The Poetry Corner

The Little Coat

By James Whitcomb Riley

Here's his ragged "roundabout"; Turn the pockets inside out: See; his pen-knife, lost to use, Rusted shut with apple-juice; Here, with marbles, top and string, Is his deadly "devil-sling," With its rubber, limp at last As the sparrows of the past! Beeswax - buckles - leather straps - Bullets, and a box of caps, - Not a thing of all, I guess, But betrays some waywardness - E'en these tickets, blue and red, For the Bible-verses said - Such as this his mem'ry kept - "Jesus wept." Here's a fishing hook-and-line, Tangled up with wire and twine, And dead angle-worms, and some Slugs of lead and chewing-gum, Blent with scents that can but come From the oil of rhodium. Here - a soiled, yet dainty note, That some little sweetheart wrote, Dotting, - "Vine grows round the stump," And - "My sweetest sugar lump!" Wrapped in this - a padlock key Where he's filed a touch-hole - see! And some powder in a quill Corked up with a liver pill; And a spongy little chunk Of "punk." Here's the little coat - but O! Where is he we've censured so! Don't you hear us calling, dear? Back! come back, and never fear. - You may wander where you will, Over orchard, field and hill; You may kill the birds, or do Anything that pleases you! Ah, this empty coat of his! Every tatter worth a kiss; Every stain as pure instead As the white stars overhead: And the pockets - homes were they Of the little hands that play Now no more - but, absent, thus Beckon us.