The Boy's Protest
When a fellow knows every bird's nest
In the fields for miles around,
Where the squirrels play in the sunshine,
Where the prettiest flowers are found;
When he knows a pair of robins
That will fly to his hands for crumbs,
He hates to be penned in a school room,
And he's glad when Saturday comes.
There's a bee tree on the hillside,
But I'll not tell any one where;
There's a school of trout in the mill stream,
And I want to go fishing there.
I know where an oriole's building,
And a log where a partridge drums,
And I'm going to the woods to see them,
As soon as Saturday comes.
They shouldn't keep school in the springtime,
When the world is so fresh and bright,
When you want to be fishing and climbing,
And playing from morn till night.
It's a shame to be kept in the school room,
Writing and working out sums;
All week it's like being in prison,
And I'm glad when Saturday comes.