The Little Old House By The Shore

It stands at the bend where the road has its end, And tlie blackberries nod on the vine, And the Run fliekers clown to its gables of brown Through the swefet-scented boughs of the pine. The roof-tree Is racked and the wlndows are erneked, And the grasses grow high at the door, But hld in my heart is au altar, apart, To the little, old house by theshore For its portal so bare was a Paradise rare. With the blossoms that cluster above, When a mother's dear face gave a cuarm to the place As she sang at her labor of love. And the Lreeze. as it strpys through the window and plays With tlie dust and the leaves on the Hoor, Is a inemory sweet of the patteriug feet In the liltle, old house by the sliore. And again in my ears, through the dream of the years They wliisper, the playmates of old, The brother whose eyes were a glimpse of the skies, The sister with rlnglets of gold. And "Father" comes late to the path at the ga te, As he did when the flshing was o'er. And the echos ring out, at our welcoming shout Frora the little old house by the shore. But the night wind has blown and the visión has flown. And the sound of the children is still, And the -shadowy mist.üke a spirit, haskissed The graves bj' the church on tlie hill. But softly, afar. sing the wavesou the bar, A songof the sunshine of yore,- A lullaby deep for the loved ones who sleep Near the little, old by the shore.