Edgar Albert Guest (Эдгар Альберт Гест)
When Mother Cooked with Wood
I do not quarrel with the gas, Our modern range is fine, The ancient stove was doomed to pass From Time's grim firing line, Yet now and then there comes to me The thought of dinners good And pies and cake that used to be When mother cooked with wood. The axe has vanished from the yard, The chopping block is gone, There is no pile of corkwood hard For boys to work upon; There is no box that must be filled Each morning to the hood; Time in its ruthlessness has willed The passing of the wood. And yet those days were fragrant days And spicy days and rare; The kitchen knew a cheerful blaze And friendliness was there. And every appetite was keen For breakfasts that were good When I had scarcely turned thirteen And mother cooked with wood. I used to dread my daily chore, I used to think it tough When mother at the kitchen door Said I'd not chopped enough. And on her baking days, I know, I shirked whene'er I could In that now happy long ago When mother cooked with wood. I never thought I'd wish to see That pile of wood again; Back then it only seemed to me A source of care and pain. But now I'd gladly give my all To stand where once I stood, If those rare days I could recall When mother cooked with wood.
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