Today's Stichomancy for W. C. Fields

The axe has vanished from the yard, The chopping block is gone, There is no pile of cordwood 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

Just Folks