When July came, we'd always go
To the village picnic so
We could eat the tasty fare
Local women served up there.
The hams and roasts, the chicken, fried,
The salads, pickles, set with pride
Upon long tables, lemonade,
And every kind of cake was made,
As well as many luscious pies!
The air would ring with lusty cries,
As a baseball game was played,
For every home run that was made.
We'd have a sing-a-long before
We all headed home once more.
Up in the wagon bed I'd lie
And watch the night hawks cross the sky,
Until it grew too dark to see.
I'd listen to the repartee
Between the grown ups and smile,
Enjoying every country mile!
Betty Lou Hebert