  AFTER dear old grandma died, Hunting through an oaken chest In the attic, we espied What repaid our childish quest; ’Twas a homely little slate, Seemingly of ancient date. On its quaint and battered face Was the picture of a cart, Drawn with all that awkward grace Which betokens childish art; But what meant this legend, pray: “Homer drew this yesterday Mother recollected then What the years were fain to hide— She was but a baby when Little Homer lived and died; Forty years, so mother said, Little Homer had been dead. This one secret through those years Grandma kept from all apart, Hallowed by her lonely tears And the breaking of her heart; While each year that sped away Seemed to her but yesterday. So the homely little slate Grandma’s baby’s fingers pressed, To a memory consecrate, Lieth in the oaken chest, Where, unwilling we should know, Grandma put it, years ago. |
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