Last evening, I climbed to the brow of a hill,

That stood near the site of an old lumber mill.

I sat on a rock and meditated awhile,

Of the days when we played on the old sawdust pile.

I thought of the days in the sweet olden time,

When going barefooted was considered no crime

When as urchins devoid of sorrow or guile,

We played on the crest of the old sawdust pile.

How we wrestled and romped, threw dust in the air

Into each others’ faces and into the air,

Overflowing with mirth, with a grin and a smile,

We plunged each others’ heads in the old sawdust pile.

The mill that once stood there has gone to decay,

And our barefooted days are now far, far away,

Yet I return there just once in awhile

To take a big sniff of the old sawdust pile.

No flowers, no matter how fragrant and fair,

With sweet odored blossoms have scented the air,

Though they grow on the banks of the Hudson or Nile

Can smell half so sweet as the old sawdust pile.

In a very few years, I’ll become old and gray,

And the strength of my legs shall be taken away,

Yet I’d crawl on my hands and my knees for a mile

To get one more sniff of the old sawdust pile.