A barefoot boy! I mark him at his play— For May is here once more, and so is he,— His dusty trousers, rolled half to the knee, And his bare ankles grimy, too, as they: Cross-hatchings of the nettle, in array Of feverish stripes, hint vividly to me Of woody pathways winding endlessly Along the creek, where even yesterday He plunged his shrinking body—gasped and shook— Yet called the water "warm," with never lack Of joy. And so, half enviously I look Upon this graceless barefoot and his track,— His toe stubbed—ay, his big toe-nail knocked back Like unto the clasp of an old pocketbook.