My mother always taught me, to <br /> Speak when I was spoke to. <br />But at West Plains the other day <br /> Such strange things, in a more strange way. <br />My throat here, just seemed to swell <br /> And what was wrong, I could not tell, <br />But not one word then, could I speak <br /> I tried, yet I could only squeak. <br /> <br />They welcomed us to their city, with a band <br /> Like the Israelites entering Canaan Land. <br />I'd like to be a boy scout <br /> And know like they, what it's all about. <br /> <br />When I'm a man, I'll join a band <br /> And make good music, through out the land. <br />Then children will come, to hear me play <br /> And spend another wonderful day. <br /> <br />Now, I'd like to thank those good people all <br /> Some day I'll pay them another call. <br />For such kindly attention, is ne'er so bad <br /> For a small, red haired country lad. <br /> <br />* * * * * * * <br /> <br />Composed for - T. Othel James <br />After the visitation of Bratcher School group (His home school) <br />to West Plains. Sept.1926. With Onard Upton—Teacher.<br /><br />Della Hodgson James<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/musings-of-a-country-lad/
