But, says I, if a friend can help you,
And ease up your trouble a mite,
Why, I’ll just sit down here beside you,
An’ we’ll talk it over to-night.
She took my two hands and she held them,
The big tears ran down her pale cheek,
“Oh, I’m lonely, she cried, and foolish,”
Says I, you are worn out an’ weak.
What has this to do with my offer?
Be patient, my dear Sarah Ann,
If you’d listened a minute longer
You’d have caught a glimpse of the man.
For right there all creaking and groaning,
Beneath some rough limbs meant for wood,
In front of the door of the cottage
Old Abner Green’s big waggon stood.
An’ Abner came in without knocking,
A-nodding to her, an’ to me,
“What, two of us here! well there’s nothin’
Like havin’ good neighbors,” said he.
“Now, I’ve heard you’re mazin’ poor, Missus,
An’ I reckon it must be true,
Speak out to us fully and freely,
It maybe I can help you through.”
She told him—I sat there and listened
To a story of hopes and fears,
Of poverty, sorrow, and heartbreak,
Till I scarce could see for the tears.
She talked of the home of her childhood,
Of parents and friends kind and true,
Of seasons o’erflowing with pleasure,
Of skies that were cloudless and blue,
Of the meadows so fragrant with clover,
With bees in each down-drooping head,
Of the noisy stream rushing onward,
Away to its pebble-lined bed.
Of the homely affection abounding,
The work that was duty’s sweet call,
Of the church that stood on the hillside,
Of the graves—the end of it all.
“I’m waiting,” her voice broke a little,
“For one perfect summer to come,
Not the stifling summers of cities,
But one of the summers of home.