At an Open-Air Bakery.

At an Open-Air Bakery.
297.1

“My little man of grimy fist,
How busy you appear;
Your wondering eyes of amethyst
Widen with sudden fear approach, all
Your bakeshop in the open air.

“Now shake hands, Master Oh-so-Shy,
And speak up how you sell
These earthen tarts I want to buy.
A penny each? ’tis well.
A higher price would be too steep,
For mud-pies must Le sold dirt cheap!

“Suppose to-morrow I pass by,
Should it be bright and clear
And your sun-stove glows in the sky,
Promise you will be here
To teach me how your pies are made.
And other secrets of the trade.

“Then your young hands and my old heart
Sweet partnership will try,
You as the master of the art,
Your poor apprentice I.
And such pies on our board we’ll set
As never kings have eaten yet!”
– GORMAN WHEELER.