I live in hearing distance of a simple country school,
Where the bell swells out its music in the morning when it's cool,
Calling all the children from their work and from their play
To come and make a study of the problems of the day.

When I'm in the field and working and the bell begins to ring,
I want to take my dinner bucket, shout aloud, begin to sing
And scamper down the dusty path, as I used to long ago...
Then a sudden recollection changes things for me, you know.

It's the same old schoolhouse and the same old clattering bell,
It's the same sweet morning music that I used to love so well;
But I'd be a perfect stranger if I walked in the door today,
They'd take one look at me and they'd send me on my way.

But it starts me off a-thinking of the things that now are past...
It opens recollections through life's dusty looking glass;
Most of all, the many faces that I used to meet each day,
I wonder all about them, what they do and where they stay.

Sometimes when I'm thinking of pleasant days now past,
I shake my head and wonder why they couldn't always last,
Why I couldn't hear the bell and walk that path today...
Why those young sweet Autumn mornings couldn't stay.

by Glenn Litwiller
Little Red Schoolhouse
Photos on this page are courtesy of:
Flickr:  National Register of Historic
Places; The Journeys of Laura Ingalls
Wilder; MarkSardella; GreggObst;
programwitch.  Thanks to my e-friend,
Martha, for 2 of the photos.
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Music:  Tennessee Waltz

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