Up and down in ceaseless moil:
Happy if their track be found
Never on forbidden ground;
Happy if they sink not in
Quick and treacherous sands of sin.
Ah, that you might know your joy,
Ere it passes, barefoot boy!
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