Growing up in the country has special treasures,
City boys couldn’t appreciate country boy pleasures.
Like roaming the woods, the fields and the brooks,
Hunting, exploring, as in frontiersmen books.
We played cowboys and Indians, and built a stockade,
We had tents, a tree house, and a fort that we made.
When I reflect on those times gone by,
I lament my boyhood with a lingering sigh.
Like most of us guys I had a secret spot,
My place in the country I never forgot.
Where I went fishing at my own fishing hole,
With a hook and a string on a long bamboo pole.
I shared this secret with some best buddies then,
And we fished there together time and again.
Going back there once more is this old man’s dream,
To my secret spot, by the Old Mill Stream.