What joy 'twould be to-night to share The very best of liquor there.

Beside the well, on either hand,

Large branching elm trees used to stand;
And from the lowest, largest limb
With ropes and bark we made a swing.
And there, on days when out of school,
And when the sultry sun grew cool,
Such joyous pastimes oft we had
As makes the heart of childhood glad.
Yet, sometimes, ere the play was done,
Would sadly pause to think of one
Whose tired feet had left the way
In which we trod, one Summer day
Had gone to find the thither shore
Where childish griefs could come no more,
And roam at will the happy fields
Which unmolested pleasure yields.

Not dead to us, we thought that when
Some days had passed, he'd come again;
And sometimes in the heat of game
We would forget and speak his name;
And then, in hushed and solemn way,
Would sit us down, forgetting play.
And every day his merry plays,
His golden hair, his gentle ways,
His ringing laugh, the clothes he wore,
Came back upon us o'er and o'er.
Oh, Mem'ry! Never weary with the past,
Thy joys be mine while time shall last;
And when time's latest course has run,
Thy deathless life has only just begun.

Back from the house, not many rods,
Were barn and sheds, built up of logs.
Whose ample floor and well-filled bay
We thought were just the place for play.
On one side were the stalls, where stood
The meek eyed cattle, fat and good;
The other was the ample bay,
Well-filled with nicely-salted hay.
A row of boxes placed above,
Sheltered a flock of rattling doves;
And outside, underneath the eaves,

Were swallows' nests of mud and leaves.

Not all the arts which poets sing,

Not all the lore which ages bring,

Could suit our varied wants so well,
Or form a play-house with such skill.
Such places in its holes to creep,
Such chance to play at hide and seek,
Such room our many games to play,
Or jump upon the springing hay.
We knew of every place where best
The cunning hen could hide her nest;
What joyous shout and sparkling eyes,
When her shrill voice proclaims the prize.
With hasty step and merry din
We took the glistening treasures in.

Down on a corner of the street,
Where four right-angled highways meet,
A few steps distant from the road,
The little, old, log school-house stood;
Where, in the days long since gone by,
We youngsters used to meet and try
To con our various lessons o'er,
The foretaste of a world of lore.
The walls were low and washed with white,
Four wide, low windows gave it light
No "patent stove" the building graced,
But a large, wide, stone-built fire-place.
Whose fervent glow and steady heat
Toasted our heads and froze our feet.
Long desks along the walls were fixed;
No passage-ways were seen betwixt.
The seats, pine slabs, with iron-wood pegs,
Which answered in the place of legs.
While "beating up" the lesson's track
We to the teacher turned our back,
At recitation, or when school was out,
We'd only just to face about.
The boys could easy make the change,
But for the girls 'twas passing strange.
The little urchins seated there
Seemed high upborne into the air,
From which their small feet dangled o'er
In vain desire to reach the floor.

I mind me well how fared the school

When under certain schoolma'am's rule,
How oft for switches we would go,
How oft the chalk-mark forced to toe,
How oft the open palm extend
And feel the walnut "rule" descend.
And yet, what varied fun we took
When she was busy with her book;

What skillful pictures we would make,

Or draw her profile on the slate.
With awful look and peaked nose,
And hand upraised, as if for blows;
And sometimes, so engaged were we
In this rare sport, we failed to see
That the sharp schoolma'am's restless eyes
Had seen, and marked it for her prize.
It pleased her worst of all, we knew,
Because they sometimes were so true.
Well, I am glad that in those days
My feet were turned to learning's ways;
Those early tasks, I plainly see,
Were worth a world of wealth to me,
Because they proved this precept true
How little of the world I knew,
And gave a quenchless thirst for more
Than shallow draught of learning's lore,
And made my wakening soul aspire
To something better still, and higher.
That old log schoolhouse, rough and tried,
The place of meeting-house supplied,
Where weekly gathered, old and young,
With sober face and silent tongue,
To hear the thrilling story told,
Which, oft repeated, grows not old,
Forever new because divine,

Of Christ, the Prince of David's line.
These little temples here and there,
Along our public thoroughfares,
Are hot-beds, where the feeble plant
Of learning gets its earliest start.
'Neath education's morning sun
The budding process is begun,
Till in its stretch of higher growth,
It reaches to sublimer truth,

Throws out the bud, the flower, the seed,

Of holy thought, of noble deed.

The mind of childhood can not be
A long continued vacancy,
There is no waste or barren soil
Within the garden of the soul;
For if we fail to sow the seeds,

Of virtuous thought and manly deeds,
The wildest flowers will bloom within
Of bitterness, and woe and sin.

Where are they now? those girls and boys
Who shared with me life's morning joys,

Alas for some, their forms are laid
Beneath the churchyard's willow shade,
Their footsteps now are heard no more
Along Time's rocky sounding shore;
They've
've gone before to pluck at will
The flowers that bloom on Zion's hill.
Some hasted at the country's need,
With willing heart and loyal speed,
To help maintain the nation's laws,
Or perish in the righteous cause.
All honor to the "boys in blue,"
Who faced the breach for me and you;
The dear remembrance of the brave,
Lives like the pine above their grave.
Green be the grass and sweet the flowers,
That wave above these friends of ours,
And soft the sighing winds that surge
Above their graves at Fredricksburg.
Some plow in learning's classic soil,
Some feel the sweat of farmer's toil,
Some drive a country doctor's cart,
Some drive a lawyer's plastic art.
All hail! whatever be your share
In life, of labor or of care,
Fresh courage take and ne'er forget
That we are near each other yet.
And as we gladly journey on,

Be this our purpose bright and strong,
That when life's days and nights are passed,
We all may meet at home at last.

Now all is changed, no more we hear

The sturdy stroke of pioneer.

No more we see on morning breeze

His blue smoke curling through the trees.

No more in hazel brush is heard,

The shrill notes of the forest bird.
Gone from the hut are dame and sire,
Quenched on the hearth their cheerful fire;
Gone is the cabin and the wood,

Gone are the elms from where they stood,
Gone is the nicely sanded room,

Gone is the spinning wheel and loom;
Sweet be their rest, since closed the strife,
They heroes were in humble life.
And wealth has brought in place of these
The ways of luxury and ease,
The thirst for fame, the love of self,
The power of pride, the greed of pelf,