JACK was a swarthy, swaggering son-of-a-gun. He worked thirty years on the railroad, ten hours a day, and his hands were tougher than sole leather. He married a tough woman and they had eight children and the woman died and the children grew up and went away and wrote the old man every two years. He died in the poorhouse sitting on a bench in the sun telling reminiscences to other old men whose women were dead and children scattered. There was joy on his face when he died as there was joy on his face when he lived -- he was a swarthy, swaggering son-of-a-gun. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE NEED OF BEING VERSED IN COUNTRY THINGS by ROBERT FROST TO MY TOTEM by HENRY CHARLES BEECHING INCOGNITA IN THE TEMPLE OF THESEUS by SEYMOUR GREEN WHEELER BENJAMIN TO HELEN KELLER by TOSCAN BENNETT WHAT'S IN A NAME by BERTON BRALEY |