Smith, Effie Waller
|SONGS OF THE MONTHS.|
|THE OLD ATTIC ROOM.|
On the roof the rain is falling,
And with wistful eyes I gaze
Backward to the scenes of childhood,
Gone by, happy, dreamy days.
I can see the old stone mansion
With its square built spacious rooms,
And its wide and ample porches
Twined with honey-suckle blooms.
But my mind is over-shadowed
With a bit of grief and gloom,
As my fancy takes me onward
To the low-roofed attic-room.
Barrels full of time-worn papers
And books in this attic stood,
Trinkets strangely old and curious,
Filled great chests of cedar wood.
Furniture was there all broken,
So old-fashioned, strange and queer,
Ruffled, silken petticoats,
And grotesquely-shaped head-gear.
Among this old and cast-off rubbish
Lots of fun I oft have seen,
With my brothers, Frank and Willie,
And my sister Josephine.
Not for all the wealth of Croesus,
Nor for castle walls of kings
Would I change that low-roofed attic,
With its queer old-fashioned things.
For a wealth of pure enjoyment
Round that attic-room was wound,
Which through all the years that followed
Nowhere in the world I've found.
Brothers, sisters, we are parted,
From that home we're far away;
With its weather-beaten attic,--
Ah, we're far from it to-day.
Oft in those days I've mentioned
'Neath its rafters brown we dwelt,
Where from pelting rain and hail storm
Safe, securely safe we felt.