I seem to dream them again to-day.
Once again I see the old, revered gray head bowing in utter thankfulness, with the hands clasped.
Once again, over the awful tide of intervening years—so full, and yet so short—I seem to see the shimmer of her golden hair—an aureole of light blazing on the borders of boyhood: "For this, and all thy bounties, our Father, we thank thee."
FOOTNOTE:
[20] From "Bound Together," by Donald G. Mitchell, published by Charles Scribner's Sons.
A THANKSGIVING [21]
Lord, thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell—
A little house, whose humble roof
Is weatherproof—
Under the spans of which I lie
Both soft and dry,
Where thou, my chamber for to ward,
Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.
Low is my porch as is my fate—
Both void of state—
And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by the poor
Who hither come, and freely get
Good words or meat.
Like as my parlor, so my hall
And kitchen's small.
A little buttery, and therein
A little bin.
Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipt, unfled.