Though blanched his locks, though stooped his form, his heart no frosts might sere,
For peacefully the shadows fall, where mind and soul are clear.
At length the noisy mirth is hushed for breathing space of rest,
And gaily round the loved grandsire the merry group hath pressed.
There's gentle Effie, little Will, big Joe and sturdy Ben,
Grandpa's namesake, "who sure will make his mark 'mongst mighty men."
"A story!" and the spectacles are moved from off the face,
And carefully and kindly wiped ere slipped into their case.
"A story! well, it seems to me that all my tales are told;
Both of these nigh, fast fleeting years, and long, long days of old."
Upwafted from the clover field, in fragrance on the wind,
Came breathings from a former hour in freshness to the mind.
"Perchance you have not listed how one stroke from woman's hand
Transformed a forest dense and dim to fair and fruitful land.
"'Twas in a far back settlement, within a dusky wood,
The rude hut of an immigrant on scanty clearance stood.
"Strong hands had reared the rooftree, and sowed the patch of ground,
And bleating from the sheepfold broke the solitude around.
"From rim of rudely builded flue the hazy smoke-wreaths curled,
To wander o'er the mighty vault which guards a sleeping world.
"Out of the widely opened door doth savory flavor steal
As, from gun of clever marksman, is prepared the evening meal.