Nor that thrift would build up from this stringy-bark shed
A right little, tight little cottage instead,
With enough in the stocking—and more.
We hadn’t much then in the furniture line—
That’s not to call gorgeous, you know—
But still round it all there’s a glow of sunshine
That makes the blood dance in this old frame of mine
In a stream that naught else can make flow.
Some magic hangs round the old iron-hooped tongs
And the splutter the tallow-lamp made ...