Sam gazed at his Mother--withered and wan, The rose in her cheek, her bright hair, gone, And her poor old back bent double with years-- And he scarce could speak for the salt, salt tears. "Well, well," he says, "I'm unspeakable glad: But--it bain't quite the same as when I was a lad. There's joy and there's joy, Ma'am, but to tell 'ee the truth There's none can compare with the joy of one's youth. And if it was possible, how could I choose But be back in boy's breeches to eat the goose; And all the old things--and my Mother the most, To shine again real as my own gatepost. What wouldn't I give, too, to see again wag The dumpity tail of my old dog, Shag! Your kindness, Ma'am, but all wishing was vain Unless us can both be young again." A shrill, faint laughter from nowhere came ... Empty the dark in the candle-flame.... And there stood our Sam, about four foot high, Snub nose, shock hair, and round blue eye. Breeches and braces and coat of him too, Shirt on his back, and each clodhopping shoe Had shrunk to a nicety--button and hem To fit the small Sammie tucked up into them. There was his Mother, too; smooth, dear cheek, Lips as smooth as a blackbird's beak, Pretty arched eyebrows, the daintiest nose-- While the smoke of the baking deliciously rose. "Come, Sammie," she cries, "your old Mammikin's joy, Climb up on your stool, supper's ready, my boy. Bring in the candle, and shut out the night; There's goose, baked taties and cabbage to bite. Why, bless the wee lamb, he's all shiver and shake, And you'd think from the look of him scarcely awake! If 'ee glour wi' those eyes, Sam, so dark and round, The elves will away with 'ee, I'll be bound!" So Sam and his Mother by wishes three Were made just as happy as happy can be. And there--with a bumpity tail to wag-- Sat laughing, with tongue out, their old dog, Shag. To clatter of patter, bones, giblets and juice, Between them they ate up the whole of the goose. But time is a river for ever in flow, The weeks went by as the weeks must go. Soon fifty-two to a year did grow. The long years passed, one after another, Making older and older our Sam and his Mother; And, alas and alack, with nine of them gone, Poor Shag lay asleep again under a stone. And a sorrowful dread would sometimes creep Into Sam's dreams, as he lay asleep, That his Mother was lost, and away he'd fare, Calling her, calling her, everywhere, In dark, in rain, by roads unknown, Under echoing hills, and alone, alone. What bliss in the morning to wake and see The sun shining green in the linden tree, And out of that dream's dark shadowiness To slip in on his Mother and give her a kiss, And go whistling off in the dew to hear The thrushes all mocking him, sweet and clear.