FARMERS' INSTITUTES. 355 



The trees which. Burround it have long been neglected, 

 Their o'erhanging branches grow whither they may ; 



Not even a pathway is traced in the dooryard, 

 For seldom a visitant happens that way. 



And thus the old house stands deserted and lonely, 



Claiming only decay from each swift passing year, 

 And yet 'tis the center of fond recollections, 



Of beautiful pictures to memory dear. 



'Tis many a year since the slumbering echoes 



A. woke to the ring of the pioneer's blow, 

 Awoke to the crash of the trees, which in falling, 



So rudely affrighted the fleet-footed roe. 



Long years have gone by since the gold of the harvest 

 First gleamed where the tangle of wildwood had been ; 



Since the sods of the valley were cleft of the plowshare, 

 And the hillsides were dotted by corn growing green. 



'Tis long since the thicket gave place to the garden ; 



Since the fruit trees took root in the life giving loam. 

 'Tis long since the farm was marked out in the woodland 



And given the endearing title of home. 



Ah, strong was the arm of the pioneer farmer, ' 



And love was the motive which thrilled in his breast; 



What wonder the dwelling, though rude in construction, 

 Became a small haven of joy and rest. 



And there by the gloom of the forest environed. 



Save the trail of the Indian no pathway in sight, 

 The dear little home shed an influence cheering, 



As the gleam of the star in the shadow of night. 



And proud was the bride in her rough little cabin, 



As proud as the queen in her palace so fair, 

 For life stretched before her with all its ambitions, 



With love to inspire and to lighten her care. 



Oh, wonderful magic which brightened the shadows. 



And lighcened the burdens from day unto day. 

 While blessed contentment, a guest ever honored. 



Remained in the log house made welcome alway. 



Time hurried along with its measure of changes ; 



The farm grew in beauty and value each year. 

 Within the log house there was thrift, there was comfort, 



And the prattle of children was pleasant to hear. 



The howl of the wolf and the scream of the panther 



No longer were heard from some far away hill. 

 The trail of the Indian became a broad highway 



Which led to the church, the store or the mill. 



There were larger barns needed to store the rich harvests, 



And cellars for keeping the bounteous store. 

 And when there was builded a handsome new dwelling. 



The little log house held the home light no more. 



Away from the shelter for many years given. 



The home circle moved to the house on the hill. 

 The tide of improvement swept steadily onward, 



But the little log house and its memories stood still. 



Sometimes they would visit the old house together, 



The two who revered it as home long ago ; 

 And they loved to remember and loved to talk over 



The scenes and events which they once used to know. 



