So out of my life I will dig a treasure,
    And feast on a reminiscent pleasure.

    Our old New England folks, you know,
    Little favor to kissing were wont to show.

    It smacked, they thought, too much of Satan,
    Whose hook often has a pleasant bate on.

    And even as token of purity’s passion,
    Sometimes, I think, it was out of fashion.

    So at least in the home my boyhood knew,
    And of other homes, no doubt, it was true.

    My grandsire and grandma, of the olden school,
    Were strict observers of the proper rule.

    And from New-Year on to the end of December,
    A kiss is something I do not remember.

    It seemed, I suppose, an abomination,
    Somewhat like a Christmas celebration,

    Or a twelfth-day pudding in English style,
    Whose plums are sweet as a maiden’s smile.

    Hush! fountains New England fathers quaffed at
    Were surely something not to be laughed at.

    They drank, the heavens above and under,
    Eternity’s abiding wonder.

    And here, I confess, in the joy of the present,
    The thought of those days is sacredly pleasant.

    Grandma, with the cares of the household on her,
    In the morning smoked in the chimney corner.

    She hung the tea-kettle filled with water
    While still asleep was her youngest daughter.

    Ah! there were reasons, good and plenty,
    Why she should indulge that baby of twenty.

    The rest were all courted and married and flown,
    And that little birdie was left alone.

    Grandmother, when she had finished her smoking,
    Bustled about—­she never went poking—­

    And fried the pork, and made the tea,
    And pricked the potatoes, if done to see;

    While grandsire finished his chapter of snores,
    And uncle and I were doing the chores.

    When breakfast was over, the Bible was read,
    And a prayer I still remember said.

    The old folks in reverence bowed them down,
    As those who are mindful of cross and crown.

    My uncle and aunt, who were unconverted,
    Their right to sit or stand asserted.

    And I, I fear, to example true,
    The part of a heathen acted too.

    But there was always for me a glory,
    Morning and night, in that Bible story.

    The heroes and saints of the olden time
    In beautiful vision moved sublime.

    I wondered much at the valor they had,
    And in wondering my soul was glad.

    My wonderment, I can hardly tell,
    At the boldness Jacob showed at the well

    In kissing Rachel, when meeting her first;
    I wondered not into tears he burst.

    Had I been constrained to choose between
    That deed at the well and that after-scene