Here's his ragged 'roundabout'; <br />Turn the pockets inside out: <br />See; his pen-knife, lost to use, <br />Rusted shut with apple-juice; <br />Here, with marbles, top and string, <br />Is his deadly 'devil-sling,' <br />With its rubber, limp at last <br />As the sparrows of the past! <br />Beeswax--buckles--leather straps-- <br />Bullets, and a box of caps,-- <br />Not a thing of all, I guess, <br />But betrays some waywardness-- <br />E'en these tickets, blue and red, <br />For the Bible-verses said-- <br />Such as this his mem'ry kept-- <br />'Jesus wept.' <br /> <br />Here's a fishing hook-and-line, <br />Tangled up with wire and twine, <br />And dead angle-worms, and some <br />Slugs of lead and chewing-gum, <br />Blent with scents that can but come <br />From the oil of rhodium. <br />Here--a soiled, yet dainty note, <br />That some little sweetheart wrote, <br />Dotting,--'Vine grows round the stump,' <br />And--'My sweetest sugar lump!' <br />Wrapped in this--a padlock key <br />Where he's filed a touch-hole--see! <br />And some powder in a quill <br />Corked up with a liver pill; <br />And a spongy little chunk <br />Of 'punk.' <br /> <br />Here's the little coat--but O! <br />Where is he we've censured so! <br />Don't you hear us calling, dear? <br />Back! come back, and never fear.-- <br />You may wander where you will, <br />Over orchard, field and hill; <br />You may kill the birds, or do <br />Anything that pleases you! <br />Ah, this empty coat of his! <br />Every tatter worth a kiss; <br />Every stain as pure instead <br />As the white stars overhead: <br />And the pockets--homes were they <br />Of the little hands that play <br />Now no more--but, absent, thus <br />Beckon us.<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-little-coat/
