"Then why not praise the tallow-dip, the dog irons and the crane,
The kettle singing on the coals, or hanging to a chain?"
Poems and Sonnets
THE OLD DOG IRONS
Oh, the old, old dog irons! How the picture thrills my soul,
As I stir the ashes of the past and find this living coal:
When I blow the breath of memory it flashes into flame,
That seems to me far brighter than the most undying fame.
Will you listen to the story of my early childhood days
When I read the mystic symbols in the embers and the blaze
Of the old wide-open fireplace, where the backlog, all aglow
With its shifting scenes of fancy, was a motion picture show?
I know about your natural gas, your stoves and anthracite,
Your phonograph and telephone and incandescent light;
I've heard about the comforts and the use of gasoline,
And the educative value of a Pathe photo-scene;
The future of the biplane and the wonders of the press,
And the blessings of the wireless when a ship is in distress.
I marvel at invention and its all but magic art,
But the things that make for happiness concern the human heart.
Then why not praise the tallow dip, the dog irons and the crane,
The kettle singing on the coals, or hanging to a chain?
The children gathered round the hearth to hear of early days—
The wildcat and the panther, the redman's sneaking ways;
The bravery of our fathers, the scalping knife and gun,
The courage of the women folks; I tell you, boys, 'twas fun.
We roasted sweet potatoes and we talked of Marion's men,
How they routed all the redcoats, or slew them in the fen.
We learned to love our country and we swore to tell the truth,
And do no deed of treachery and never act uncouth;
To guard the honor of our name, and shield a virtuous home,
To read the Proverbs and the Psalms and love the sacred tome.
I know our home was humble then—rag carpet on the floor—
But the stranger found a welcome there, the latch-string on the door.
The well-sweep and the woodpile and the ox team in the shed,
Dried apples hung around the walls, and pumpkins overhead—
Not sanitary, I'll admit, nor stylish-like, nor rich,
But health and comfort and content; now tell me, which is which?
Then who can blame me that I love the good old dog iron days,
When men had hearts and character that fortune couldn't faze;
The years before the slitted skirts and the Turkish cigarettes,
When women wove their linsey clothes instead of devilish nets;
When children did the chores at night, nor ever heard of gym,
Or movements such as boy scouts, yet kept in health and trim.
We spent our evenings all at home, and read and sang and played,
Or talked of work and feats of strength, or what our crops had made;
And when we mentioned quilting bees and apple-peeling time,
We had in mind our sweethearts and we sometimes made a rhyme:
'Twas then I read my future in the embers and the blaze,
And this is why I celebrate the good old dog iron ways.