- Wasn’t it pleasant, O brother mine,
- In those old days of the lost sunshine
- Of youth—when the Saturday’s chores
were through,
- And the “Sunday’s wood” in the
kitchen, too,
- And we went visiting, “me and you,”
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s?—
- “Me and you”—and the morning
fair,
- With the dewdrops twinkling everywhere;
- The scent of the cherry-blossoms blown
- After us, in the roadway lone,
- Our capering shadows onward thrown—
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
- It all comes back so clear to-day!
- Though I am as bald as you are gray,—
- Out by the barn-lot and down the lane,
- We patter along in the dust again,
- As light as the tips of the drops of rain,
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
- The last few houses of the town;
- Then on, up the high creek bluffs and down;
- Past the squat toll-gate with its well-sweep
poll;
- The bridge, “the old
’baptizin’-hole’,”
- Loitering, awed, o’er pool and shoal,
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
- We cross the pasture, and through the wood,
- Where the old gray snag of the poplar stood,
- Where the hammering “red-heads”
hopped awry,
- And the buzzard “raised” in the
“clearing”-sky
- And lolled and circled as we went by
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
- Or, stayed by the glint of the redbird’s
wings,
- Or the glitter of the song that the bluebird sings,
- All hushed we feign to strike strange trails,
- As the “big braves” do in the Indian
tales,
- Till again our real quest lags and fails—
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
- And the woodland echoes with yells of mirth
- That make old war-whoops of minor worth! . . .
- Where such heroes of war as we?—
- With bows and arrows of fantasy,
- Chasing each other from tree to tree
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!
- And then in the dust of the road again;
- And the teams we met, and the countrymen;
- And the long highway, with sunshine spread
- As thick as butter on country bread,
- Our cares behind, our hearts ahead
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.—
- For only, now, at the road’s next bend
- To the right we could make out the gable-end
- Of the fine old Huston homestead—not
- Not half a mile from the sacred spot
- Where dwelt our Saint in her simple cot—
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
- Why, I see her now in the open door
- Where the little gourds grew up the sides and o’er
- The clapboard roof!—And her face—ah,
me!
- Wasn’t it good for a boy to see—
- And wasn’t it good for a boy to be
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s?—
- The jelly, the jam, and the marmalade,
- And the cherry and quince “preserves” she made!
- And the sweet-sour pickles of peach and pear,
- With cinnamon in ’em and all things
rare!—
- And the more we ate was the more to spare
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!
- Ah, was there, ever, so kind a face
- And gentle as hers, and such a grace
- Of welcoming, as she cut the cake
- Or the juicy pies she joyed to make
- Just for the visiting children’s
sake—
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s!
- The honey, too, in its amber comb
- One only finds in an old farm-home;
- And the coffee, fragrant and sweet, and ho!
- So hot that we gloried to drink it so,
- With spangles of tears in our eyes, you
know—
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
- And the romps we took, in our glad
unrest!—
- Was it the lawn that we loved the best,
- With its swooping swing in the locust trees,
- Or was it the grove, with its leafy breeze,
- Or the dim haymow, with its fragrancies—
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
- Far fields, bottom-lands, creek-banks—all
- We ranged at will.—Where the waterfall
- Laughed all day as it slowly poured
- Over the dam by the old mill-ford,
- While the tail-race writhed, and the mill-wheel
roared—
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
- But home, with Aunty in nearer call,
- That was the best place, after all!—
- The talks on the back porch, in the low
- Slanting sun and the evening glow,
- With the voice of counsel that touched us so,
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
- And then, in the garden—near the side
- Where the beehives were and the path was wide,—
- The apple-house—like a fairy cell—
- With the little square door we knew so well,
- And the wealth inside but our tongues could
tell—
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
- And the old spring-house, the cool green gloom
- Of the willow trees,—and the cooler room
- Where the swinging shelves and the crocks were
kept,
- Where the cream in a golden languor slept,
- While the waters gurgled and laughed and
wept—
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
- And as many a time as you and I—
- Barefoot boys in the days gone by—
- Knelt in the tremulous ecstasies
- Dipped our lips into sweets like these,—
- Memory now is on her knees
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.—
- For, O my brother so far away,
- This is to tell you—she waits to-day
- To welcome us:—Aunt Mary fell
- Asleep this morning, whispering, “Tell
- The boys to come.” . . . And all is well
- Out to Old Aunt Mary’s.
