The snow fell slow, unhurried —
I had to watch and see
The way the great soft flakes of it
Caught in the balsam tree —
There was the baking yet to do,
The beds weren’t made, and still
It looked so pretty and so white
Along the Quarry Hill . . .
I thought I’d run away a bit
And leave my work and then
I’d rush it through as best I could
When I came home again.
The snow was soft beneath my feet,
The wind was cold and wet;
It was such fun to tramp the hill,
To be so free — and yet
The work that I had left undone
Walked with me all the way;
It talked to me and scolded me,
It would not let me play.
So, what with this and what with that,
I couldn’t take my ease;
For thinking of those unmade beds
Made me forget the trees.
So, home I went discouraged;
I thought, “What use to shirk,
If Duty goes along with me
And makes me think of work?”
Iowa City Press (Iowa City, Iowa) Feb 14, 1924