A Backward Look

As I sat smoking, alone, yesterday,      And lazily leaning back in my chair,     Enjoying myself in a general way -     Allowing my thoughts a holiday      From weariness, toil and care, -     My fancies - doubtless, for ventilation -      Left ajar the gates of my mind, -     And Memory, seeing the situation,      Slipped out in street of "Auld Lang Syne."     Wandering ever with tireless feet      Through scenes of silence, and jubilee     Of long-hushed voices; and faces sweet     Were thronging the shadowy side of the street      As far as the eye could see;     Dreaming again, in anticipation,      The same old dreams of our boyhood's days     That never come true, from the vague sensation      Of walking asleep in the world's strange ways.     Away to the house where I was born!      And there was the selfsame clock that ticked     From the close of dusk to the burst of morn,     When life-warm hands plucked the golden corn      And helped when the apples were picked.     And the "chany-dog" on the mantel-shelf,      With the gilded collar and yellow eyes,     Looked just as at first, when I hugged myself      Sound asleep with the dear surprise.     And down to the swing in the locust tree,      Where the grass was worn from the trampled ground     And where "Eck" Skinner, "Old" Carr, and three     Or four such other boys used to be      Doin' "sky-scrapers," or "whirlin' round:"     And again Bob climbed for the bluebird's nest,      And again "had shows" in the buggy-shed     Of Guymon's barn, where still, unguessed,      The old ghosts romp through the best days dead!     And again I gazed from the old school-room      With a wistful look of a long June day,     When on my cheek was the hectic bloom     Caught of Mischief, as I presume -      He had such a "partial" way,     It seemed, toward me. - And again I thought      Of a probable likelihood to be     Kept in after school - for a girl was caught      Catching a note from me.     And down through the woods to the swimming-hole -      Where the big, white, hollow, old sycamore grows, -     And we never cared when the water was cold.     And always "clucked" the boy that told      On the fellow that tied the clothes. -     When life went so like a dreamy rhyme      That it seems to me now that then     The world was having a jollier time      Than it ever will have again.