Classic Poem

There 's somethin' in your homely ways,
Your simple speech, and honest face
That takes us back to other days
And to a distant, cherished place.
We seem to see the dear old hills,
The clover-patch, the pickerel pond,
And we can hear the mountain rills
A-singin' in the haze beyond.

There is the lane wherein we played,
An' there the hillside, rough an' gray,
O'er which we little Yankees strayed
A-checkerberryin' ev'ry day;
The big red barn, the old stone wall,
The pippin-tree, the fav'rite beach—
We seem to recognize 'em all
In thy quaint face an' honest speech!
An' somehow when we see 'em rise
Like spectres of those distant years,
We kinder weaken, and our eyes
See dimly through a mist o' tears;
For there's no thing will touch the heart.

Like mem'ry's subtle wand, I trow,
An' there's no tear that will not start
At thought of home an' long ago.

You make us boys an' girls again,
An' like a tender, sweet surprise,
Come thoughts of those dear moments when
Our greatest joy was mother's pies!
I 'd ruther have your happy knack
Than all the arts which critics praise—
The knack o' takin' old folks back
To childhood homes and childhood days.