A Picture

The Farmer sat in his easy-chair,   Smoking his pipe of clay, While his hale old wife, with busy care,   Was clearing the dinner away; A sweet little girl, with fine blue eyes, On her grandfather’s knee was catching flies. The old man laid his hand on her head,   With a tear on his wrinkled face; He thought how often her mother, dead,   Had sat in the self-same place. As the tear stole down from his half-shut eye, “Don’t smoke!” said the child; “how it makes you cry!” The house-dog lay stretched out on the floor,   Where the shade after noon used to steal; The busy old wife, by the open door,   Was turning the spinning-wheel; And the old brass clock on the mantel-tree Had plodded along to almost three. Still the farmer sat in his easy-chair,   While close to his heaving breast The moistened brow and the cheek so fair   Of his sweet grandchild were pressed; His head, bent down, on her soft hair lay: Fast asleep were they both, that summer day!