Then our first-born baby--a regular little joy, Though I fretted a little because it wasn't a boy: Wa'n't she a little flirt, though, with all her pouts and smiles? Why, settlers come to see that show a half a dozen miles. "SETTLERS COME TO SEE THAT SHOW A HALF A DOZEN MILES." Yonder sat the cradle--a homely, home-made thing, And many a night I rocked it, providin' you would sing; And many a little squatter brought up with us to stay-- And so that cradle, for many a year, was never put away. How they kept a-comin', so cunnin' and fat and small! How they growed! 'twas a wonder how we found room for 'em all; But though the house was crowded, it empty seemed that day When Jennie lay by the fire-place, there, and moaned her life away. And right in there the preacher, with Bible and hymn-book, stood, "RIGHT IN THERE THE PREACHER, WITH BIBLE AND HYMN-BOOK STOOD." "'Twixt the dead and the living," and "hoped 'twould do us good;" And the little whitewood coffin on the table there was set, And now as I rub my eyes it seems as if I could see it yet. Then that fit of sickness it brought on you, you know; Just by a thread you hung, and you e'en-a'most let go; And here is the spot I tumbled, an' give the Lord his due, When the doctor said the fever'd turned, an' he could fetch you through. Yes, a deal has happened to make this old house dear: Christenin's, funerals, weddin's--what haven't we had here? Not a log in this buildin' but its memories has got, And not a nail in this old floor but touches a tender spot. Out of the old house, Nancy--moved up into the new; All the hurry and worry is just as good as through; But I tell you a thing right here, that I ain't ashamed to say, There's precious things in this old house we never can take away. Here the old house will stand, but not as it stood before: Winds will whistle through it, and rains will flood the floor; And over the hearth, once blazing, the snow-drifts oft will pile, And the old thing will seem to be a-mournin' all the while. Fare you well, old house! you're naught that can feel or see, But you seem like a human being--a dear old friend to me; And we never will have a better home, if my opinion stands, Until we commence a-keepin' house in the house not made with hands. OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE. Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way-- "OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE, I'M TRUDGIN' MY WEARY WAY." I, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray-- I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told, As many another woman that's only half as old. Over the hill to the poor-house--I can't quite make it clear! Over the hill to the poor-house--it seems so horrid queer! Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro, But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go. What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame? Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame? True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout; But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.