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Title: Home
Author: Will Carleton [
More Titles by Carleton]
[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]
JULY 1, 18--.
Back to the old, old homestead!--isn't it queer!
But stranger things than that have happened here:
The old farm, after giving oil by stream,
(Until the world itself would almost seem
About to lose its progress smooth and true,
And creak upon its axis, first we knew),
Closed business in the twinkling of an eye,
And every blessed well we had went dry!
Then all the oil-springs that my neighbors had
The example followed--be it good or bad;
And the whole region round here, high and low,
So full of wealth a few short months ago--
And men, to get their circumstances oiled--
Is now poor farm-land, pretty nearly spoiled!
The little town a mile away from here,
Where we sold eggs and butter many a year,
(And feared the neighbors' hens might over-lay,
And glut the market some sad Saturday),
From a few grown-up folks, a small child-crop,
A church, post-office, store, and blacksmith shop,
This village grew to be, within a year,
A town of fifteen thousand people clear.
It had its banks, its street-cars, and its gas,
And other wonders cities bring to pass;
Its house-yards sold for twice as much, I know,
As my old farm was worth three years ago.
But the town did not grow on brain or soil,
But floated on a hidden sea of oil,
Which ebbed away, one evening, on the sly,
And left "the city" stranded high and dry.
And now the place is crumbling to the gaze--
A modern ruin in these modern days:
No banks, no street-cars, no hotels in town--
The mansions have been burned or taken down.
It shows how soon all greatness is unmade
When once it gets upon the down-hill grade!
So we've come back to take our former farm,
Fix it up somehow, coax back its old charm,
And live here--by the city noise unstirred--
To cogitate on what we've seen and heard
While living in a bustle and a brawl
That sometimes hardly let us think at all.
The old house was kept whole in every part
(I had that put in writing on the start),
And though the farm seems very much as though
An earthquake had lived here a year or so,
We mean to try and make it seem, some week,
More as it did before it sprung a leak.
First thing I said, when home began to fit,
And thus afford us time to breathe a bit:
"We've been out to the city, now, my dear,
Let's bring a small part of the city here.
I'm going, on this very day, to send
For several children such as need a friend,
And have them come out here and get some air,
With room to turn around, and some to spare."
I wrote some men and women in the city,
Who give poor children help, as well as pity,
"Send out as many as you can afford!
And every one shall have a month's clean board,
And carry back, from out our plenteous store,
Enough to keep himself a fortnight more."
The first night that we sat expecting them,
I did what some whole families would condemn--
I moulded up my feelings into rhyme,
In something less than fifteen minutes' time,
Then voiced it to whoever would come near;
I'll put the imposition right in here:
[Illustration: "AND CARRY BACK, FROM OUT OUR PLENTEOUS STORE, ENOUGH TO KEEP HIMSELF A FORTNIGHT MORE."]
[The end]
Will Carleton's poem: Home
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