As happy as a goldfinch on a thistle,
Pecking ripe seed, and scattering in air
The silvery down, Dick Bell, with cheery whistle,
Works with his spokeshave, fashioning a chair.

Gaily he works, as never for another,
Though he has always wrought with loving care:
For this chair's not a chair like any other —
His very own — his future home's first chair!