But the hearth is bare—
Not a log blazes there
To light up the empty room:
Not a soft shadow falls
On the whitewashed walls:
All is silent—all wrapt in gloom!
Not a chair on the floor,
Not a rug at the door,
Where the cat once lay in the sun;
And no grandame sits
At the door and knits,
Telling tales of days bygone!
All is silent now,
And the long weeds bow
Their heads in the wind and rain;—
But the dwellers of yore
Will ne'er enter the door
Of that dreary old House again!
SPRING MOUNTAIN.
'Race Miller, indeed! why don't you say Jim Burt at once? I think I'd better go live in Rocky Hollow, and weave baskets for a living; hadn't I?'
'Well, Dimpey, the race is not always to the swift, you know; so you'd better look out in time;' and Polly Jane took up her pan of peas, and went laughing into the kitchen. I suppose she thought she had said something smart, as our name is Swift; and perhaps she had; but it made me as mad as hops, I won't deny it, though I am a minister's niece! So I pulled my sunbonnet over my face, and went to weeding the flowerbeds, to get cool. It was going on to noon, and the sun was baking hot, but I didn't mind that; I could not shell peas in the same pan with Polly Jane while I felt so provoked.
I do think that Race Miller is one of the homeliest young men I ever set my eyes on: if I say so now, you may be sure it's true. His skin is almost as dark as an Indian's, and his hair curls up as tight as wool—you couldn't straighten it if you brushed his head off. Then his eyes are blue and twinkly, and he has a short nose, and a great, broad mouth, that, whenever he laughs, opens wide enough to swallow you; to be sure, it is filled with nice, white teeth, and has a good-natured expression; but his teeth are so strong they look as if they could bite through a tenpenny nail; and when he answers out in Bible class, and comes to the long words, such as 'righteousness' and 'Jerusalem,' it really seems as if they were something good to eat, he crunches them so with those great teeth of his!
You'll wonder how he came to have such a ridiculous name as Race. His mother named him Horace, after somebody in a book, but as none of her connection owned the name, nor anybody else in this part of the country, it didn't come natural to call him by it, so they shortened it down to Race, to make it handy. I suppose I oughtn't to say much about names, however, for Dimpey don't amount to much; but that isn't my fault; I was christened with a right pretty name—Phebe Ann! but Cousin Phebe lived with us when I was little, and it made a sort o' confusion to have two of us, and my cheeks were so full of dimples that Calanthy—she's the oldest of us children, and has kept house ever since mother died—well, she called me Dimpey, and the rest took it up, and so I suppose I shall be Dimpey Swift to the end of the chapter—that is, not Dimpey Swift exactly; but I forgot, I was telling about Race Miller.