The mill that once stood there has gone to|
And our barefooted days are now far, far
Yet I return there just once in awhile
To take a big sniff of the old sawdust pile.
No flowers, no matter how fragrant and fair,
With sweet odored blossoms have scented
Though they grow on the banks of the Hud-
son or Nile
Can smell half so sweet as the old sawdust
In a very few years, I’ll become old and
And the strength of my legs shall be taken
Yet I’d crawl on my hands and my knees for
To get one more sniff of the old sawdust pile.