At nightfall by the firelight's cheer My little Margaret sits me near, And begs me tell of things that were When I was little just like her. Ah, little lips you touch the spring Of sweetest sad remembering, And hearth and heart flash all aglow With ruddy tints of long ago. I at my father's fireside sit, Youngest of all who circle it, And beg him tell me what did he When he was little just like me. JOHN D. LONG