Green-Mountain freeman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1844-1884, 1859-03-03
3)oetlf0l
written for the Green Mountain Freeman.
The Old Log House.

Far iack In the years that are old and gray,
A h0use built of logs 'mong the hills Of Fay
Looms up in the sky, like some beacon sign,
whers dim in the mist COWS the Stream OF iime'
Antique was the old log house, which was built
When the country new. In the days men spi'
Their lifes blood protecting their rights andlaws,
with Ethan and Seth, in the old border wars
1t was old and messed, and half in decay,
BEFORE my young eyes ever peeped to the day
But still 1t half seems that know all about
Its affairs from the day Gran'sr cut the first sprout
Bee was Arst made, to which came few friends
And rolled up the logs that were notched at the ends
Attic centre a space was left for the door,
While three windows told all the panes of the poor.
Interocked overhead the long rafters join,
And the settlers bow good day and are gone.
He oils up each crevlce with clay and moss,
Hews out the rough beams and lays them across.
The roof covered DER and the chimney made,
Orphaned few boards for floor are laid,
The henncks and spruces yet standing round
Through the primal shades and the woods profound;
Then comes to his lodge in her linen gown,
A neat black haired girl from Marlboro town;
They dwelt in the old log house many year,
When the fields we behold were park for deer
Ny memory serves me with items few
OF the inside plan and old fashioned Grew;
A big pewter cup with fluid white,
Was often know obtruding in sight
Not far from the hearth and cut in the toor
Was q great square place for the old trapdoor,
Which opened above by means OF strap
The old trap-door that filled up awarning gap;
In the corner dark Mahogany chest
Was kept by itself, where they went for my dress
On Sundays and holidays, il neat
TO appear-though never shoe to my feet
The glass and old wooden clock side by side,
To the ceiling hung--they gifts of the bride,
Who came to the old mans house in the days
When work and plain things spoke Of in praise;
On the wide stone hearth where the cricketssong.
From crevice was heard the evening long,
Was stool where sat and warmed by the fire,
And listened to the tales of my old Grand-s ire.
Far back, yet distinct, with its moss and clay,
That pile Of spruce logs by the old highway,
In memory stands. TITS down now-that wood
But the old stone chimney long time stood,
With Its mantel wide, and its oven round,
Where the swallows built up many mound,
And the rats and mice through their old holes came,
Demurring their loss in the well-cooked grain.
IT'S down, the old log house and chimney all,
And the ash that grew in the meadow tall
The grove which little way eastward stood
Where the partridge hid mong the leaves her brood,
All covered with clover and timothy now;
The wild flowers long ago buried by the plough.
Far back, in the mist enshroudng those ycsrs,
At her wheel wrinkled old lady appears
As busy she plies at the distaf Of fax,
Nor scarcely the droning old spindle Stacks,
Till along from wire unto wire the spool
Receives from her hand until rounded and full
In those gables high meath The steep old roof,
With the rafters long, was loom where the wool
OF many web in those days was filled,
Where the treaddes piled and my Grand dam quilted
And smoking his pipe in the easy chair,
There sits by the hearth, and furrowed withcare,
A venerable man, whom oft was told
Was my own Grand-sire. He sometimes would scolt
II the children got noisy and rude. sigh
Then escaped from his Breast tear stood in his ey
greve when think that should provoke
An inirm old man--whose big heart out-spoke,
Az he wiped from his lids the few drops, and smiled
In affection and love on his dear grand-child.
twas inters ago tina he took his bed
And died. And they bore him away with the dead.
Far back, yet distinct remember my woe
When the hearts first grief at his grave did fow
Not long did the wheel and the dstaf ply,
For the busy old rand dam soon laid by
She rests there beside the old man in the ground,
Where a simple slab with their names is found.
Far back, in the mists Of those olden years,
Comes up the old house, the old foiks-.n tears
turn away from The lapsing scene,
Growing dim and confused like the web of dream.