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AROUND AN OLD HOMESTEAD. 



What a beautiful embodiment 



Of ease devoid of pride 

 Is the good old-fashioned homestead, 



With its doors set open wide ! 



' When home the woodsman plods with ax 



Upon his shoulders swung, 

 And in the knotted apple-tree 



Are scythe and sickle hung ; 

 When low about her clay-built nest 



The mother swallow trills. 

 And decorously slow, the cows 



Are wending down the hills; 

 What a blessed picture of comfort, 



In the evening shadows red. 

 Is the good, old-fashioned homestead. 



With its bounteous table spread ! 



' But whether the brooks be fringed with flowers, 



Or whether the dead leaves fall. 

 And whether the air be full of songs, 



Or never a song at all. 

 And whether the vines of the strawberries 



Or frosts through the grasses run. 

 And whether it rain or whether it shine 



Is all to me as one. 

 For bright as brightest sunshine 



The light of memory streams 

 Round the old-fashioned homestead. 



Where I dreamed my dream of dreams ! ' ' 



