The Scissor-grinder Man

I like the scissor-grinder man When he comes down our little street; His face is tanned the brownest tan And he smiles the very best he can A crookedy smile and sweet.

I'd like to go along with him For I'd help him ring his bell; Far, far away where the road is dim, Across the hills, and the forests rim, He knows where some fairies dwell!

And while he sharpens our carving knife Or the scissors, shining and small, He says a man gets the good of life— Plenty of comfort, and little strife— Who goes atravelling, and all.

He says he knows where the wild geese go, And where there are nuggets of gold! He heard the Chinook begin to blow, Where salmon leap, and the rivers flow, And winter has lost its hold.

He says that a man can journey well With his trade-kit up on his back, And nothing beside, except a bell To ring, where stay-at-home people dwell, Not knowing all that they lack.

He says that he knows a lusty song That the deep-sea fishermen sing; And he would sing it—but it 's too long— So he goes his way; (ding-dong!—ding-dong!) With a sort of sailor swing.

It all seems quiet—and maybe queer— When his little round wheel is still.— But by and by we can faintly hear His silvery bell sound far and clear The other side of the mill.

O I like the scissor-grinder man When he comes down the village street; His face is tanned just the brownest tan,— And he smiles the very best that he can,— A crookedy smile and sweet.