Morning journal and courier., 1891-09-05
An old Home.

For many a year the gable glowed in the red of the passing day, ,u,,,- ,, anu me ney Sgle sloWiy faded n1sa iaW away. :D0 N There in the ancient attic under the ghostly gar Children enioyed the herb-scented air, and no Of those who had sat in the high back chairs, Of the naed te the and fiddle devoid of strings And in troopers helmet, and crazy calash, and They danced about on the nutstrewn floor in haffnghtened masquerade At night, snugly tucked up in a trundle-bed,
 their closing eyes would rove, Where the moolght glimmered on warming
 pan, or revealed an old foot-stoye.
 and of footstoves there was need, For those who couldn't keep warm enough by And there in the cedar-roofed garret they heard
 the sleet on the dormer panes, Or listened in dreamy content tothe whisper and Till sudden, from the nearby barpyard, came the
 morning challenge shrill, And the receding murmuring answers were
 drowned by the rumbling coffee mill Below on the high wide mantel, carved in fes-
 toonery quaint and old, The low and the lofty brass candlesticks were
 polished to look like gold; And there were bright andirons, shovel and tongs,
 and bellows, forally gay, And 0, the charming old owner In snow-white boys N fdeal Of t what one should be in relation
 to doughnuts and pumpkin pies. By the kitchen doorstone she remained picture,
 just as we saw her then, Pleasantly fondliug @ jealous cat, and tossing
 crumbs to topknot hen: Year after year the same old farmer with the
 same patient horse and oxen, Would draw a cart-load of eight-foot wood from
 the far off world of Foxen; a rheumatic follow
 known to all as old Uncle Daniel, Who'd dof his patched coat, and iu waistcoat Would lift the long logs on the buck, and, of
 aspiring rivals casually say, That his was a calling few had mastered in that
 degenerate day That he never varied in angle or cut-had the art
 right under his thumb And when split and piled in the shed any critic
 would allow it was plumb. In the spring the mealscented coops were costly
 set in the sun, Where anxious mothers could chuck in the shade,
 and downy chicks could run Through the slats, and, with astronomcally up-
 turned eye, clear and sharp as gem, Could bask in the warmth: and maybe think 1t From the loft of the old gray barn came a
 untitled sound from the hay And then thump on the floor in very emphatic And with hurried cackle the nest-stealing fowl
 out iu the yard would appear To lead in the general glee-tho' touch of irony
 mingled from the brilliant brigadier. The doves would make music as softly serene as
 the far away tones of horn Then drop from the caves and in very quick step
 contend with the hens for corn; Then round and round they merrily skin and on
 the sunny ridge alight, Proudly swelling their glossy green breasts with
 cooing encores of delight Not akin to these were the tiockS that flew over
 the hills in the fall, When a homestead son with his nets and decoys
 for a f1uttering call From his cedar bough hut would enmesh the
 wildly beautiful game In dimly lighted coop we in memory see their
 curving necks of flame. The messy gate to the box-bordered garden
 clicked to with ball and chain Such fruits and flowers as grew there can never
 seem the same again. There red entrants hung in festoons and the
 gooseberries knew not of mildew And pears The harvest and orange, chsel and
 bell, jonah and vergalew; Then the Thanksgiving fragrance of mint thyme and savory and sage, Like the tune of Old Hundred 1t seems to convey
 one back an age. There the feathery fennel flourished by which
 our grandmothers ''set great store," And the sunhowers twined-in various ways-as
 they did in the time of Moore At the end of the old domain was an orchard of
 immemorial trees Pleasant when orioles flashed in the blossoms or
 ripe apples droped in the breeze But slightly protected by a tall picket fence was
 this alluring spot, From the generation of boys who played in the
 famous '.Old Mulberry Lot" In the drowsy bumblebee stiffness of long ago
 midsummer days, It seemed that all must always go on in just the
 accustomed ways But it's growth and decay, dust and away-from
 this there's appeal The old home is an airy nothing, like circle de-
 scribed by wheel.