The little log cabin
In the edge of the wood
Stands lone and forsaken
Thro' sunshine and flood.
The oaks throw their shadows,
And the cottonwoods too,
Upon the old roof-boards,
And rains filter through.
The fox-squirrel climbs o'er it,
And he gnaws there his nut;
There oft the quail perches,
And whistles his note.
There saucy woodpeckers
With their hammers o£t beat
On logs old and wormy,
Then crow and retreat.
The window is boarded,
And the chinking drops out;
Nailed up is the fireplace,
And weeds grow about.
The door with its latch-string
From its wood-hinge is torn,
On hinges of metal
Another is borne.
Near by is a railway,
And behind is a road;
But fronts to the forest
This hut of the wood.
The cabin is haunted.
But be free of your fears,
'Tis haunted with visions
Of brave pioneers.
Draw near this log temple,
Open softly its door;
Hang wasp-nests above you,
Old traps crowd the floor.
A shell that's left stranded
By an outgoing tide,
Stands mutely the cabin
The clearing beside.
Without and within it
Are the marks of decay;
The hut, like its master,
Is passing away.
The rays of the morning
The woods veil away,
But sunset glows o'er it
At close of the day.
