- - Wednesday, November 27, 2013

Underneath protected branches, from the highway just aloof; Stands the house of Grand'ther Baldwin, with its gently sloping roof.

Square of shape and solid-timbered, it was standing, I have heard,

In the days of Whig and Tory, under royal George the Third.

Many a time, I well remember, I have gazed with Childish awe

At the bullet-hole remaining in the sturdy oaken door,

Turning round half-apprehensive (recking not how time had fled)

Of the lurking, savage foeman from whose musket it was sped.

Not far off, the barn, plethoric with the autumn’s harvest spoils,

Holds the farmer’s well-earned trophies — the guerdon of his toils;

Filled the lofts with hay, sweet-scented, ravished from the meadows green,

While beneath are stalled the cattle, with their quiet, drowsy mien.

Deep and spacious are the grain-bins, brimming o’er with nature’s gold;

Here are piles of yellow pumpkins on the barn-floor loosely rolled.

Just below in deep recesses, safe from wintry frost chill,

There are heaps of ruddy apples from the orchard on the hill.

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