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Tuesday, May 17, 2016

A BAREFOOT BOY
James Whitcomb Riley 1849-1916

A barefoot boy! I mark him at his play — 
      For May is here once more, and so is he, — 
      His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee, 
    And his bare ankles grimy, too, as they: 
    Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array 
      Of feverish stripes, hint vividly to me 
      Of woody pathways winding endlessly 
    Along the creek, where even yesterday 
    He plunged his shrinking body — gasped and shook — 
     Yet called the water "warm," with never lack 
   Of joy. And so, half enviously I look 
     Upon this graceless barefoot and his track, — 
     His toe stubbed — ay, his big toe-nail knocked back 
   Like unto the clasp of an old pocketbook.

-o=0=o-

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