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LITTLE HOMER'S SLATE
AFTER 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
Was the picture of a cart,
Drawn with all that awkward grace
Which betokens childish art;
But what meant this legend, pray:
"Homer drew this yesterday"?
Mother recollected then
What the years were fain to hide—
She was but a baby when
Little Homer lived and died;
Forty years, so mother said,
Little Homer had been dead.
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