THE OLD HOMESTEAD Reminiscencies of by-gone years, My wandering thoughts beguile; Fond memory turns to the honored dead, While I sit alone in the old home- stead, The home on a sea-girt isle. For many years this ancient house Has stood by the restless sea; Its roof has sheltered the wealthy, the poor, Hospitality ruled within its door, For nearly a century. No longer a sound, not an echoing voice Is heard in the hall or on the stair; The rooms are all quiet, so silent, alone, Where once they resounded with musical tone, From loved ones who gathered there. Twelve children were born in that old homestead, Now all have gone home but three; Two little ones sleep by their parents' side, The graves of the others are scattered wide, One sleeps 'neath the deep, blue sea. Beneath the birches the parents rest, In the cemetery near, in the grove; While far away near the throne on high, They'll meet again in the "sweet by and by," The children they fondly loved. Beloved in life were this worthy pair, Together they're joined in death; The neighbors have-lost their faith- ful friends, On whom they ever could depend, In charity, love and faith. Our foreheads we bow in reverent prayer, To the burden of sorrow o'ercast, But a greeting awaits in the bright evermore, While the homestead stands silent, alone by the shore, A monument of the past. E. T. Preble. Preble House, Cranberry Isles, Me.