My mother always taught me, to
Speak when I was spoke to.
But at West Plains the other day
Such strange things, in a more strange way.
My throat here, just seemed to swell
And what was wrong, I could not tell,
But not one word then, could I speak
I tried, yet I could only squeak.
They welcomed us to their city, with a band
Like the Israelites entering Canaan Land.
I'd like to be a boy scout
And know like they, what it's all about.
When I'm a man, I'll join a band
And make good music, through out the land.
Then children will come, to hear me play
And spend another wonderful day.
Now, I'd like to thank those good people all
Some day I'll pay them another call.
For such kindly attention, is ne'er so bad
For a small, red haired country lad.
* * * * * * *
Composed for - T. Othel James
After the visitation of Bratcher School group (His home school)
to West Plains. Sept.1926. With Onard Upton—Teacher.
Della Hodgson James
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/musings-of-a-country-lad/
