And we pinted out old landmarks, nearly faded out of sight:—­
Thare they ust to rob the stage-coach; thare Gash Morgan had the fight
With the old stag-deer that pronged him—­how he battled fer his life,
And lived to prove the story by the handle of his knife.

Thare the first griss-mill was put up in the Settlement, and we
Had tuck our grindin’ to it in the Fall of Forty-three—­
When we tuck our rifles with us, techin’ elbows all the way,
And a-stickin’ right together ev’ry minute, night and day.

[Illustration]

Thare ust to stand the tavern that they called the “Travelers’ Rest,”
And thare, beyent the covered bridge, “The Counter-fitters’ Nest”—­
Whare they claimed the house was ha’nted—­that a man was murdered thare,
And burried underneath the floor, er ’round the place somewhare.

And the old Plank-road they laid along in Fifty-one er two—­
You know we talked about the times when that old road was new: 
How “Uncle Sam” put down that road and never taxed the State
Was a problem, don’t you rickollect, we couldn’t dim-onstrate?

Ways was devius, William Leachman, that me and you has past;
But as I found you true at first, I find you true at last;
And, now the time’s a-comin’ mighty nigh our jurney’s end,
I want to throw wide open all my soul to you, my friend.

With the stren’th of all my bein’, and the heat of hart and brane,
And ev’ry livin’ drop of blood in artery and vane,
I love you and respect you, and I venerate your name,
Fer the name of William Leachman and True Manhood’s jest the same!

[Illustration]

A BACKWARD LOOK

As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday,
  And lazily leaning back in my chair,
Enjoying myself in a general way—­
Allowing my thoughts a holiday
  From weariness, toil and care,—­
My fancies—­doubtless, for ventilation—­
  Left ajar the gates of my mind,—­
And Memory, seeing the situation,
  Slipped out in street of “Auld Lang Syne.”

Wandering ever with tireless feet
  Through scenes of silence, and jubilee
Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet
Were thronging the shadowy side of the street
  As far as the eye could see;
Dreaming again, in anticipation,
  The same old dreams of our boyhood’s days
That never come true, from the vague sensation
  Of walking asleep in the world’s strange ways.

Away to the house where I was born! 
  And there was the selfsame clock that ticked
From the close of dusk to the burst of morn,
When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn
  And helped when the apples were picked. 
And the “chany-dog” on the mantel-shelf,
  With the gilded collar and yellow eyes,
Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself
  Sound asleep with the dear surprise.