The Whistling Boy

He was noisy and rowdy and full of old nick,

That dear freckled face Tommy of ours.

When he'd leap out of bed, always right on the tick

He would set up that whistling noise

It was shrill as a siren and loud as a blast

From the noon whistle down by the track,

And we'd stop up our ears while the whistling would last

And complain that our ear drums would crack

Oh Tommy, for heaven's sake,

Can't you pipe down?

That loud whistling of yours

Can be heard over town!

He'd be off to his play and along down the street,

Going barefoot and whistling his tune,

And the silence he'd leave was a blessed retreat

And we hoped it would never come noon.

But at noon he'd be back again, whistling more.

Oh, that terrible ear-splitting din,

As his dear freckled face would appear in the door --

Laughing eyes and a bantering grin.

Oh Tommy, for heaven's sake,

Please stop that noise,

What a world this would be

If it wasn't for boys!

Then he'd pucker his mouth in a mischievous smile

And pretend he could not hear a word.

As he whistled the very same tune all the while

Adding trills like the call of a bird.

Through the house he would go like a minstrel let loose,

Driving sweet solitude through the door.

And our threats and persuasion -- ah, what was the use?

He would set up his whistling the more!

Oh Tommy, for heaven's sake,

Can't this noise cease?

There is never a moment

Of quiet and peace.

When the darkness would turn his steps wearily home

And the day was consumed with his fun,

We could tell by the distant and wavering tone

That he whistled his song at a run.

And his tune he would carry away to his bead, Never counting the havoc he wroght

As it rang in our ears and it ran through his head,

Till in sleep he remembered it not.

Oh Tommy, for heaven's sake --

Thanks for the night.

Oh, blessed surcease

Till again it is light!

Now there's only the echo that's left in my heart

Of that whistling noise you once made.

Ah, the long barren years that have torn us apart

And the burden upon me they've laid

Seem to mock at my yearning to hear the glad tune

That you whistled, dear freckled-face boy,

That you whistled at morning and night and at noon

So the world could be fuller of joy.

Oh, Tommy, dear Tommy,

Come whistling once more

Up the pathway that leads

From the gate to the door.

Copyright 1940

Louis W. Larsen