Smith, Effie Waller
|SONGS OF THE MONTHS.|
|THE OLD MILL-POND.|
It is evening, quiet evening,
As I sit before the blaze
Of the hickory fire glowing,
Musing o'er my childhood days.
Memory, intrusive goddess,
Gently waves her magic wand
Across my eyes, and I can see
The old, the old mill-pond.
I am dreaming it is summer,
I am near my father's home,
I am a happy child again;
O'er the mill-pond's banks I roam.
O'er its banks with grasses covered,
Where shines the sunlight bright,
My checkered apron filling
With blossoms milky white.
Now 'tis summer, and I'm fishing,
Not for trout, but finny perch;
Or for mussel shells and pebbles
O'er the sandy bar I search.
Or with feet bared, I am wading
Knee-deep in the mill-pond cool;
My mind free from annoying
Thoughts of work and books and school.
Autumn: and I'm at the mill-pond;
Fishing on its banks I stand,
Or I'm building tiny castles
On the moist and yellow sand.
Now 'tis winter; still the mill-pond
Is my favorite place to play;
I'm gliding o'er its bosom,
Which is frozen now and gray.
Always at the mill-pond with me
Was my playmate tried and true;
Staunch friends were we from our childhood--
Playmate friend, where now are you?
Dear old mill-pond, dear old playmate,
Childhood days so gay and bright;
With that past you all are numbered;
Far from me you're all to-night.