The Old Kitchen Floor

By Anonymous

Far back, in my musings, my thoughts have been cast
To the cot where the hours of my childhood were passed.
I loved all its rooms from the pantry to hall,
But the blessed old kitchen was dearer than all.
Its chairs and its tables no brighter could be
And all its surroundings were sacred to me,
From the nail in the ceiling to the latch on the door,
And I loved every crack in that old kitchen floor.

I remember the fireplace with mouth high and wide
And the old-fashioned oven that stood by its side
Out of which each Thanksgiving came puddings and pies
And they fairly bewildered and dazzled our eyes.
And then old St. Nicholas slyly and still
Came down every Christmas our stockings to fill.
But the dearest of memories laid up in store
Is my mother a-sweeping that old kitchen floor.

To-night those old musings come back at their will
But the wheel and its music forever are still.
The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away,
And the fingers that turned it are mold’ring in clay.
The hearthstone so sacred is just as ’twas then
And the voices of children ring out there again.
The sun at the window looks in as of yore,
But it sees other feet on that old kitchen floor.

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