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The Old Brush Heap

by James Russel Price

Old brush heap of my boyhood days,
I saw you in my dreams last night;
Your scraggy limbs and thorny trims
So vividly appeared in sight.
For years you served your purpose well;
How oft I wished you free from brier
That I might as a barefoot boy
Help grandpa pile you still up higher.

From apple trees that stood so near
The ripened fruit would often fall,
Zigzagging down, from top to base,
Where mice and rats and snakes would crawl.
The speckled hen would find a place,
Meandering through the crooked sticks,
To make a nest and lay her eggs
And hatch for us a dozen chicks.

My mother early placed her wash
Upon your bulging sides to dry;
If neath the brush I'd lose my ball,
Then she would say: "My boy, don't cry."
Long years have passed, old brown brush heap
Since I have seen your spiky dome;
Beholding you in vision now
Reminds me of my dear old home.

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