LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE A FTER dear old grandma died, Hunting through an oaken chest In the attic, we espied What repaid our childish quest; 'T was a homely little slate, Seemingly of ancient date. On its quaint and battered face Which betokens childish art; But what meant this legend, pray: "Homer drew this yesterday"? 126 LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE Mother recollected then What the years were fain to hideShe was but a baby when Little Homer lived and died; Forty years, so mother said, Little Homer had been dead. This one secret through those years So the homely little slate Grandma's baby's fingers pressed, To a memory consecrate, Lieth in the oaken chest, Where, unwilling we should know, Grandma put it, years ago. |