I could scarce sleep for the brook roaring like Niagara,
As it leapt the mill-dams and spread out over the meadows,
Scurrying great logs along, and every footbridge in the valley.
But most times it was quiet enough at the old home—
The dear old place, the old place that's the best place!
VI
O, there's no place like the old place, and no time like the old time!
The chores were rough, but the keener the zest for the play!
For chestnuting in the frosty autumn,
For the tug of the bass at Goose pond and the lake at Monterey,
And the day of fun at the county fair;
For the skim on the frozen meadow on winter nights,
Or the watch at the pickerel flags in the ice-holes on the white spread of the mountain lakes,
Or the flying plunge of the bob-sled down Papermill hill;
The chase for the woodchuck, and the far-circling fox, and the all-night tramp for the treed 'coon;
For a hay-ride with a bevy of girls and a moonlight drive with one;
For wanderings through the woods and over the hills,
When the billowing mountain-laurel from afar off
Looked like flocks of sheep on the high terraces of the old Sweet farm;
When the hiding arbutus or gossamer clematis faintly scented the clean air;
