One of my bygone recollections,

As I recall the days of yore

Is the little house, behind the house,

With the crescent over the door.

T'was a place to sit and ponder,

With your head bowed down low;

Knowing that you wouldn't be there,

If you didn't have to go.

Ours was a three-holer,

With a size for every one.

You left there feeling better,

After your usual job was done.

You had to make these frequent trips,

Whether snow, rain, sleet, or fog--

To the little house where you usually--

Found the Sears-Roebuck catalog.

Oft times in dead of winter,

The seat was covered with snow.

Now Granddad had an urgent call,

I never will forget!

This trip he made to the little house,

He sat down on the shanty seat,

With both feet on the floor.

Then filled his pipe with tobacco,

And struck a match,

on the outhouse door.

After the Tobacco began to glow,

He slowly raised his rear:

Tossed the flaming match in the open hole,

With not a sign of fear.

The Blast that followed, I am sure,

Was heard for miles around;

And there was poor ol' Granddad,

Just a'sittin on the ground.

The smoldering pipe was still in his mouth,

His suspenders he held tight;

The celebrated three-holer,