At last for Uncle Lyman there came the eternal Sabbath day. He lifted the latch of his house door for the last time, smoked his last pipe, and laid down willingly to sleep. Other feet now traverse his lands; there is new paint over the ancient red house walls, and new labor saving tools; they and hired menials do the work, but no more than his two hands in proud industrious independence were wont to accomplish. He is forgotten by those who now possess what he made worth possessing. But I have not forgotten him, and little do the present owners of his houses and lands imagine that there is a title back of theirs, registered in the court of memory which no mere occupation and ownership can invalidate. THE ANCIENT NEW ENGLAND FARMER How pleasant o'er the still autumnal vale From his great timbered barn's wide open door The muffled sound of his unresting flail In rhythmic swing upon the threshing floor! How straight their tasselled tops his corn upreared! Straight were the rows, no weed dared raise its head; How golden gleamed their opening sheaths well eared Whose inner husks stuffed out his bulging bed! Full many a field of dewy grass breast-high His long sharp scythe ere breakfast time did lay; Full many a hurrying shower came by, But to the mow still faster went the hay. To him as inward fires were ice and snow, They urged his pulse with warm vivacious blood; How made his furrowed cheeks in winter glow With ruddy health and iron hardihood! Superfluous to him was coat or vest, Let blow hot or cold or stormiest weather; He, as his hardy fathers, liked the best His shirt sleeves free and brimless cap of leather. Few were his books, his learning was but small; He boasted not of thoughts beyond his speech; Some few and simple maxims bounded all That he had learned, or wished to teach. He loved his home, his farm, his native town; These were the walls his happy world confined; And heaven with unaccustomed joy looked down To see fulfilled a life itself designed. Sadly his neighbors bore him to his grave Beneath the old perpetual mourning pine, Where honest tears and praise they duly gave, For all he was, the immemorial sign. THE DORR WAR AND MILLERISM