University of Virginia Library


299

THE OLD HEARTH-FIRE.

The hearth-fire of our fathers,
With back-logs, huge and round,
Of maple, beech, or hickory,
The largest to be found;
And on it piled the cord wood sticks
To crackle and to roar
And snap responses to the wind
That howled outside the door.
The hearth-fire of our fathers!
Each syllable recalls
The doings in that red-clay farm
Which lay by Glyndon Falls—
The husking-time, the thrashing-time—
Ah! that we know no more,
When up and down the merry flails
Made music on the floor.
The hearth-fire of our fathers,
Where, on the winter days,
John came from barn at dinner-time
To warm him at the blaze;
Where hung the caldron o'er the flame
By hook suspended low,
Looking at jolly Johnny-cakes
All baking in a row.
The hearth-fire of our fathers,
Where, on the winter nights,

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The boys and girls were gathered round
To find the same delights;
The hickory-nuts on sad-irons cracked,
The apples from the bin—
They munched at these while granny dozed,
And gran'ther stroked his chin.
The hearth-fire of our fathers,
With neighbors gathered round;
Perchance the minister dropped in
To give them precepts sound;
His talk how heaven is filled with love
Made such impression there,
That Peter's hand crept slowly o'er
The back of Susan's chair.
The hearth-fire of our fathers,
Where oft the tale was told,
While listening children sat in awe
Of ghosts and witches old;
Where, too, the baby crowed and jumped,
And laughed the children all,
When father with his joined hands made
The rabbit on the wall.
The hearth-fire of our fathers!
'Twill never blaze again;
Its great, wide chimney shows no more
To glad the eyes of men;
Its embers quenched, its ashes strown,
No more its light shall gleam;
The hearth-fire of the past is now
A memory and a dream.