They ain't no houses anywhere what makes a feelin' so warm,

As that old house, up 'mong the trees, where used to be our farm.

That house wer' built of logs, an' chinked an' daubed all 'roun',

Inside them logs wer' one big room, what kivered lots o' groun'.

The clapboard roof, held down by poles, as ev'rybody knowed,

Wer' proof agin the rain an' snow, 'cept when it rained or snowed.

The doors was paw'ful hefty, an' hung on hick'ry wood,

An' opened with a latch-string; special them what front-ways stood.

The winders wern't so many, nor wern't so awful bright,

They stood 'longside them front-way doors an' guv but little light.

The floors was made of puncheon, the hearth wer' made of clay,

The chimbly wer' a whopper, an' leaned most ev'ry way.

The fire-place wer' a whopper, an' took a six-foot log,

An' the way that fire clum up that flue wer' pleasin' to the dog;

Likewise to us, what set aroun' an' talked an' drunk an' eat,

I tell you, them was good, old times, an' mighty hard to beat.

In the darkes', furthes' corner wer' pap's an' mam's old bed,

With ticks of straw an' feathers, stacked higher'an your head.

Them days, they hadn't mattresses, nor sich new-fangled things,

But jist them ticks an' bedcords, what was better'n any springs.

Behin' the flow'ry valances, the trundle-bed by day

Wer' hid, an' trundled out at night, to stow the kids away.

Us bigger ones, slep' in the lof', an' when the rain would pour,

It soothed us with its patter, an' drippin' on the floor.

An' when it snowed in winter, an' sifted through the cracks,

It powdered floor an' kivers, till they was white as wax.

Then in the mornin' early, when the cocks begun to crow,

We'd pelt each other lively, with the siftin's of the snow.

Purty soon, we'd hear the cracklin' of the fire down below,

An' we'd jump into our clo'es, an' down the ladder go.

An' we'd see the old, dutch oven, glowin' red with livin' coals,

An' we'd git a whiff of corn pome, an' coffee in the bowls,

An' we'd smell the sausage fryin' an' 'twer more'n we could stan',

An' we'd rush into the open, to wash our face an' han's,

An' we'd crowd aroun' the table, an' we'd pitch into that pome,

An' we'd gulp that steamin' coffee, an' send that sausage home.

It wer' sure enough inspirin' to see the way we eat,

I'm doubtin' where you'll find 'em, what kin duplicate that feat.

But them is carnal pleasures, as the preacher do allow,

An' 'monished higher pleasures, as what I tells you now:

Sometimes we'd peel the apples, sometimes we'd shell the corn,

An' after all wer' over, we'd dance an' dance till morn.

It wern't no dreamy glidin', like the dancin' of to-day,

But a real, rip-snortin' hoe-down, what fiddlers likes to play.

I'm thinkin' how its certain, they's no sich times no more,

That old, log house makes feelin's, what I never had afore.

 

Gilliam, D. Tod. "That Old Log House Where Used To Be Our Farm." Ohio Archeology and Historical  Quarterly 20 (1911): 402-403