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Were I to write a story,

A pers'nal history

From back in the Eighteen Eighties

To Nineteen Fifty-three;

'Twould take a lot of thinking

To go back through the years,

And recount the joyful happ'nings

And somehow skip the tears.

I would board the ship of mem'ry

And sail back through the past

To distant port of childhood,

And ne'er an anchor cast

'Til scanning clear but distant shore,

A clean, soul-stirring view;

A harbor peaceful and serene,

With loyal, loving crew.

I would see our mother's garden

And the stable to the west;

I would see the curb and bucket

Slake the thirst of ev'ry guest;

I would see the sweep of valley

To the east and contemplate

The great world yet undiscovered,

Just outside the old "Big Gate".

I would see another farm-house

To the north and on a hill;

Would discern a homely beauty,

And my heart would sense a thrill;

For somehow when we had entered,

We'd achieved a certain goal;

For we'd brought with us our birth-place.

A mere house acquired a soul.

I would see our friends and neighbors,

North and South and East and West;

Not perfection, few nor any,

But in large part we were blest,

For our lives were built on tol'rance,

Bad or good or weak or strong;

For we knew our own shortcomings -

Sometimes right, but often wrong.

I would see the creek at floodtime,

Or a chain of water-holes;

I would see the tiny mountains

Made by desecrating moles.

I would see sleet-laden maples,

For they had to pay the price

As they drooped in ghostly beauty

Stalactites of sugared ice.

                        H. B. Austin

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