I do not quarrel with the gas, <br />Our modern range is fine, <br />The ancient stove was doomed to pass <br />From Time's grim firing line, <br />Yet now and then there comes to me <br />The thought of dinners good <br />And pies and cake that used to be <br />When mother cooked with wood. <br />The axe has vanished from the yard, <br />The chopping block is gone, <br />There is no pile of corkwood hard <br />For boys to work upon; <br />There is no box that must be filled <br />Each morning to the hood; <br />Time in its ruthlessness has willed <br />The passing of the wood. <br />And yet those days were fragrant days <br />And spicy days and rare; <br />The kitchen knew a cheerful blaze <br />And friendliness was there. <br />And every appetite was keen <br />For breakfasts that were good <br />When I had scarcely turned thirteen <br />And mother cooked with wood. <br />I used to dread my daily chore, <br />I used to think it tough <br />When mother at the kitchen door <br />Said I'd not chopped enough. <br />And on her baking days, I know, <br />I shirked whene'er I could <br />In that now happy long ago <br />When mother cooked with wood. <br />I never thought I'd wish to see <br />That pile of wood again; <br />Back then it only seemed to me <br />A source of care and pain. <br />But now I'd gladly give my all <br />To stand where once I stood, <br />If those rare days I could recall <br />When mother cooked with wood.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-mother-cooked-with-wood/
