Just Folks

When Mother Cooked With Wood

          I do not quarrel with the gas,
            Our modern range is fine,
          The ancient stove was doomed to pass
            From Time's grim firing line,
          Yet now and then there comes to me
            The thought of dinners good
          And pies and cake that used to be
            When mother cooked with wood.

          The axe has vanished from the yard,
            The chopping block is gone,
          There is no pile of cordwood hard
            For boys to work upon;
          There is no box that must be filled
            Each morning to the hood;
          Time in its ruthlessness has willed
            The passing of the wood.

          And yet those days were fragrant days
            And spicy days and rare;
          The kitchen knew a cheerful blaze
            And friendliness was there.
          And every appetite was keen
            For breakfasts that were good
          When I had scarcely turned thirteen
            And mother cooked with wood.

          I used to dread my daily chore,
            I used to think it tough
          When mother at the kitchen door
            Said I'd not chopped enough.
          And on her baking days, I know,
            I shirked whene'er I could
          In that now happy long ago
            When mother cooked with wood.

          I never thought I'd wish to see
            That pile of wood again;
          Back then it only seemed to me
            A source of care and pain.
          But now I'd gladly give my all
            To stand where once I stood,
          If those rare days I could recall
            When mother cooked with wood.