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THE memory chain I trace to-night, down through the aisles of long ago; The scenes come drifting back again, exactly as I used to know; The farm I see where buttercups with golden color seemed to say, "The day of youth has kissed your brow and winter is as sweet as May." The land ascended every step with gentle grade: the spring, the rill With water clear, so pure and cool, that met me as I climbed the hill, And with the pebbles white as snow, a fairer picture may not be Than this sweet landscape to my view--a picture for my memory. The trees that crowned the summit high, as if to breathe the heavenly air Stood quite as monarchs of the day, as artist models great and rare; And 'neath the boughs I loved to sit and listen to the birds above, As one great family close at hand, had learned the joyous word of love. The fields below so nicely fenced, where berry-bushes strove to bring Their luscious bounties--ah, how sweet!--and we were greater than a king; Because we wore no heavy crown to chafe God-given joys away, Which Nature, in her better garb, for us gave duties, like- wise play. The old, old house I see as plain as any touch mind's brush may show; Constructed on the Quaker plan; but home it was I surely know; The fireplaces and the logs were cheerful when the night was cold; Before the blaze we played our games--the home was bright, the house was old. I see the chimney built of stone, so very large it seemed to me; And why extending " near the moon " was never really clear to see; But fancy builds the smoke-stacks high; the shuttle hastens through the loom And weaves the garments for the house--our name-plate on, this afternoon. |