THE OLD FOLKS AT HOME

The curtains are drawn, the lamp is lit the room smiles bright within. Though the wintry blast'gainst the window wail with a loud and mournful din. Yet I herd it not for my little world is safe in the peaceful room where the rosy light and the curtains drawn have shut out the stormy gloom. But a shadow comes like a spectral form stealing through the unopen door and the light grows dim which so brightly shone just a little while before. But perchance it is only the blinding tears that have darkened the cheerful room for the shadow is only a sudden thought of the lonly old folks at home. I no they watch when evening draws nigh and listen for coming feet but over the threshold no footsteps pass no form takes a vacant seat. The Children they raised are all gone away and there they sit silent and lone and muse on the days when a gay noisy group filled with music the now silent home. My hart almost brakes when I think of that group and how widely scattered they roam and the teardrops fall as thought turns from them to the lonly old folks at home. Oh but for the tie that makes life so short and clothed in its winter is gloom I wish I were a child again to chere the old folks at home.

A POEM BY WILLIAM CALENDER GRAY