© By Grady L. Duncan
When school was out and the days grew long
and the crops were still in the fields.
We left our home in the city
and traveled to our Uncle Will's.
With weeds to hoe and cotton to pick,
and the harvest to reap and sell,
we joined with our country cousins,
singing as we picked each bale.
There weren't no need to whimper,
o'er all that work to be done.
So since we had to do it,
we just tried to make it fun.
The days were filled with laughter,
ne'er a bad word was said,
'cept maybe when someone hit you,
with a cotton bowl, up side the head.
From first light to noon we labored,
until the noon day's heat.
Then we'd hear the plow shear ring,
and we knew it was time to eat.
All was dropped rite there,
so we'd know where it was we quit,
and we'd head yonder for the house,
all running, lickidy split.
We formed a line at the well,
by the bucket, dipper and pans.
Nobody was allowed at the table,
' til they and washed their face and hands.
We all gathered around the table,
and after the scooting and bumping of chairs.
We all reverently would bow our heads,
and we all offered up our prayers.
The viddles were always scrumptious,
always more than we could eat.
Then we relaxed or took a nap,
avoiding the noonday heat.
As the day grew cooler,
at least when it weren't so hot,
It was back to the fields of cotton,
knowing our Uncle had not forgot.
The day's labor ended at sundown,
then we'd head for the swimming hole.
A dip washed away the dust
and comforted our weary soul.
All of that work I still remember,
thought it did me not harm.
I'm glad those days have ended,
down on the East Texas dry-land farm.