The mountain view resigned in favor of the chimney corner, where with limbs still trembling I sank almost resigned to give up the lines. Prose was easy enough to write, even with interruptions, but poetry, where one must dream and drift into the spirit of the thought,--this, alas, was not the calling of a busy mother of six, at least not of this busy mother. "Miss Sa'," Tom appeared bearing a cup of hot milk, "An' Ellen say drink dis an' hit'll set yer up ergin, den whin I gits dis fier ter blazin'" (he piled the logs higher), "yer'll write dem poetries 'fo' yer knows hit." Even as he swept the ashes from the hearth, "send at once" spurred my flagging mood to one more effort. Yes, once more I'll try! Let me see.--I rubbed my brow and tugged at the hair about my temples--Let's see-- "Miss Sa'," he sheepishly turned, "I aint tole yer, dey telerfome fum de office comp'ny wus comin' ter supp'r--yas, mam--two gent'muns." "Tell Aunt Ellen to order some shad to go with whatever else she has, and please, p-l-e-a-s-e do not let the King of England open that door again." The flames licked up the chimney, the oak logs popped and crackled, and insisted they were singing the same tunes they sang in the nursery of old, when I gazed at them through the tall brass fender and listened to Mist'r Hickory Log and Mist'r Wise Oak telling Mammy all about their kinsfolk and friends. And as the wind whistled drearily around the north corners of the house, I seemed to hear Mist'r Tall Pine's lonely wail echoing the cries of "hants" and spirits in search of rest from unholy graves. Instinctively, I cuddled to Mammy, who took me by the hand, and led me into the summer sunlight, down the narrow honeysuckle lane, where Miss Queen Bee and Cap'n Hornit and Cap'n Yall'r Jackit droned lazily among the heavy blossoms, keeping rhythm to the low hum of Mammy's voice. Then, somehow, the pencil began of its own accord to move across the paper. _TO MAMMY_ Thy beaming face woos me afresh to-night, My eyelids droop, for with thy plaintive song Old times drift back and tender memories throng With fable-tales. I fondly crave the sight Of wood and lane and towering mountain height, With thee as guide. I hear once more among The distant hills thy thrilling voice prolong The lore of beasts, of birds, and glowworm's light. Their secrets now are locked from anxious man, And none, since mute thy tongue must ever be, Can link our child-days with their mystery: For thou hast passed beyond the mountain span With faith unfaltering in thy Maker's plan, And left to us thy vibrant memory. --and Mammy led me past honeysuckle lane, through field and grove to pastureland, where old Sis Nanny Goat lies in a corner of the fence moaning and groaning: Sis Wile Lucy Goose fly down an' ax: "Whut ail yo' haid, Sis Nanny Goat?"