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

                         by Edgar Albert Guest