Written June 6, 1954 at age 59

Note - This is another favorite of mine because it clearly depicts his son, my grandpa, acting at age 14 much the way he still acts at 80.

I asked my boy to clean the yard;
It needed raking badly.
He thought the job was much too hard,
And so, attacked it madly.

He raked and gathered cans and kites,
And many a cardboard box;
And things that blow on windy nights,
Such as his worn-out sox.

He took the truck, as you might know,
And drove away with joy,
To search the place where nought will grow,
But HOPE in the heart of a boy.

And O, the thrill to stand on a hill
Of tins and tires and stumps!
But I feel ill with a certain chill
When my boy comes home from the dumps.

My meal is cold, and the day is old
When he blares his vict'ry toot.
And I feel old, and my blood runs cold,
When I behold his loot.

The noise! His way, his song so gay!
O dear! I'm afraid to look.
O Dad, please haul that junk away,
For he brought back more than he took.