THE HAPPIEST DAYS

You do not know it, little man,

In your summer coat of tan

And your legs bereft of hose

And your peeling, sunburned nose,

With a stone bruise on your toe,

Almost limping as you go

Running on your way to play

Through another summer day,

Friend of birds and streams and trees,

That your happiest days are these.

Little do you think to-day,

As you hurry to your play,

That a lot of us, grown old

In the chase for fame and gold,

Watch you as you pass along

Gayly whistling bits of song,

And in envy sit and dream

Of a long-neglected stream,

Where long buried are the joys

We possessed when we were boys.

Little chap, you cannot guess

All your sum of happiness;

Little value do you place

On your sunburned freckled face;

And if some shrewd fairy came

Offering sums of gold and fame

For your summer days of play,

You would barter them away

And believe that you had made

There and then a clever trade.

Time was we were boys like you,

Bare of foot and sunburned, too,

And, like you, we never guessed

All the riches we possessed;

We'd have traded them back then

For the hollow joys of men;

We'd have given them all to be

Rich and wise and forty-three.

For life never teaches boys

Just how precious are their joys.

Youth has fled and we are old.

Some of us have fame and gold;

Some of us are sorely scarred,

For the way of age is hard;

And we envy, little man,

You your splendid coat of tan,

Envy you your treasures rare,

Hours of joy beyond compare;

For we know, by teaching stern,

All that some day you must learn.