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.

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