The old log-house is standing filled with bins of corn and wheat,
And the cars they whistle past our cottage-home;
But my span of spanking trotters they are "just about" as fleet,
And I wouldn't give my farm to rule in Rome.
For Mollie and I are young yet, and monarchs, too, are we—
Of a "section" just as good as lies out-doors;
And the children are so happy (and Mollie and I have three)
And we think that we can "lie upon our oars."
[Illustration: THE PIONEER]
So this summer we went back to the old home by the hill:
O the hills they were so rugged and so tall!
And the lofty pines were gone but the rocks were all there still,
And the valleys looked so crowded and so small;
And the dear familiar faces that I longed so much to see,
Looked so strangely unfamiliar and so old,
That the land of hills and valleys was no more a home to me,
And the river seemed a rivulet as it rolled.
So I gladly hastened back to the prairies of the West—
To the boundless fields of waving grass and corn;
And I love the lake-gemmed land where the wild-goose builds her nest,
Far better than the land where I was born.
And I mean to lay my bones over yonder by the lake—
By and by when I have nothing else to do—
And I'll give the "chicks" the farm, and I know for Mollie's sake,
That the good and gracious Lord will help 'em through.