We almost know the season of the year By what the boys are doing on our street. In fall it's always football; then we hear Shouts and thudding of their heavy feet. In winter it is sleds and maybe skis, Cries of delight when someone takes a "spill". In spring it's flying kites, and then one sees Our boys on stilts showing each his skill. In summer there is sure to be a stand Where muddy-looking lemonade is sold For only a cent a glass, we understand, From nearly naked salesmen ten years old. |