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N memory I'm fanning the embers of childhood, The logs in the fireplace over the coals, The clumsy old cranes and the trusty andirons, All true in their places, confiding as souls. There was from the heat of that great entertainer A something which held us, and there in the glow We pictured childlike, what our fancy imagined, Things read of or heard, or one happened to know. The hearth was of stone, and crickets beneath it Would sing, though in discord and never would sleep-- Anon they kept going their shrill little whistle That I now would define as an incessant peep. The chimney was stone, and as I recall it Was round and as large and as high as the moon. For children see things in a spirit of fancy And always remember through life's afternoon. The well had the curb and the old oaken bucket, The windlass, the crank and the rope all complete, Anxious hands ever ready to set them in motion For drafts like the dewdrops, in nectar as sweet. The house was of typical Quaker construction, Two doors at the side, both substantial and good, And were you to ask, as to color or finish, My answer would be, I recall it as wood. The creek I can see as it flowed through the meadow-- My vision of this never fails or grows dim- Was singing its lullaby nigh to our doorway, Although it ne'er faltered or deigned to look in. The fields sloping downward lent charm to the valley, The verdure, the fruit and the shade-trees as well Made this homestead inviting and doubly alluring, And it held all us urchins, as if by a spell. Stored away with the relics which price cannot purchase, I muse o'er those tokens which memory endear; And wonder when sunset has paled into shadow When I have crossed the Divide, will Old Homestead appear? |
