Excerpt
GRAND'THER BALDWIN'S THANKSGIVING UNDERNEATH protected branches, from the highway just aloof;Stands the house of Grand'ther Baldwin, with its gently sloping roof.Square of shape and solid-timbered, it was standing, I have heard,In the days of Whig and Tory, under royal George the Third.Many a time, I well remember, I have gazed with Childish aweAt the bullet-hole remaining in the sturdy oaken door,Turning round half-apprehensive (recking not how time had fled)Of the lurking, savage foeman from whose musket it was sped..Not far off, the barn, plethoric with the autumn's harvest spoils,Holds the farmer's well-earned trophies—the guerdon of his toils;Filled the lofts with hay, sweet-scented, ravished from the meadows green,While beneath are stalled the cattle, with their quiet, drowsy mien.Deep and spacious are the grain-bins, brimming o'er with nature's gold;Here are piles of yellow pumpkins on the barn-floor loosely rolled.Just below in deep recesses, safe from wintry frost chill,There are heaps of ruddy apples from the orchard the hill.Many a year has Grand'ther Baldwin in the old house dwelt in peace,As his hair each year grew whiter, he has seen his herds increase.Sturdy sons and comely daughters, growing up from childish plays,One by one have met life's duties, and gone forth their several ways. Hushed the voice of childish laughter, hushed is childhood's merry tone,the fireside Grand'ther Baldwin and his good wife sit alone.Turning round half-apprehensive (recking not how time had fled)Of the lurking savage foeman from whose musket it was sped.Not far off, the barn, plethoric with the autumn harvest spoils,Holds the farmer's well-earned trophies—the guerdon of his toils;Filled the lofts with hay, sweet-scented, ravished from the meadows green,While beneath are stalled the cattle, with their quiet drowsy mien.Deep and spacious are the grain-bins, brimming o'er with nature's gold;Here are piles of yellow pumpkins on the barn-floor loosely rolled.Just below in deep recesses, safe from wintry frost and chill,There are heaps of ruddy apples from the orchard on the hill.Many a year has Grand'ther Baldwin in the old house dwelt in peace,As his hair each year grew whiter, he has seen his herds increase.Sturdy sons and comely daughters, growing up from childish plays,One by one have met life's duties, and gone forth their several ways.Hushed the voice of childish laughter, hushed is childhood's merry tone,By the fireside Grand'ther Baldwin and his good wife sit alone. Yet once within the twelvemonth, when the days are short and drear,And chill winds chant the requiem of the slowly fading year,When the autumn work is over, and the harvest gathered in,Once again the old house echoes to a long unwonted din.Logs of hickory blaze and crackle in the fireplace huge anti high,Curling wreaths of smoke mount upward to the gray November sky.Ruddy lads and smiling lasses, just let loose from schooldom's cares,Patter, patter, race and clatter, up and down the great hall stairs....