Part 4 — OUR CHILDHOOD

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BY JANE GAY.

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How brightly did the summer’s sun

Wake up the dewy morn,

And chase the misty shadows from

The cot where we were born;

It stood amid the peaceful hills

Where worldlings never rove,

The violet-spotted earth around—

The glorious sky above.

Two tall elms were its sentinels,

With arms uplifted high;

And these were all we needed, save

The watchers of the sky;

And while amid the thick, green leaves

The moonbeams dallied bright,

The stars looked down on us at play,

Oft on the summer night.

O, every month of childhood’s years,

How well do I remember,

With all their smiles and fleeting tears,

From New Year’s till December;

No care or burden had we then—

No life-lines on the brow;

We knew it not—I wonder if

We’re any wiser now.

Were we not with ye, brothers, when

With spade or hoe ye sped

To dig the homely artichoke

From out its winter bed?

Or when, with boyhood’s free, glad shout,

Ye ran with pole and hook,

To draw the golden-spotted trout

From out the alder-brook?

Ay, ay! and I must tell it, too,

Ye’d sometimes play the churls;

And cry, when we would run away—

“Mother, call back the girls!”

And then came tasks of knitting-work

For us, and dreaded patch,

With sullen faces, till we thought

To try a knitting match.

The summer days were ne’er too long

For busy life like ours;

For every hill had berries then,

And every meadow, flowers.

And joyfully, when school was done,

We’d stay to glean our store;

For though we loved the school-book well,

We loved the free hills more.

And very pleasant ’mid those hills

September’s sun did shine,

As we went forth to gather grapes

From many a loaded vine;

And while October’s gorgeous hues

Of red and gold were seen;

We searched for chestnuts in the wood,

Or pulled the winter-green.

And when November’s winds came chill

With icy sleet and rain,

We knew the old brown barns were filled

With stores of golden grain;

And what cared we how bleak or cold

The wintry storms might rise—

Our dreams were of Thanksgiving-days,

And all their wealth of pies.

Though ye have left the homestead now

Grave men to walk among,

Yet while our sire and grandsire live—

Brothers, ye still are young!

Nor, sisters, is it time for us

Life’s lantern dark to trim,

Our own dear mother has not yet

Sung her half-century hymn!

And while our childhood’s guardians live

To bless the passing years,

’Twere more than vain in sad regrets

To waste Life’s precious tears;

Yet if our summer sky is fair,

And green our summer bowers,

We know that many walk the earth

With sadder hearts than ours.